Skip to main content

Let My Love Open The Door

Over the course of our thirty year marriage, Wingman had some eccentricities that we would continually argue over.   For example, when the boys were babies, I couldn't hang pictures over their cribs, or later beds, because he was convinced that if/when we had an earthquake, the pictures would fall off the wall and kill them. 3000 miles from southern California, and every time they had a quake, he's say "You see?  I told you so.  It could happen here too."  Really, there's no arguing with logic like that.

As the boys got older, we could only live on a cul-de-sac because he was sure they would get hit by a car on a street with a cut-through. And we couldn't live on the ocean which is where I lived when I met him because we would get flooded out in a hurricane.

Well, the house wasn't anywhere near the ocean, but it still took three feet of water in Sandy.

Even though we live in a town like Mayberry, Wingman was convinced that someone would try to break into our house.  Every night for thirty years, he would check to make sure that every door and window was locked, then check the doors again before making sure that his 34 ounce Louisville Slugger was within reach under the bed.  (IF someone did get in, the sound of his snoring probably would have directed them to another part of the house anyway.)

I couldn't open the front door a couple of weeks ago, so when my contractor came to install a new back door, I asked him to take a look.  Wingman would have gloated "I told you so" because the contractor said it looked like someone tried to kick it in, and bent the lever.  Being that I haven't been able to get out of my own way lately, not only did I not call the locksmith, I didn't call the police.  But I did put the ironing board in front of my bed so a robber would trip over it.  Or maybe at least iron my clothes for work the next day. And since that day, I started using the garage door to enter the house.

Which leads me to the collection of business cards my son found in the garage this morning.  As he was leaving to go to school, a business card was taped to the door.  Since the front door isn't working, it seems that the last person to come home from work last night (ME) came in through one garage door and hit the button for the other. In layman's terms, I screwed up and left both garage doors wide open all night. 

Which is the third time, if the two business cards he found from other officers are correct.  Short of an engraved invitation, I'm unwittingly allowing anyone to come in and look around.  I will warn you though, that you are taking your life in your hands in the obstacle course to get to the inside door. There's the collection of rusty tools, the chain-less bike and that bin of treasures I couldn't part with.  Once at the door, you'll be greeted by the useless killer dog who hasn't barked once at a police officer poking around and leaving love notes on the door in the middle of the night.

I don't have Wingman to check those doors anymore, but I found a product at one of the big box stores that does.  It actually closes your garage doors for you if you forget. And before I finished this blog, I ordered one for each door. They take 30 minutes or less to install, according to the instructions.

No fuss.  No muss.  No more business cards on the door to remind me to safeguard my family and my belongings.   And no hearing that voice in my head saying "I told you so."


Popular posts from this blog

I'm Too Sexy For My Shirt

Wingman use to call me many things. Obstinate. Overcritical. Certainly bitchy. I even recall on our wedding day that he called me "beautiful". But that was a one-time happening, and I don't recall him ever crooning Eric Clapton"s "You Look Wonderful Tonight" after that. So it comes as no surprise that he never called me "sexy".

And I get it.  When I went to school in NYC, a couple of my friends were stopped by Eileen Ford and asked to come to her agency to model.  They were cute, and one was even, in an exotic way, sexy even back then.  But not me. I was and always will be, fine with how I look.

There were some things over the years that got me when I stopped dying my hair and grew it out to donate for a wig.  As part of a lecture that I did on The Avon Walk For Breast Cancer, I had my beautician come in and cut my waist-long hair short. The following Sunday at church, I was a Eucharistic Minister, which at a Catholic Mass is a re…

'Cause Baby You're A Firework. Come On Show Them What You're Worth

Five years ago today, I stood in a hospital room strewn with used syringes, rubber gloves and other medical waste, looking at the lifeless body of the man that I shared a life with for over 30 years. I should have been thinking of family, love and loss.  Instead, my first thought was, "Wow, I'm a widow now." Pretty pathetic in retrospect, and when Wingman referred to me just before I left him as "The Bitch", probably not too far off the mark.

But in time-warped speed just a half hour before that, I had already talked to the hospital twice, woken son #3 up to go over to the hospital with me, called Wingman's brother on the way, fought with a gimpy legged night watchman who wouldn't let us in the hospital, and finally took "that meeting" in a small private room where the doctor told my son and I that they did everything possible, but unfortunately (UNFORTUNATELY???) Wingman had passed. My brain was filled with what to do, who to call, …

But She Use To Have A Carefree Mind Of Her Own, With A Devilish Look In Her Eye

The first time I went out with Wingman, he remarked about how much I reminded him of his mother.  When we finally met, I just didn't see it: she was a tall, chain-smoking blonde, with a Lauren Bacall-esque voice, while I considered myself just an average size brunette with no distinguishable qualities.

She and I began our own relationship with stories about our lives, and she won every round of "Can You Top This". At 10 years old, she helped deliver her brother when her mother went into labor at home. Later, her alcoholic mother walked out on the family and was never seen or heard from again, so she dropped out of school to help. At 19, she and her husband eloped, and thought no one knew.  A photographer however, took a picture of them outside City Hall which became the cover of the afternoon edition of the NY World Telegram. (Oops.) A couple of years later, her very pregnant self drove her father and his equally pregnant girlfriend to City Hall in Newark to MAKE them get…