A man 's man , tall in stature, naturally disciplined is in desperate search for something and for the life of him he can't find it. Now in a great state of annoyance he calls up to his girlfriend.
“Where is the bag?!” he shouts
early in morning up the stairs to his girlfriend in a frantic state.
“What? What bag?” she replies as
she just steps out of the bathroom starting her day.
“The bag, the little blue bag that
had the flask in it?” he shouts back rushing his words.
What women in her right mind could
respond to such a question without a drop of coffee in her system.
Thinking upon this she goes to the location in his home where the
gift bags usually are, next to the toilet paper in the guest
bathroom. (Strange place, but it is the mind of a man who shapes his
own home as he sees fit.) Retrieving the bag, in it's freshly folded
state, it is then placed on the table. How those in a frantic state
pay no attention that which is in front of them. Watching as the man
she loves scurries about in the same small space looking for the bag
as if he had some personal grudge with the last Where's Waldo book.
“Last place it was, was in the back
seat of the car, where is should be, where the hell is the blue bag!”
“It's on the table.” she calls out.
“Where? I don't see it!” he yells
back from the other room.
“There on the table, here on the
table.” she replies pointing to the bag.
Coming out of the room he sees the bag
and yet he's far from being pleased, because in fact the bag was not
his true objective.
“What happened to the box?” he asks
even more in a frantic state then when he started. Before she could
utter a single word he continues. “you were so primed on bringing
everything in last night from the car, what did you do with the box.
The funnel to the flask is in the box, did you throw it out?!”
Calmly keeping her distance from this
wild fox twitching with foam in his mouth she replies,
“I don't remember and with that
attitude quite frankly I don't give a shit.”
Knowing she's tidy and organized he
goes to the liquor cabinet and next to the flasks there he discovers
his little black box and the tiny funnel that was located within.
“Why do you have to move shit!?” he
shouts absolutely annoyed.
Thinking to herself this manly man of
man hers has transformed into a five year old boy, not saying a word
or really listening to his rant of hysterics.
“Do me a favor?!” he shouts which
catches her attention. His face now red with fury and much like that
five year old boy patients simply doesn't exist.
“Stop moving my shit! You know how
stressed I get when I can't find shit!” He shouts.
Without skipping a beat she calls out
from the bathroom with a piece of floss hanging out of her mouth,
“You're stressed out even when you
can find shit, so I don't see how this is significant.”
It was in this moment when silence
falls upon the house, a silence so stilling not even a cricket wanted
to make noise. A fevered rage of boiling blood and blood vessels on
the verge of bursting all on account of a bag and a box. Perhaps the
ludicrous behavior will be forgotten by him and the offense made will
soon disappear in the days events. There the thought lingers in the
mind of this woman, such intensity, such passion never have a bag and
a box felt such importance. A simple blue gift bag all of sudden felt
like it was a high dollar piece of luggage that carried an assortment
of jewels. The simple black cardboard box basked in it's glory of
love and importance feeling as if it a bullet proof , impenetrable
portable safe which contained the secret recipe to coke a cola. How
special these inanimate objects must have felt that day if they were
actually capable of feelings. It makes one wander how truly lonely
that packet of mayo in your fridge really is.
