I’ve written before of how my lovely spouse has, from time to time, been confused by English phrases. Over the holidays there was another incident.
It all started when Wifey’s good friend and fellow AJF (alpha Japanese female) telephoned her with the great good news that their youngest daughter had just presented the family with a new grand baby.
I was mildly eavesdropping on the conversation when it became apparent that the two ladies were having problems communicating on some point. There was an exchange of staccato Japanese followed by some butchered English and more Japanese. This was followed by a great deal of teeth sucking and mumbles which generally indicates frustration that clarity was not achieved.
After the call I inquired what could possibly have been so complicated. The spousal unit answered that our friend was concerned because the baby had been born with crab legs. Crab legs. I kid you not, she said the kid was born with crab legs.
At first I was curious if the Mom might also have some drawn butter up there but I was told this was no laughing matter. Alrighty then, first I asked if my wife was sure they were not lobster legs or limbs from some other shellfish. Having ascertained they were indeed crab legs and that I was indeed skating on thin marital ice, I asked if she could describe the child’s affliction in greater detail or at least advise if a nice Sonoma Cutrer Les Pierres had accompanied the birth.
Well, the truth soon came out. It turns out the baby had been born, not with crab legs as first presented, but with a club foot. I guess the club became crub given Wifey’s difficulty with the letter “L” and then things gradually devolved until “crab legs” had replaced “club foot”.
The good news is that the problem can be treated and the expectations are for a complete correction of the problem.
The bad news was that my dinner was far from crab legs and consisted of cold shoulder and tongue delivered over ice. I knew that I was in for punishment, the only questions being when and how. My comeuppance came the next Sunday when we took Max to his park for play time.
Now, I need to explain that Max’s leash is one of those that has an integrated poo bag dispenser so one is never caught off guard by sudden Malt offerings. But when we go to Maxie’s Park we take a regular 6 foot cloth leash and my chore is to pack a bag in my pocket. Well, this was the weekend I forgot.
Not wanting to admit my failure I first dug through our car’s various orifices seeking a plastic bag. No luck. I checked the trunk without success and then remembered that in a moment of obsessive-compulsiveness run amok I had folded a poo bag very small and stashed one in my wallet. The ultimate “just-in-case” poo bag. Urban dog owners will understand this.
When the alpha female inquired if I had a bag, I proudly said I did and recounted how I shamed Boy Scouts and Coast Guardsmen with my dedication to being prepared.
That’s when the retaliation came. My darling simply smiled sweetly, tut-tutted, patted me on my head and mentioned how she could recall when I was a young buck, in my salad days, in the time of spreading wild oats I might have packed a condom in my wallet. She just wanted me know she loved me even though nowadays I pack a poo bag there. Ouch. Right through the heart.
Final score: crab legs 1, poo bag 1. At least Max got good use of the bag a little later.