redhead

Don’t Mess With The Rock Dominatrix…

I’ve written at length about Her Worship THE Evil Redhead. I will probably continue to write at length about her from time to time. Not because she makes me. Truth is, every time I write about her I get beaten, locked in the closet, and banned from the Internet for an indeterminate period of time. However, I continue to put myself in harm’s way so that you may all be entertained. On that note, feel free to send your monetary appreciations to my paypal account.

So anyway… Tomorrow will be our 30th wedding anniversary. 31.5 years together, 30 of them not sinning. Well… NOT sinning may be going a little too far, but suffice it to say, 30 years with The Evil Redhead having an official transfer of ownership document from the state. Since this celebration of my servitude occurs on a Tuesday, we scheduled an Anniversary Getaway this past weekend. Friday morning we loaded up the Evil Mobile and headed for Southern Illinois for a two day stay at the Davie School Inn – an old elementary school that has been converted to a bed and breakfast. If you ever find yourself in Southern Illinois and want a great place to stay, check them out. Old classrooms converted to spacious yet cozy quarters and absolutely AMAZING breakfasts brought to your room – pretty much on your schedule – between 7:30 – 10:00 each morning. There are also some tremendous restaurants within minutes, such as The Brick House and The Yellow Moon Cafe. Of course, being in Southern Illinois there is also the Wine Trail, the Beer Trail, and a ton of orchards – cider donuts, anyone? But, if you are also into scenery and hiking, there are awesome sights (and sites) to see all over the area, not the least of which are the likes of the Pomona Natural Bridge and Giant City State Park.

And the latter, you see, is what this is really all about, hence the title.

Besides lounging in the cozy BnB, dining at amazing restaurants, old people NSFW activities, and generally celebrating 30+ years of not killing one another, we did a lot of hiking. Her Supreme Evilness is all about hiking. I like hiking. She LOVES hiking. So, we do a lot of it. Now, don’t get me wrong – just because I only like it and she loves it, that doesn’t mean I have a bad time. I have a great time. I just think she has a greater time than I do. That’s all.

So anyway, we hiked. A LOT. We even hiked during a freak late October sleet storm. No, I am not kidding. Ice pellets and cold ass rain shooting out of the sky and there we were, traipsing along a bluff trail in some out of the way park. In some senses it was an almost spiritual experience. Sorta like dropping a hit of acid and talking to the wallpaper, or so I hear. I dunno about that for sure, but I can say that being the only two people out in the middle of an amazing plot of nature with tiny little ice pellets singing songs through the multi-colored leaves was pretty intense.

But, that’s still not exactly what this is about. It’s about the Rock Dominatrix. Who is the Rock Dominatrix? Well, Her Supreme Evilness, of course.

Now, you can call me slow – and maybe you would be correct – but I do like to gather data for a few years before I draw conclusions. Well, most of the time, but we won’t go there. At any rate, for 30+ years now Evil Kat and I have been going hiking in state and national parks, nature preserves, wildlife areas, you name it. She tends to blaze trails so I follow along behind her and there is something I have noticed over the years. And, this thing that I noticed is something I finally voiced on this most recent excursion.

You see, we stumble. All of us. Me more than most because I am a freaking klutz, but even the most graceful of us will occasionally stumble when hiking a trail – especially in the Midwest during Autumn when leaves are falling. There are hidden rocks, tree roots, etc. All manner of toe grabbers out there. So, it just happens. No biggie.

So, me, when I stumble, I usually blurt out “oops,” or “damn tree root,” or “whoops, found a rock.” Of course, if I faceplant it is something a bit more colorful, but you get the point. This, however, is NOT the case with Her Worship. Whenever she stumbles (and odd as it may seem, it DOES happen) while hiking, she stops and silently glares at whatever it is she stumbled over. No. I am not kidding. She glares at it with an intensely obvious expression of “How The F*ck Dare You!” plastered on her face.

After 30+ years of observation I pointed this out to her.

She just giggled a bit.

Twenty minutes later when she tripped the light fantastic over a tree root she just kept walking. Me, being me, I asked her why she didn’t engage in her silent stare-down chastising death glare at this particular root. Honestly, I was figuring the tree had maybe apologized to her or something and I just didn’t hear it, but no, that wasn’t it.

Her response – “You called me out on it so I can’t do it anymore.”

Something tells me the moratorium won’t last. I’ll probably also get in trouble for calling out the Rock Dominatrix, but hey, I’ve been in trouble for over 30 years. I’m used to it…

More to come…

MR

Y, That’s Why…

Dads, as a general rule, should keep their observations to themselves, especially in the context of the mother, daughter, dad triangle.

Trust me, it’s easy to get lost in there. Easier than the Bermuda Triangle.

Such a sweeping statement, as usual, begs the question, “Why?”

The answer, simply enough, is “Y.”

You see, dads aren’t properly equipped in the genetics department. It’s that pesky optional vowel that is causing all of the trouble, apparently. Probably a throwback to some sort of Welsh ancestry, but who really knows. If there’s a Y, you’re pretty much out of the loop. Case in point…

We were sitting in the living room the other night – that being E K, the O-spring, and Moi – just vegetating and staring at the idiot box. We were probably looking at Castle, or some such. I don’t really remember, which is probably another Y affliction. But on with the example… The show broke for a commercial or two or ten, and on came an umpteen second spot for a department store chain and their gihugic, must-attend, low-Low-LOW price sale on all manner of latest and greatest fashionable women’s shoes. Of course, in order to illustrate how wonderful the selection, they proceeded to show umpty-jillion different shoes in the span of 10 seconds.

Now… I have nothing against women’s shoes. They aren’t something for which I go shopping – unless the redhead tells me to – but by the same token I don’t think there should be a ban on them or anything. Fact is, the redhead herself happens to have some pretty hot shoes. By themselves, not really so special, but when she’s wearing them… well, there’s a total package thing happening that… Well… We we won’t go there…

Back to the commercial. You see, as they prattled on about all of the different styles available, they proceeded to show all manner of boots. However, the thing about several of them was that they had no toes. Granted, it was partly because nobody was wearing them, but my point here is that there was no toe to the shoe. As in, whoever happened to wear them would have their wee little piggies exposed. Now, to me, given that these were boots – a type of shoe that is designed to protect not only your foot, but your ankle, and depending upon the type, your calf as well – it seemed a bit odd that one would go through all that trouble and leave the toes exposed.

I stated as much. Aloud. In the same room with E K and the O-spring.

“What kind of sense does that make?” I asked.

“I like them,” E K replied.

“Really?” I said. I’m sure there was a bit of incredulity in my voice, because the redhead complains quite a bit about her feet getting cold. Then I asked, “Why?”

With a dramatic sigh the O-spring took it upon herself to answer for all of shoe loving womankind: “You’re not a girl. You just don’t get shoes.”

Apparently it really is all about that Y. I guess the X’s have it…

More to come…

Murv