Every weekend deserves the opportunity to prove it’s a self-taught refresher course on living. Having a job these days is a good thing, but work is an eight-hour interruption of life.
Saturday morning, I sit at the kitchen table drinking coffee with a healthy splash of whiskey added. My wife is in the kitchen making one of those healthy drinks full of green vegetables, fruits, and nuts.
Her attractiveness has not faded over our years shared together and she remains the light of my life.
Whiskey and coffee get my old ticker in salsa rhythm to start the day, but Mary prefers blueberries, kale, cilantro, almonds, and a banana with a pinch of turmeric and curry.
Our breakfast choices provide proof men make wiser decisions.
The machine she uses isn’t a blender, but an extractor that pulverizes food into a smooth nutritious drink. My wife suggested our health could benefit from using it.
Being receptive to new ideas, I gave it a try with a big slice of pepperoni pizza, an ice cream sandwich, and a shot of Jim Beam. The mixture tasted good even though it had the consistency of watery pudding.
Mary made it clear in no uncertain terms I was never to touch the device again.
No problem.
Her back is to me as she makes the breakfast drink. Dark hair curls at the base of her neck, and my gaze travels down her body soaking in the ample curves the purple terry cloth robe can’t hide.
It might seem strange to some people, but after more than thirty years of marriage I still find Mary extremely sexy.
My romantic reverie fades as she pours the disgusting green liquid into a cup and begins to drink.
“That looks yummy,” I say.
A wise husband tells his wife what she wants to hear.
Mary looks over her shoulder. “Do you want some?”
“Maybe next time.”
She laughs. “That’s what I thought.”
We know each other all too well.
Finishing my coffee, I step up behind her and wrap an arm around her waist.
“I’m going to run to the store for a minute,” I say.
The warmth from her body comes through the robe as I press my groin against her buttocks and gently kiss the nape of her neck.
“You can do some shopping right here if you want.” She leans back into me.
“Hold on to that thought,” I say, giving her a slap on the backside.

Our tricolor pit bull is asleep on the living room sofa. You can hear her snore from a block away. Bula is a loving dog with a gentle disposition. The negative reputation of the breed is a sad stereotype.
As I pass by, she wakes up enough to check my hands for food. Realizing I have nothing to eat, she belches, closes her eyes, and puts one paw over her face.
“Shouldn’t you change clothes?” Mary asks. “You’re going to scare folks at the store.”
I hesitate near the door to look down at my attire.
“What’s the problem?”
My wife’s response is a laugh.
“I’m just being me,” I say defensively.
She shakes her head. “That outfit is a little loud, but go wake up Tucson.”
Your clothes should make a statement about who you are and my threads are evidence of my originality. Wearing a fire truck red Bob Marley T-shirt, canary yellow sweat pants, and orange sneakers, my goal has been achieved.
“Tucson needs some waking up,” I say.
“Just stay out of trouble, and pick up some dish soap at the store.” She continues to laugh as I leave.
The Safeway parking lot is empty as I pull in. Picking a spot near the center allows me to maintain my privacy and personal space.
Mary claims I run through grocery stores faster than movie stars check in and out of rehab. It’s more my ability to stay focused on what I’m there for. New items or sales don’t distract me.
There’s no reason to loiter in the aisles unless you’re a hopeless romantic who thinks the love of their life will be found by the green pepper bin or a poultry inspector trying to catch a butcher bleaching the chicken.
Life is about simplicity and avoiding complications.
Within minutes, I’m on my way out of the store with the dish soap and morning newspaper.

There are a few more cars in the parking lot when I get outside. Approaching my dark blue Nissan, I stop in my tracks alarmed by the broken front passenger window.
An elderly gentleman holding a walker is near my car looking at the shattered glass on the pavement.
“What are you doing to my car?” I shout.
The frail old man looks like he’s in his eighties, and unless he regularly attends Pilates classes I should be able to handle him.
He turns a tanned craggy face in my direction. “Two kids busted your window and took something from the car. I was close to catching those punks, but it took me a minute to get out of the truck.”
He waves a thin arm toward a black Ford 150 parked three spaces away.
“You drive?” I ask, incredulously.
“I was driving when you were an itch in your daddy’s pants,” he growls.
He’s wearing old faded blue jeans and a long-sleeved gray sweatshirt despite the early morning warmth. A gigantic cowboy hat saddles his skull.
Deep lines furrow his brow above piercing blue eyes that sear right through me.
“Those boys ran off when they saw me,” he says.
“You’re too old to try stopping them.” I say.
The arms holding the walker tremble as he shakes his head, but there’s an aura about the man exuding strength and power.
Something tells me this guy is not to be messed with.
“I might be old, but I ain’t a buttercup.” The walker clanks closer. “Are you ready to posse up, son? I’m ready to help you track those punks.”