Goat To Hero

This has been an interesting week.  The pendulum has swung from goat to hero, pausing ominously like a raven above my chamber door.  First, my wife pointed out that I was a writer and I should have written her a romantic poem.  This, I’m sure, was prompted by some Victorian British movie and the upcoming Valentine’s Day.  I have to point out her choice of films illustrates my recent luck.  She could have chose Monty Python for her British fix, and I come off looking quite the catch just for walking with a normal gait or not releasing my gas in someone’s general direction.  But, no.  She chose to view Pride and Prejudice for the 422^nd time.  Mr. Darcy sets an unrealistic standard and if he were real, I would punch him in the face.  Since he is not real, I will, in protest, refer to him as Mr. Gatti, the pizza man.  While admittedly childish, it nevertheless makes me happy.  As for the poem, I pointed out that I had indeed written one for her.  It goes as follows.

            I am a vine

            Who loves to climb

            Married to a tree.

            She stands so straight

            And holds my weight,

            How lucky can I be?

She responded, “You called me a tree.”  Goat!

            Ah, then my dog got involved.  You see, I have a tendency to lose things.  For instance, I have lost one of my gloves seventeen times in the last month.  While this may amuse you, I can assure you it does not amuse me.  This week I lost one of my gloves (yes, again) apparently in the yard between my driveway and my front door.  My dog found it for me and left it next to my car.  She had eaten the right hand of my favorite pair of gloves.  All that remained was a single finger.  Suffice it to say that solitary finger accurately summed up my week to that point.  Then my car broke.

            Goat.

            But like the determined Phoenix, I rose.  To say I am not automotively handy is an understatement along the lines of saying Napoleon was moderately ambitious.  Normally my idea of fixing a car is adjusting the rear view mirror for glare, but not this day.  This day, this man rose to heroic mechanical heights.  Like a gladiator, I vanquished my spark plug foe and emerged from the fray filled to the brim with enough testosterone to give a Southern lady the vapors and make my wife ovulate in my mere presence.  I am man.  Who needs a poem when you have grease on your hands and a cranking car?

            Hero.