Friday, January 21, 2005

Turn that shit down

I was leaned back in my recliner when Jazz plopped down on the couch with the tube of lube, pulled off her shirt, and lowered her pants. A few months ago that would have aroused me to no end. But nowadays I do little more than to shift my eyes her direction, roll them upward and pucker as I turn the volume up on the TV. Why can’t she do this during The Apprentice or some crap I’m not interested in?

She squirted the goop onto her belly and clicked on the doodad and for the umpteenth night straight I had to listen to the sound of an Apache helicopter just starting to spin its blades.

“Jazz, come on. I’m watching TV here. Hey! Turn it down!”

She thinks when she gives me that look that it makes me feel shallow and petty but she’s wrong. I know I’m shallow and petty. Her look only confirms to me I know myself well. I bought that damn baby doodad thing so she could find the babies’ heartbeats next time she starts bleeding and not have to wait to go to the ER or wait for an ultrasound to know if they’re alive or not. I had no idea I would be listening to the melodic gurglings from the inside of my wife’s digestive track every night as she searched persistently for a tiny, rapid heartbeat.

I always pretend to hear it just to get her to shut it off. “Is that it?”


Whatever. Like she can tell. “I think that’s it.”

“That’s mine, there’s an artery there. Hush.”

Hush? I’m not the one blaring the belly serenade, now am I? “Is that it?”


I waited all of 11 seconds. “Is that it?”

“If you don’t stop it…”

Please. “You’ll what, not let me hear the wonder of your colon anymore? Pity.”

After another 10 agonizing minutes with the Doppler, Jazz struck gold. She found one of the babies. Only instead of sounding like an Apache getting ready to take off, that son of a bitch was in full flight. I tried to count them off but there were at least two beats every second. She was so excited until the little fucker made a scratching sound, like a record on a turntable, and disappeared. She found it again a few minutes later and for the next half hour I watched her sit there and chase the little shits around so we both could enjoy this magical moment while I missed my show.

“Hey honey, can you maybe do that in the bedroom?” That’s the least she could do, right? I mean, come on, I’m trying to unwind here.

“Listen to them, Jay! You do it.”

“Jazz, I can’t hear anything else. I’ve got no choice but to listen! Can’t you do that in the bedroom?”

She twisted it off and suddenly the TV seemed ridiculously loud. I figured I was in for it, but that’s okay. It’s not like she’s giving it up on a regular basis right now. What’s my incentive here? Let’s be realistic about this.

She turned to stare at me over her shoulder.

Still staring.

I'm not looking at you.

Hey, what’s that over there? Look, quick!

Quit it.

I don’t see you still staring at me out of the corner of my eye while I pretend to focus intently on what Pat Sajak has to say.

I don’t feel you boring holes into my skull. You can just stop wasting your time.

Stop it.

I slid my gaze to the coffee table to check her out peripherally.

“I see you looking at me.”

Damn. That shit never worked with my old man, either. I looked at her, looked at the TV, looked back at her, sighed and clicked off the TV. “Hey, sweetie, can I do it? Please?”

She grinned. “Sure!”

I want my balls back.