There are things in life you just don’t do.
There are the obvious ones – never kick someone when he’s down, don’t use the “N” word a la Dr. Laura, never say the “R” word a la our Jen, never play cards with a guy named Doc, never eat at a place called Mom’s, never go to a bed with someone who has more problems than you, never dance with a girl that dips, never date someone with a spit cup on their ironing board.
You know, the usual.
But I’m telling you, the national newspaper has gone too far. It has started to put the Puzzle Page – a.k.a. mine – in the Sports Section – a.k.a. Sir’s.
Fortunately so far, I have always been up and at ‘em long before Sir knows that there is an up and at ‘em in the offing, so I’ve not had any competition for that particular section.
But let me tell you, after showering and dressing and make-upping, I am in the kitchen faster than you can say “is it hot enough for you,” so that I can hunker down with my plutonium strength coffee and my morning moment of quiet time.
No phones, no computers, no company. Just me, my now melting coffee cup, my Puzzle Page and my propelling pencil. Color me content.
I must have all these elements, you see, to make my morning complete. As I am the only one to purchase, make and drink the coffee, I am on absolutely safe ground there. Sir wouldn’t touch it with a stretch of I-70 Highway improvements. He is of the decaf, make it vaguely brown so I don’t have to taste it, kind of guy.
Me? I am of the “if it doesn’t grow hair on my chest it’s not good enough” variety. I have even tried to make decaf for him, but I’m afraid I just can’t bring myself to serve something which could equally be proffered as “Coffee, Sir? Tea, Sir” out of the same pot, so little difference would it make. I just can’t make a bland cup of coffee, it’s not in my repertoire.
A propelling pencil has to be of a certain gauge so as to not rip holes in the increasingly flimsy paper upon which newspapers are printed. I have to be able to see the result of my having put a 3 in the appropriate Suduko box, or a hideously witty answer to a crossword clue. My favorite, by the way, as a little aside and a bit of tangent-flinging, was one many years ago.
Clue? “Roman Centurion happy to have consumed his mother-in-law (9 letters).” Answer? Gladiator. I get such a kick out of cryptic crosswords.
My mother was an awesome crossword solver. She eschewed pencils, probably because in her day they were made of wood and thus required constant sharpening to achieve the correct point, a little like a Sheffield sword-maker would hone his blade until it was sharp enough to cut through a wad of wet tissues. No pencil for her, a red Bic biro was her desired weapon.
And being a mom of the 1950s and ’60s, thus not a “working gal,” had all day in which to do it. Not that I’m suggesting my darling mother didn’t work her tail off for her brood. Far from it.
But again, slap me senseful, I digress.
My pencil has to be correct, my coffee has to be perfect, and I have to have my crisp newspaper set at a certain angle so I can devour the particular page I’m after. I’m a Virgo, so hate me.
It’s not that I object to its proximity to an article about jock straps and sweat, I’m brave, I can take it.
It’s the fear that I won’t complete the page – oh yeah right – and will have to leave my unfinished paper for Sir to actually remove it from the premises, thus never to be seen again.
The fact that I don’t look at the paper for the rest of the day, even if I have incomplete business with my C-5 section, is totally beside the point. It is the principle that I am in my Zen zone at 6:35 every morning, and you just know how cranky a Zen can be if it’s upset, especially that early. Upset a Zen at 11, no problem, but at 6, things can get ugly.
And I mean every morning. I could kick myself on weekends. I have 48 hours in which to do absolutely nothing if I so desire, but my internal alarm bell zaps my eyes open at 6, and I’m good to go. Instead of thinking I have to get to a spreadsheet, I’m thinking New York Times crossword, coffee and a perfect pencil. How pathetic is that?
Sir gets all quite petulant about it. He has a minor bellow about the hour at which I rise. I’m as quiet as a mouse (with a hairdryer), I close the fridge with monk-like tenderness, I try very hard not to make a squeak as I ease the front door away from its jamb – I even oil my own joints so I don’t creak when I bend down to get the paper off the door step.
So give me a break, don’t add pressure by putting my favorite bit next to Brett Favre’s 87th return. It’s just not cricket.
