The Wife’s Rite of Passage

My Wife of what will be 27 years in a couple of weeks, is scheduled for breast cancer surgery within days of our wedding anniversary.

She successfully went through it with her Grandmother, Sister and Mother.

The Wife was scheduled to close her dress store, after 22 years, on Labor Day, when her lease is finally up in that Shit Hole, otherwise known as Lawndale Shopping Center. Despite pending surgery, radiation and chemo, she sees no reason to divert from the schedule.

The Wife and I have not lived together, off and on for years. It is entirely my fault, as I am clinically insane. We’ll get into that later, but I’ve shopped, cooked, done laundry and kept up the lawn all these years, as I could.

I’m gonna need a separate effort to describe my life with her cats. Currently, Sullivan and Duncan are rescue cats deemed unadoptable by the SPCA, They were traumatized by two weeks in the kennel, before she adopted them. The Wife contacted the previous owners and understands their nature.

The Wife also understands my nature, but doesn’t require me to eat canned tuna, every evening.

Before them, I spent seventeen years with a cat named after GWB, who was my intimate companion, regrettably.

So, the fact that Sully and Dunk are glad to see me, after an awful year of enduring a new HVAC system, Florida room and 6 big trees taken out, means a lot.

In the months since last Halloween, when I headbutted the manager of Hop’s at 8:30 am, because I insisted he pick up the trash, as I approached the Wife’s dress store next door, with keys in one hand and a bag of victuals in the other, not to mention the considerable pack upon my back, I’d not been back in the store.

He referred to me to the person on the phone as a faggot.

“Did you just call me a faggot?, ” I asked, incredulously.

Before the large Latino named Edgar, whom I’d known for three years, and liked until my previous altercation with an employee, two years before, had a chance to react, I headbutted him, with the glasses I’m now wearing, only to suffer a really nice blow to my left jaw.

I left that decrepit parking lot, as Edgar called the cops and the ambulance, my Wife’s employ and haven’t returned until this past Saturday, when I spent the day cleaning a couple of area rugs to go in the Florida and dining rooms.

It turns out that if you call a guy who spends every Summer in rugby shorts and Teva sandals a faggot, he gets a free head butt.

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