My husband turned off the television last night and sighed. “Is the writer’s strike ever going to be over?”
“We have access to 76 channels,” I answered while turning the final page of the fiftieth book I’ve read this month and replied, “Can’t you find anything to watch?”
“Football is over, basketball is boring, watching golf makes me want spring even more than I already do, and ice skating is for sissies.”
I stood up and put my hands on my hips. “I guess we’re just going to have to start entertaining ourselves without relying on the television as much!” I stated emphatically.
My husband grew pale. “Whhhat?” he stammered. “I’ve never heard of such a thing!”
“Let’s give the dog a Mohawk!” I said.
“We could pretend we’re Monks,” he chortled.
“Should we try to build a house with ice cubes?” I suggested.
“We could declare war on all the bunnies that have been pillaging our neighborhood!” my husband jumped up excitedly.
“Let’s see who can cross our eyes the longest,” I replied.
“I’ll get a headache,” he answered. “Speaking of headaches … or hopefully a lack thereof …” He raised his eyebrows up and down and smiled wickedly at me, “We could add to the world’s population problem.”
“I can’t handle that kind of responsibility,” I said, “but I’ve always wanted to file your teeth.”
“How about a game of Twister?” he answered.
I thought for a moment. “Okay, but who will spin the arrow and yell “RIGHT FOOT GREEN!”
“Good point,” he said. “How about if I throw a surprise party for you? You’re going to be 50 in five years. I’ll turn out the lights, hide, and yell, ‘SURPRISE!’ when you open the door and then you act really surprised, okay?”
I was silent for a moment. “I’m going to be 50 in five years?” I started sobbing. “I thought I was still 44!”
My husband turned pale again. “I think I have a couple of Tootsie Pops in my car under the passenger seat. I’ve been saving them for a special day. Do you want to see how many licks it takes to get to the center?”
I sniffed and whimpered, “Whatever.”
“Okay!” He leaped off the couch and ran out to the garage. I heard him rustling around and soon he came back in the house, looking rather sheepish with just one Tootsie Pop in his hand. “I guess I ate the other one and I don’t remember it,” he said. “I’m so sorry. Do you want to take turns licking this one?”
“JUST FORGET IT!” I yelled. “WE NEED TO FACE REALITY! WE RELY ON OUR TELEVISION FOR ALL OUR ENTERTAINMENT!”
The room filled with silence as the certainty of what I had just said sunk in. “Do you want to find people with the last name ‘Pig’ in the phone book and snort when they answer the phone?” my husband suggested quietly.
“That sounds like fun,” I murmured. “After that, do you want to drive our car in reverse to Dairy Queen and get double-dipped cones?”
“Now we’re talking!” he yelped. “On the way there, we can sing the alphabet backwards!”
I think the over ten thousand Hollywood writers should stay on strike a little bit longer. That night, we had more fun together than that long winter afternoon last year when the cable went out for six hours and we spontaneously decided to mow the carpet.