The Misadventures of Mrs. Taken

Jack and Janie

Janie

Ah, middle age, that wide, flat expanse of no man's land between young and dumb enough to do it and too damn old to care if you do it or not. The salad days, as this fragile time between old and young is sometimes called or might be called if it weren't for the simple fact that the salad aint' as fresh as it used to be. At forty-eight, older and wiser, the kids grown and out of the house, and said house paid off. You'd think I'd be having the time of my life...right? No kids. No mortgage. Nothing much to do but sit on my laurels and wait to collect my retirement...fun times and that they might be if it weren't for everything else that comes riding on the heels of the hell that is middle age.

I used to love horror movies when I was a kid. Cue the creepy music and screaming virgins. Munching fistfuls of popcorn and slurping on a bladder buster sized coke I'd sit mesmerized in front of the TV for hours just waiting for the next dumb bimbo to bite it. I haven't watched a horror movie in years. I don't need to. Now days, if I want to be scared out of my wits, I simply review my 401K statements. The whole idea of wiling away my golden years on some beach sipping martinis and ogling sun bronzed gods in barely there Speedos over the rim of my bifocal sunglasses. Completely overrated.

I have to admit. All things considered. I've got it pretty good. There's the Old Man...Jack, my devoted husband and the kids, Janie and Jack Junior. Ok, so we weren't very original when we named the fruits of our loins. But hey, after nine months of sharing real estate, I was just glad to have by own body back. The Old Man could have named them Tweedle-Dee and Tweele Dumb and I wouldn't have cared at the time.

I have a house on a corner lot in the surreal wonderland that is suburbia. It isn't the best house in the neighborhood, but it certainly isn't the worst. My car isn't brand new, but what the hell, it's paid for. I married the man of my dreams although, sometimes if you asked I'd say, in the way people do, jokingly truthful, that some of those dreams were nightmares.

All in all, I think my life is pretty full. I have my career, my husband, the kids, and most of my mind. There's the bowling league on Friday evenings, the book club every other Tuesday at seven P.M. sharp, and of course, just to keep things from getting too dull, there's my Old Man, Jack.

Jack isn't a bad guy, quite the contrary really. He's great. Ok, sure he's grown a little soft around the middle and there's more gray than brown in his hair and just a little less of it these days. Back in the day though, he was something. Well, he still is something. But, beyond being the love of my life, I'm just not so sure what.

We've changed over the years as people so often do. I think we've finally reached that sweet spot simply called comfortably content. You know the place I'm talking about. The comfortable place where you no longer close the bathroom door for privacy or worry about what you look like twenty-four/seven, and when you run around naked in the house, it isn't necessarily in the hopes of getting laid, but rather, because you forgot to take the clothes out of the dryer. Yeah, that kind of comfortable, that's Jack and I.

Oh, there's still passion and plenty of it. It's just that sometimes, though the spirit is willing, the flesh, this middle aged flesh can't quite manage to get with the program. I used to think E and D were just letters in the alphabet and that menopause was a get out of jail free card. Think about it, no more tampons, cramps, or vicious PMS attacks? What woman wouldn't want that, right? Ha! I'd rather have periods for life than the bonus round Mother Nature threw in just for giggles.

Sitting at the middle of my life, I realize that though it hasn't all been a bed of roses, but it hasn't been all bad either. Jack and I, we've come a long way from where we started out. From the studio apartment over his mom's garage and the beater car I worked all summer at the ice cream shop to buy and from the lean days of Raman noodles and bologna to these, the salad days of our middle age.

The both of us were so young back then, fresh out of high school, eighteen, pregnant, and in love. In so many ways we've grown up together, Jack and I. We've evolved from the kids we were into the adults we are. Sure, there were plenty of bumps in the road to marital bliss. Working and going to college with a brand new baby at home and another on the way. It wasn't easy, but we did it. Scrimping and saving to buy our first house, the house where we raised our family and still live in, wasn't any picnic. Getting two kids through college at the same time. Somehow, we managed to pull it off.

Looking back, I suppose I could have had a very different life. But, I don't regret the choices that I made. How could I when every choice I ever made kept leading me to the same place? To the place of comfortable contentment, to my family, and to him. Honestly, I wouldn't have had it any other way.

Jack

My wife is hot. What can I say? After thirty years of marriage and two kids she is still the sexiest woman on earth, or maybe, it's because of the thirty years of marriage and two kids that she's the sexiest woman earth. At least to me, she is. If another guy said that about my wife...well, it's not that I wouldn't necessarily disagree with him, but I'd probably beat his ass for looking at her in any other way but platonic.

My Janie, she is the force that keeps the wheels on this train called life moving. Yeah, it's true. She's certainly got her fair share of quirks. But hey, she kept us fed, clothed, and the house operating as a mostly functional unit for thirty years and if that doesn't entitle a person to a certain amount of weirdness, I don't now what does. So, if she wants to bitch at me about something so insignificant as leaving one egg in the carton, forgetting to pick my dirty underwear up off the bathroom floor, or not putting down the toilet seat. That's ok. I'm good with it. And truth be told, sometimes I do all those little things that drive her bat shit nuts just because I can.

I love my wife. There, I said it and I'll say it again. I love my wife. My buddies, source of inspiration and irritation that they are, chalk up the reason I don't ogle other women with the same veracity that they do to middle age. But, it simply isn't true. I don't look at other women because I'd rather look at my wife. Sure, she isn't the most beautiful woman in the world. She's a little worn around the edges and softer in places than she used to be. But, let's face it. Any woman who would voluntarily spend thirty years with a slouch of a guy like me deserves no small measure of devotion. Who am I kidding? I'm the luckiest son of a bitch on the planet to land a woman like Janie.

I knew it from the first time I laid eyes on Janie she was going to be my wife someday. At eighteen and full of piss and vinegar, I sure as hell didn't expect it to happen as soon as it did though. What's a guy to do? With two sets of pissed off parents and a baby on the way, I married her and I haven't regretted one day of it since.

I was a total gear head in high school. You know, one of those guys that barely skated through the three R's with passing grades but got straight A's in auto shop. Yeah, that was me. The stud in the faded Levis denim jacket, ripped up t-shirt, and a layer of grease under his fingernails. On that particular morning, I couldn't tell you what had forced me into the last place on earth I'd ever voluntarily go, the school library. There she was, looking so prim and proper with her nose buried in a book...my Janie. That was another lifetime ago and we were both very different people, back then.

Janie never ended her love affair with books and as for me, I'm hardly the stud I used to be, lank and lean and so fucking cocky and arrogant. These days, the grease under my fingernails is more than just a hobby. I got a job changing oil at one of those ten-minute oil change joints to put Janie through college first. Seemed like a sure bet, and it was. Janie was always the smarter of the two of us. Although, sometimes, I question her intelligence in sticking with a guy like me.

After she graduated and landed a job that paid more than minimum wage. I, by some miracle earned a degree from technical school and went into business for myself. The garage isn't much. But, it's mine. Pride in ownership and all that, yeah right. The garage pays the bills and keeps us from living in a cardboard box.

It's amazing how many friends a guy who knows anything about auto mechanics mysteriously has when the engine light comes on. Let's face it. I run a business, not a charity. Anyone that pulls, pushes, or drags a car into my garage can expect a bill. That is anyone, except for my wife. For her, I'm willing to bend the rules a bit and take out my payment in trade for services rendered. Janie makes the best apple pie I've ever tasted. The arrangement works out nicely for the both of us. I get a pie and she gets her oil changed. And if she's not in the mood to bake her hard working man a pie. There's other ways she can convince me to top off her fluids, if you know what I mean.

Life is good, so much better than when the two of us started out. I've got my easy chair and a big screen TV. Poker games with the guys on Wednesday nights and praise the lord, Monday night football. Together, by the grace of God, we raised two kids and managed to get them through college, paid off a mortgage, and squirreled back a little mad money for the just in case in life.

I've got a beautiful wife and a reasonably decent career. I am, for the most part, captain of my own destiny, until Janie decides to steer the boat in a different direction.

Janie doesn't nag. Sometimes, she gets a little hot under the collar, but that's when I think she's the most beautiful of all. When her cheeks get all flushed and she starts muttering curse words with all the fierceness a five foot-two woman can. Make love, not war that's my philosophy. And when the hurricane that is my wife's temper has passed, that's what we do. We make love, sweet, sweet love...or at least these days, we try to.

Sex...not as easy as it was back in the day. Oh, the equipment is still there, but sometimes, it takes a lot of yanking on the crank to get the engine to turn over. Janie is still beautiful and looking at her gets me there every damn time. It's just that my middle-aged body sometimes needs a bit of priming to get with the program. Janine never complains. I'd like to think necessity is the mother of invention. And maybe, that's true. Because, I can sure as hell tell you, we've gotten pretty creative over the years of our marital bliss.

Sometimes, I don't get my wife. I'm a guy. I wouldn't dare ask her what's going on in that pretty little head of hers when she stands in front of the full-length mirror in our bedroom and sighs as if she's lost her best friend. She blames everything on menopause. Menopause? I looked it up on the computer once...once. After twenty-eight years of running for cover once a month, what guy wouldn't thank their lucky stars for menopause? You would think women would be delirious that the PMS, cramps, and bloating, whatever that is, were over for good. BUT. NO.

Sure, the girls aren't as perky as they once were, but hey, I'm not exactly the poster child for aging gracefully either. She has more bottles and tubes of goop and stuff for her face than any woman should legally own. If you were to ask me, she doesn't need a damn thing to make her look more beautiful than she already is.

Like I said, I'm a guy. When she gets in those moods. Guys, you know the mood I'm talking about. When your woman counts every wrinkle and strand of gray hair and God help us, asks if we still think she's pretty. Of course, our wives are pretty, beautiful even. But, every guy knows there is no right answer to that question. Discretion is the better part of valor and like any sensible male with even the most remote sense of self-preservation. When she asks me, not that she would ever believe me even if I did answer the question, if I'm still attracted to her. I run like hell for the only place a man is safe. The garage.

The kids are grown with lives of their own. That two people like use managed to raise two children into adulthood and have them grow up being reasonably sane is beyond me, but nonetheless we did. Janie and I are at the quiet place in our lives. It's a nice place, that place of comfortable companionship and occasional saucy nights between the sheets. When someone asks me if I love my wife my answer is yes. Not only yes, but hell yeah, I love my wife. We have an ordinary, happy life, and what more could anyone ask than that?

.

You've Got Me Tied in Knots, Babe

After a long day at work it's nice to settle in for a quiet evening at home and relax. Janie was in the kitchen finishing up the dishes as I retreated to my usual after work perch on the sofa. After the last spoon was put away and the typical chatter of a long time married couple out of the way, Janie did as she always does and plopped down into her self-assigned spot on the couch. With her feet propped up on the no man's land of the empty cushion between us, the place in the center of the family unit that belongs solely to the dog, Farts, she opens up a book and starts to read.

We do this every evening after work. A quick microwave supper of leftovers pulled from the freezer, a little polite conversation, and then the retreat to our corners of the sofa. Her with her nose stuck in a book and me reading CNN on the Internet. Sometimes, if Farts can muster the energy and is bored with doing his impersonation of a throw rug, he'll waddle his way onto the couch and join us. "Whadda you know, GM is going to release another electric car next year. Affordable? Yeah, right."

Dead. Silence. Shrugging my shoulders, I skim through the headlines. Stopping now and then to read a particularly interesting snippet aloud, just to make sure Janie is properly caught up on current events. She flicks her eyes up from her book, pins me with a pained expression, nods as if her entire world hinges on every word I've said, and then returns to the page she was reading before I interrupted her.

The Old Man, I love him but sometimes, he is so annoying. I've waded hip deep in assholes all day all the while smiling until my jaws ache. Such is the life of a customer service rep. I'm tired and I just need to retreat to recharge my batteries for a few minutes before bed. My books are my only source of relief from the drudge that is everyday life. Or, at least they would be, if Jack would stop reading the news to me. Obviously, I can read and if I wanted to know what was going on in the world, I'd read it for myself.

I can't be irritated though, at least, not too much. This is just the Old Man's way of making conversation. I just wish...well, to someone who didn't know us better, from the outside looking in, we must seem pretty pathetic.

There is a reason I keep the blinds closed in the daytime. My Old Man is it. He's sitting there on the couch reading CNN in his underwear as if it's the most ordinary thing in the world. And to us, it is.

I try to be pleasant and understanding, as if my world hinges on the most recent fiasco to hit the headlines. Fortunately, my fantasy world is so much more interesting than anything ever posted on CNN. So, all I have to do is pretend to listen, skim the pages of whatever romance novel I happen to be reading at the time till I get to a juicy part, and nod my head as if I'm actually listening to him. Sometimes, I'd like to share something I've found in one of my books. But, there is no way I would ever, ever read one sentence to my Old Man.

I've branched out recently from my usual faire of bodice ripping studs into a darker, somewhat more clandestine fantasy world. Intrigued, I picked up a copy of a book I found online. I had no idea. Hell, I had to look up some of the words used to describe some of the things the couple does in the dictionary. Blinking and trying so desperately to force my eyes up from the pages and the incredibly hot, steamy scene depicted in print, I completely ignore the Jack and keep reading. Caning and floggers? Do people really do that?

Disgruntled with Janie, I stop reading CNN aloud and flip over to You tube. There's some funny shit out there in Cyber land, not that my wife could pry her eyes out of that book long enough to find out. Oh yes, this is just another part of our nightly routine. I watch you tube and she turns the pages of her book. Sure, I have ear buds, but instead of putting them on, I turn up the volume and wait for it...wait for it...annnnndddddd there it is, her annoyed stare over the rim of her glasses and the crinkle of a page turned in annoyance.

I wonder what could be so interesting in those books that she reads. Judging by the cover, the book is another lame romance, just like the bazillion other books she has occupying every available inch of space in the house. I bought Janie a Kindle last year for Christmas in the hopes of preventing my man cave in the basement from becoming a library. It didn't happen. The Kindle...epic fail. Janie thanked me for the gift in that kind, polite way of hers, but stubbornly refused to so much as turn the damn thing on. She says she likes paper. Well, I like my pool table. But, the piles of books keep growing and growing and I haven't uncovered my pool table in months.

I tried to bring myself to read one of her books. ONCE. I couldn't make it through the first paragraph without gagging. All that bodice ripping and the like...Hell, I don't even know what a bodice is. Besides, let's face it, not every guy can be hung like a Shetland pony and hard at the drop of a hat. I prefer reality to fiction. I just wish I knew what was in those books that were so much more interesting than CNN. Isn't real life better? I glance down at my potbelly and current wardrobe of underpants and tube socks and I think maybe it isn't.

I blinked and reread the paragraph. The horizons of my meager little world were certainly getting broadened today. Not only were there things like floggers, canes, spreader bars, and handcuffs. There were people that actually liked them. Ok. I certainly hope this book wasn't based on reality. Surely, there are some things that shouldn't be put in some places or used in any context other than the use they were originally intended for. Trying desperately to curb my curiosity, the question was out of my mouth before I could stop it. "Baby, would you ever consider spanking me with a kitchen spatula...you know, for fun?"

What. The. Hell? I blinked at my wife in disbelief, noticing the crimson flush spreading across her cheeks. Since when did kitchen spatulas serve any other purpose other than flipping pancakes on Saturday mornings? More importantly, how could I answer her question without getting into trouble and where in the hell did she come up with the idea of spankings with spatulas in the first place? "Um, no, the thought never crossed my mind. Why?"

Janie quickly retreated behind the cover of her book and avoided my answer. She mumbled something unintelligible and turned the page in her book. I shrugged and tried to put the mental image of a kitchen spatula being used as anything other than a kitchen spatula out of my head, but it was too late. The image was firmly embedded.

She continued reading and I, playing on the computer till the witching hour finally struck. Nine P.M on the dot. On the heels of a yawn and stretch, Janie announced she was going to bed. Just the same as she did every work night, bed at nine P.M. sharp. I was never one to settle in quite as quickly as Janie. Unwinding from the day simply takes me longer than it does her. Farts sauntered out of the living room on her heels. I heard the creak of the bedsprings and lumbered off the couch to complete this last ritual of our daily routine.