The Rubber Band Theory Part I

“Get out! Get out of here! You are not my wife! How dare you sleep in this bed! I don’t know where she is or when she’ll get back, but get out! I don’t know you! Get out! Get out!”

All I had on was a slip with my hair still in rollers. I could hear his feet shuffling towards his baseball bat, so I threw some underwear, a polka-dot dress, loafers, and my wallet into a grocery bag before running out the door.

“Don’t come back here! I have a wife you know! Don’t come causing an old man trouble!” he yelled hoarsely while slamming the door behind me.

319. Three one nine Cardinal Drive. 319. When you’re little, your parents do their best to make sure you remember the important things: addresses, phone numbers, the works. But then you can’t forget it. It takes forever to erase the little things, the little pains of memory. And it sucks because I don’t have forever left. I’m 84, and I’m not losing my marbles like every other old lady on the block. Specifically the block I live on. 319 Cardinal Drive. 319. 319.

Some of them make me laugh. I know it’s bad to laugh at old ladies for not being able to remember much, but I can’t help it. It’s like laughing at crying babies. I can’t help that either. But there’s this one lady named Cecilia, and she went nuts when I told her about Stan’s oncoming Alzheimer’s. She went ballistic, going on about how sorry she was and how she wanted to bake me  casserole. The gesture was sweet and all, but when I went to say hello the next week I had to tell her the story of Stan’s Alzheimer’s again. She gave the same reaction. I don’t know if that means I should’ve gotten two casseroles or one. I got none. Then again, she’s getting old. I don’t think she has Alzheimer’s. She’s just always been a bit forgetful from time to time.

I live at 319 Cardinal Drive. Sometimes when I’m addressing envelopes in the return section, I’ll write Dr. instead of writing out Drive. I bought the house with Stan a long time ago. I don’t remember what year because it was never one of the things I learned to memorize, but I can remember the important things. Sometimes I’d sign it Mr. & Mrs. Stan Levanson, a lot of times actually. I didn’t mind taking up his name because it meant we were joined together. I can’t say forever because he just kicked me out. He kicked me out of the house that we bought together some number of years ago which is located at 319 Cardinal Drive. 319 Cardinal Dr. 319. I don’t understand why somethings last forever while other things don’t get the chance. I’d trade my memory for Stan any day. Then, I could fall in love with him over and over again until we both died. I wonder if he wished for that. I better knock on wood.

I change my mind. I wouldn’t trade my memory for the love of my life because Alzheimer’s is a blunt dagger to the gut. It’s not like the movies where you get to fall in love over and over again. Even if it was, it would still suck. There would be no more reminiscing over old times or enjoying each other’s silence. Instead, they’d be asking you the same questions over and over again. It’d be like repeating a first date until you died. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my first date with Stan, but I think I’d murder him if he asked me what my favorite color was every day until death do us part. Eventually, I’d grow to pity him and pity myself. I’d have to watch his eyes light up like a puppy and care for him like a puppy. Then someday I’d realize that falling in  love everyday is only fun for the one that forgets. It’s not that I don’t love him. Old people just get tired.

 

 

My French Fry Fetish

To describe the best french fries I’ve ever had would be like painting a masterpiece using the nerve that connects my taste buds to my brain as a bristle in a paintbrush made of wonder dust and dreams. I feel that if I were to paint this masterpiece, it would only be fitting that it hang in the restaurant that can conjure the potato-lings that have stolen my heart (via my stomach).

It would definitely not hang at In-N-Out. Their fries are so thin and way too salty. The same goes with other fancy restaurants that think it’s okay to charge way too much for sticks of wannabe fries.

Some places are worthy of owning forgeries of the masterpiece. This includes Canes, Chick-fil-a, and McDonald’s. They’re warm, chunky fries with enough pizzazz to make me eat them in the car ride home instead of waiting. Love never waits. Eat the fries in the car.

The only restaurants that can have my work bless their walls are the restaurants that  understand the essence of perfection when it comes to french fries. They must be golden. They must be so deliciously scrumptious that I will risk burning my hands and mouth for the sake of eating a fresh batch of such fries. There must be enough tater in the french fries to constitute it a french fry, not a stick of unworthiness. They can never be bland or too salty. They must radiate bliss.