Springtime means gardening. My wife prunes her peony bush. I plant pansies. “Oh, Dear,” says my wife, “you’re planting the pansies upside-down.”
I throw down my trowel. “That’s it! I can’t take this blindness anymore! I’m outta here.”
“Where are you going?” asks my wife.
“To the garage. To find that wood handle I broke off the push broom. To carry it into the alley and smash it to smithereens.”
“Go get ‘em, tiger,” says my wife. It takes me a while but I find the broom handle. I tap my way to the alley. I’m just about to bash it against the asphalt when I think, “What if a splinter flies up and sticks in my eye?”
I storm through the back yard. My wife asks me where I’m headed this time. “To get my sunglasses,” I say. She tells me it’s overcast. I tell her it’s not the sun I need to protect my eyes from.
Upstairs, I fish around my dresser drawer. I find my Swiss Army knife and my baseball cap. Finally, I find my sunglasses.
I storm across the back yard again. “Go get ‘em, Mr. Cub!” calls my wife.
Back in the alley, I can’t find where I left that broom handle. “All right, who stole my stick?” I holler to no one in particular. And no one answers. I grope here and there but come up empty-handed. Then I think maybe I’ll go ask my wife to help me find the stick so I can smash it, and then I ask myself how ridiculous am I willing to appear here. Besides, I’ve pretty much simmered down. The urge to kill has been removed.
I mosey into the back yard. My wife says, “I didn’t hear the crack of the bat out there, Slugger.”
“I’m back,” says I. “I want to plant pansies. The ones that say, ‘Plant Other End.’”