This afternoon I was immersed in the task of making the kids turkey and cheese bagels, while Doug stared at his laptop, tongue lagging.

“Look at this bike,” he beckoned while I tried to spread an even coat of mayonnaise over my creation.  “Is this a sick-ass ride or what?”

Oh, crap, I thought to myself.  He’s on his motorcycle kick again.  It’s back to the pre-baby days, when he’d go out riding …with his friends all day and halfway into the night, coming home dehydrated with a sunburned head (the consequence of his aversion to helmets).  Two babies into our marriage, he finally decided to give up the bikes—a decision he regrets every time we pass one on the road.

I knew it was only a matter of time before he’d go back to his old ways.  I sighed and glanced at his computer screen.

It was a bicycle.

“Look at those red rims with flames on it,” he drooled.  “It looks like my Honda chopper without the motor.  But this time, I”LL BE THE MOTOR!”

I hoped my snickering wasn’t as loud as it was in my head.

“…Look at those disc brakes with a hidden shifter.  That’s a suicide shifter.  Who the f*ck has a shifter like that that?!”

“No one,” I agreed, all the while wondering if I should’ve added the mayonnaise after microwaving instead of before.

“You need to get over here for a closer look,” he demanded.  “Stop what you’re doing right now and look at this.  Look at those whitewall tires and brown leather saddle seat.  You’d find a saddle like that on a $20,000 horse!  It looks like a Schwinn from the ‘70s, back when guys started to trick them out.  Those ape hangers, the banana seat, those sweet chrome fenders!  It’s vintage!”

“I’m sorry, did you say ‘banana seat’?  Do grown men ride bikes with banana seats?”

“Hell yeah!  People design motorcycles with those!” By this point, he was nearly salivating all over his keyboard.

My next thought was on our dwindling—or should I say, long overdwindled—bank account.  With some trepidation, I asked, “You’re not planning on, say, purchasing this bike, are you?”

“Some day,” was his wistful response.

“And what about the bike you just bought last month?”  I was referring to his Specialized mountain bike, which would supposedly take care of all his transportation issues while our car was being repaired.

“That’s my downhill mountain bike,” he explained.  This one would be my around-town bike.  It’s a luxury cruiser!”

There’s nothing sadder than a man going through motorcycle withdrawals.

At my house, each severe weather alert marks the beginning of a new Apocalypse.  At least, as far as Doug’s concerned.

It all starts pretty innocent—he begins clearing a path for the generator and combing the house for flashlights, swearing every time he finds one disassembled by the children.  But as the minutes tick on, he becomes more and more militant.

“What are you doing on the computer?” he demanded last night as the kids were snacking behind an episode of Special Agent Oso.  “Don’t you hear what’s going on out there?”

“You mean that flash in the sky, followed by a ‘boom’?” I asked.  “Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”

“Go stand outside for ten seconds and listen,” he said.  “It sounds like the f*cking grand finale on the Fourth of July.”  (When Doug is convinced the end is near, his language becomes more colorful.)

“Right after I check out the Doppler radar on WFSB,” I assured him.  (In reality, I was having a in depth conversation with my friends Antonella, Jerry, Jenna, Becky, Emily, Katina, and Jennifer about one-hit wonders and other such pressing issues. Emergency weather alerts would just have to wait.)

Minutes later, he returned to find me sitting in the same spot.  “You should see the frogs hopping out there,” he raved.  “They’re going f*cking mental. I’m telling you, sh*t’s gonna hit the fan.  There’s something different about it.”

“Maybe you should go stock up the bunker,” I suggested.  “I think we’re out of freeze-dried asparagus.”

I have to backtrack for a moment.  When we had our addition built, Doug insisted on a bunker, fully stocked in the event of a natural disaster.  I have been making fun of it for so long that when an actual emergency situation arrives, Doug promises, I will be denied admission.

“Why don’t you get your head out of the f*cking clouds?” he said. “Turn on the news for a change.  Take a look at the sh*t that’s unfolding all over the planet. What makes you think you’re immune?”

“I don’t know. Mountains?  Hills?”

You all know how much I hate sarcasm.  The reality is, I’m even more freaked out about the possibility of natural disaster than he is.  But when someone else is willing to take charge of all the worrying and preparations, it makes my job (mockery and derision) so much easier.

A couple booms later, the storm was over as quickly as it started.  I put away the flashlights, blew out the candles and went to bed.

The next morning Doug woke up, entered the kitchen as usual and poured himself a cup of coffee.

“That was quite a storm last night,” I said, a wry smile across my face.

He stirred his coffee without a word.

“…Nearly took the roof clear off,” I continued.

“Hey, if you saw the frogs hopping around like I did, you’d think someone was up, too,” he retorted.

It was obvious he’d had enough. The truth is, without him, I’d probably find myself whisked away by a twister while crouching in fetal position in the bathtub. I was going to tell him how much I appreciated him. But I thought of something more fun.

“You know who you were?  You were Red Foxx.  You came stumbling in, clutching your chest, all like ‘This is it, Elizabeth!  This is the big one!’”

“That’s what you said,” was his matter-of-fact reply, “right after I took down my pants.”  Then he walked away sipping his coffee.

New rule:  She who wins an argument in this house shall always be granted the last word.

http://articles.courant.com/2005-03-25/news/0503250717