The Antelope in the Living Room: The Real Story of Two People Sharing One Life (14 page)

We didn’t catch one fish that day. Not one.

Captain Awesome was not awesome. He was the devil. The devil who knew nothing about fishing. The devil who had bought a boat on a whim and a book called
So You Want to Be a Deep-Sea-Fishing Guide
and then had forgotten to read the book. In fact, his last words to us, as he took his money for the day, were “I’m going to go get drunk.”

But no matter how much he drank, I bet he wasn’t as hung over as I was three days later, when I finally woke up from my Dramamine-induced coma. Perry said at one point he thought about holding a mirror under my nose to make sure I was still breathing.

Perry and his friends were furious about the way the trip had turned out. Not because I had almost died at sea, mind you, but because we hadn’t caught any fish.

Which warms my heart to this day. It’s so tender.

They felt that Captain Awesome had misled them about the way he fished and the places we would go to find fish, and since Perry had read about Captain Awesome in
Texas Fish & Game
magazine (not to be confused with
Cheaper than Dirt!
, which is the catalog Perry wants me to quit saying he orders things from but I can’t resist because I love the name), he wrote a letter to the editor voicing his displeasure.

He had me proofread the letter before he sent it because I may not be able to deep-sea fish, but boy can I proofread. And that’s what every man really wants
 
—a good editor. It’s like that old saying: every man wants a cook in the kitchen, a tiger in the bedroom, and an editor in the home office. Or maybe I just made that up.

The letter went into great detail about our disappointment in how the day went and how Captain Awesome hadn’t lived up to the hype of the article about him in
Texas Fish & Game
. It was passionate and heartfelt. A tale of our struggle with the angry sea and a belligerent captain determined to do things his way, no matter the cost. Like a modern-day
Moby-Dick
.

But my favorite line of the whole letter
 
—in fact, maybe my favorite line ever
 
—was the part where Perry wrote, “The real tragedy is that because of this experience my wife will never go deep-sea fishing again.”

I told him to add an exclamation point to that sentence. And put “never” in all caps.

Even though I disagreed with him.

The real tragedy is that I spent four days of my life passed out from Dramamine. Days that could have been spent lying by the pool. Looking at water that doesn’t move.

And the truth is, I never would have gone deep-sea fishing again anyway. Fish or no fish. Sometimes you just need to admit that you and your spouse might be better off just sharing a nice dinner together instead of trying to share a hobby.

That’s why Perry doesn’t watch old episodes of
Friday Night Lights
and cry with me. There are just some things about each other that you’re not meant to share or understand.

CHAPTER 16

M
Y BEST FRIEND,
Gulley, works at a preschool. And on occasion one of her fellow teachers will walk into the break room at school with an economy-sized box of granola bars or assorted chips and announce, “Please help yourself! My husband went rogue again and made a trip to Costco without me.” This particular teacher happens to be older, and she and her husband no longer have any children living at home. So you can see how a box of 150 assorted granola bars might be more than the two of them could possibly eat in a year. Or ever.

She has my deepest sympathy because I, too, am married to someone who tends to frown upon buying items in quantities you can actually use before the expiration date. Perry never buys just one of anything. If it’s worth having one, then in his opinion, it’s
worth having at least fourteen. He believes in the Michael Jackson philosophy: “Don’t stop till you get enough.” This applies to just about anything, and particularly knives, flashlights, and guns. Otherwise known as the redneck trifecta.

It’s almost like he lived through some sort of Great Depression that causes him to buy in bulk. (I know this isn’t the case because we are children of the ’70s and ’80s. While we may not be the Greatest Generation, we are most definitely the Walmart Generation.) At least once a week he asks me if I’m going to the store because we are “out of everything.” I’ve learned to ask him to make a list because his definition of “everything” and mine are very different. Case in point, his list usually looks like this:

What? No York Peppermint Patties or Q-tips? Are we savages? What if Armageddon began and we were left trapped like rats without any means with which to clean our ears or enjoy a chocolate mint treat?

And maybe it’s precisely because I have been so complacent as to let us run out of Yorks and Q-tips that Perry has become a fan of the bulk purchase. Whenever I make a grocery list, he’ll always write
deodorant
or
shaving cream
and then instruct me to buy five cans of each. Because who doesn’t want to spend $250 at the store with $150 of that being excessive toiletry items?

In the interest of full disclosure, I will admit I do occasionally forget to buy important things such as toilet paper. So, yes, I have contributed to his problem. Because I think we can all accept that there isn’t any greater dilemma than being caught without toilet paper.

Unless it involves being without Peppermint Patties.

One day when Caroline was four years old, I decided it might be a fun activity for Caroline and me to wash my car in the driveway. I blame this lapse in judgment on the fact that our smoke alarm had gone off four different times the night before, causing me to wake up with what can only be described as deluded optimism.

In what is probably not a coincidence, Perry had to leave to meet with some clients, but before he left, he got out a bucket, some soap, and a few sponges for me to use and told me I could find anything else I needed in the garage.

Caroline and I got to work washing the car. Surprisingly, it wasn’t nearly as fun as I’d remembered it being when I was sixteen. It was hot and messy, and cleaning out my wheel wells made my back hurt because I am not in the shape I was in when I could do forty high-kicks in a row while wearing white cowboy boots. Not to mention that my current car is an SUV and significantly bigger than the sweet Honda CRX I drove in high school.

Plus, due to my OCD tendencies, I couldn’t just do it halfway. The car had to be spotless, and this wasn’t a task for the faint of heart when you consider the atrocities I found hidden between the backseats where Caroline sits. Let’s just say that goldfish crackers that have been subjected to heat and spilled apple juice don’t maintain much structural integrity. I realized I was in need of some Armor All to really clean the interior, so I went into the garage, and I couldn’t believe what I saw hidden on the back shelves.

I mean, I’m not one to air my family’s dirty laundry, but I discovered that Perry has clearly been running a sideline business as a car wash operator behind my back. Why else would one family
 
—a family that has washed their vehicles at home maybe twice in the
last ten years
 
—need twenty-six bottles of Armor All? Maybe you think I’m being too quick to jump to conclusions, so this is where I’ll also tell you about the eleven squeegees and the orange safety cones. What other explanation could there be for this type of car-wash-supply excess? Was there some worldwide alert I’d missed about an impending shortage? I don’t even understand.

In my opinion, the only time you really need to buy in bulk is if you discover your favorite lip gloss is about to be discontinued.

Several years ago I went on a trip to the Dominican Republic with Compassion International. During the trip, all my fellow seasoned travelers told me I should definitely buy some vanilla extract and coffee to take home, and so I did, because who am I to argue with food science? I bought one very large bottle of vanilla for myself and two small bags of Dominican coffee for Perry.

He is particular about his coffee, which is why I bought only two small bags. I cannot even express the various coffees we have purchased throughout our marriage in his quest for caffeinated perfection, including one unfortunate incident that got us enrolled in Boca Java’s Connoisseur Club and caused us to get approximately six pounds of coffee delivered every month, which is a little excessive, unless maybe you’re Juan Valdez. We soon discovered the Boca Java Connoisseur Club is kind of like the mafia or selling Arbonne because once we were in, it was almost impossible to get us out.

I seriously thought I was going to have to cancel our credit card just to make the coffee quit showing up on our doorstep, but I finally got a representative on the phone who let me halt our coffee deliveries after I explained that Perry’s medical adviser had
told him to limit his caffeine intake. And by “medical adviser,” I meant myself.

Anyway, I returned home from the Dominican and presented Perry with his two small bags of coffee. He seemed skeptical but agreed to give it a whirl. So the next morning he made (Brewed? Is that better coffee terminology?) his first pot. He was in love. I seriously thought he might need a moment alone with his coffee. Perhaps he and his Dominican coffee might want to get a room.

Those two small bags were depleted very quickly, but I discovered you could order it online. One evening I casually mentioned that the coffee was available online and that I’d get around to ordering more at some point. Then I forgot all about it. Until ten pounds of Dominican Santo Domingo coffee showed up on our front porch, courtesy of UPS.

Unfortunately, the shipped coffee didn’t taste nearly as great as the bags I’d brought home from the trip. A fact I was reminded of every morning until our ten-pound supply of coffee beans was finally depleted. Which takes even longer than you might think, especially when you have to hear about their lack of flavor every day.

After sixteen years of marriage, I’ve grown accustomed to Perry’s tendency to stockpile various things. (I’m using the word
stockpile
instead of
hoard
in an effort to be more sensitive to his affliction.) I’ve learned that every year in early January we’ll receive a large shipment of Williams-Sonoma peppermint bark that he buys at half price after Christmas. I know now that if I need a flashlight, he can offer me about ten different varieties, complete with batteries. When I think we’re out of paper towels, I’ve learned that he always has at least two more packs of twelve in the back house.

And, admittedly, this comes in handy. Especially because it never occurs to me to buy more than one of anything for any situation. We were once under a hurricane warning, and the news anchors suggested that people should stock up on essentials in case of power outages and bad weather. So I made my way to the grocery store and came home with a six-pack of bottled water, a bag of Sour Patch Kids, some Cheez-Its, and a
People
magazine. I don’t know that anything has ever been a stronger test of our marriage. Perry’s disappointment in my lack of basic survival skills was palpable.

But nothing could have prepared me for what happened a while back.

It is well documented that Perry loves nothing more than to hunt. It’s his favorite. So naturally he enjoys loading up on various hunting supplies. I mean, this is a man who once rode the city bus to a political rally while packing heat. Which is why I didn’t think anything of it when he was leaving to spend the day at the ranch and said as he was walking out the door, “Are you going to be home today? Because I’m expecting a shipment of ammo I ordered to come in, and I don’t want it sitting on the front porch.”

I assured him I’d be home all day and could make sure his beloved ammo was safe and sound.

When the delivery man knocked on the door a few hours later, I was surprised to see an eighteen-wheeler parked out front. We don’t get many of those in our residential neighborhood. I opened the door and asked him if he could just leave it on the front porch.

“All of it?” he asked.

“Yes. Why? How much is there?” I questioned.

That’s when I discovered the entire trailer of this eighteen-wheeler
contained ammo Perry had ordered off the Internet, and I felt my left arm go numb because I was about to have a stroke.

Apparently Perry had come across a deal he couldn’t resist on bargain-basement-priced ammunition. Perhaps Crazy Larry’s Ammo Store was having a going-out-of-business sale. So I directed this poor delivery guy to where he could unload the contents of his truck while I waited for the ATF to show up and haul me off for questioning, since that seemed to be imminent.

On the upside, we are set from now until the day before forever on ammunition. It’s right next to the fourteen packs of AAA batteries and the cases of microfiber towels.

But here’s the thing: it’s true that Perry loves to buy vast quantities of various merchandise and isn’t afraid to meet someone he found on the Internet at Buc-ee’s truck stop if it means he can get a good deal on ammunition. However, he is a stickler for quality merchandise. This is why he wants me to quit saying he shops at
Cheaper than Dirt!
It can’t just be bargain priced; it has to meet his quality standards AND be a fair deal.