Moving Day - Murder Or Divorce - Please Don't Kill Her, Daddy, But Pass the Ranch Dressing
Posted: Thursday, May 04, 2006
by Marty RicKard
If you can move your family from one house to another without once contemplating divorce or murder, you have a marriage made of steel.
Moving is the devil’s toy, his way to make you sin. In fact, Hell could be a place where you spend eternity moving furniture and arguing about what to throw away and what to keep. It wouldn’t even have to be hot there. If that’s the case, I want to go to heaven real bad, not today, of course, but eventually.
I recall one time when we moved a few blocks across town. It took a week. It seemed like a year. We survived with minor wounds, but it was touch-and-go.
We worked eight hours at the office, came home, changed clothes and then hauled stuff.
By day three, we looked like refugees. Soap, combs, hairbrushes, razors and other toiletries were always at the other house. One day I wore a blue sock, gray sock, brown pants, blue coat, yellow shirt and a white belt. I thought they went well with my insulated hunting boots.
But those are problems to which a person can adjust. What’s tough is the hand-to-hand combat with your spouse.
“Let’s toss this box of magazines," she said.
"But, that’s every issue of Sports Afield. Someday I’ll read them."
“You haven't touched them in 10 years."
“I’ll read them when we get moved."
“Sure," she said.
“Next thing you know, you’ll want to throw away my antique shotgun----the one I bought at the auction when we first married."
"You mean that rusty thing that looks like a water pipe with a couple of pieces of broken wood taped to the end?"
"Yes."
"Why, I could never throw a valuable antique gun in the trash can," she said, then quickly left the room.
She returned in two minutes.
“See, here’s your gun. Good as it was when you bought it."
I fondled the barrel lovingly. It was a beautiful gun and I planned to restore it after we moved.
"What's this in the barrel?" I asked.
"How should I know, she said, “I'm no gun expert."
"It’s lettuce. What's lettuce doing in my gun barrel?"
She shrugged.
“And---look at this---it’s catsup. There’s catsup on the stock of my gun---and here’s coffee grounds on the trigger guard. What's going on?"
“Obviously, the old gentleman who owned the gun was both a hunter and a chef."
"This wasn’t on the gun when I bought it. Look! The catsup is still wet."
I held the gun out toward my wife so she could examine the catsup.
My daughter entered the room and screamed, “NO, DAD! DON’T SHOOT HER!".
My daughter fell to her knees, wrapped her arms around my legs and begged, "Please, daddy, I know mom is ornery, and grouchy and makes you work like a slave, and she's hard to get along with, but please don't shoot her!"
"I wasn’t going to shoot her. I showed her my catsup."
My daughter stood, shook her head and marched out, hands on hips. “Geez," she said over her shoulder. “I hope insanity isn’t hereditary."
A few minutes later, my wife came to me in a panic.
“Have you seen my box of high school treasures, you know, the red shoes I wore to the senior prom, and my stuffed tiger, and my yearbooks, and the pictures of my old boyfriends, and---for God’s sake, you didn’t throw that away, did you?"
"Why, darling, I wouldn’t think of discarding your box."
“You better not."
I left the room. Two minutes later I returned with her box.
“See, here’s your box of jun---er---stuff."
"I’m so glad you didn't throw it away," she cooed. “These things mean so much to me. Look here are the red shoes I wore to---WHAT'S THIS WHITE STUFF RUNNING OUT THE TOES."
"
Copyright 2007
By Marty RicKard
Marty RicKard Bio
Marty RicKard holds a BS degree in journalism from the
Great tongue in cheek story! I loved the 'don't shoot mommy part' the ending was very humourous and the title cinched it. When we move I'll probably have to knock my husband out and then revive him after the move in order to get anything thrown away
I know the feeling. When we move or remodel I just want to kill him. After its over and done he is a great guy. Keepe up the good writting.
When you move, just send you husband on a fishing trip with the boys.
You've got the moving description just perfect. How funny.
This is hilarious! Oh, the joys of moving. I haven't moved in 17 years and don't intend to any time soon. The last move I made (17 years ago) was done and paid for by my then employer. And when it comes to saving stuff, my wife and I are on the same page. We are continually taking things to the salvage centre. We just can't stand litter.Dear David: You are one of the lucky ones who has not had to move too much. Some of us have not been that fortunate. Thanks for reading and commenting. Best to you, Marty RicKard.Dear David: You are one of the lucky ones who has not had to move too much. Some of us have not been that fortunate. Thanks for reading and commenting. Best to you, Marty RicKard.
