Oh, autumn! How I do love thee! It’s my favorite time of the year, and October is my favorite month. The frosting is on the pumpkin scones and the air is crisp with the scent of ashes from the smoldering wildfires of summer. Pumpkins abound at every corner Starbucks in lattes, frappes, and the aforementioned scones.
The stores are decked out for Halloween, just one aisle away from the Christmas decor, which has been on display since August. Halloween is my favorite holiday and, lucky me, I am married to the original ‘Mr. Macabre,’ an appropriate nickname for my Brit whose favorite author is Charles Dickens. Mine is Edgar Allen Poe.
We can’t listen to a song or watch anything on television without his comments on performers’ status as famous dead people. “Is that Richard Harris?” he’ll ask, followed by, “He’s dead now.”
His funereal play-by-play delivered in a matter-of-fact tone is constant. Our son, The Briteen and I will give each other a “wait-for-it” look, followed by a “there-it-is” sigh.
“This is an old movie. I like Katherine Hepburn. She’s dead now.”
His favorite movie is Zulu, in which Michael Caine made his debut. The Brit will watch this film myriad times and never tires of it or of updating us on the death toll.
“Did you know that Richard Burton narrated this?” he asks. “He’s dead now.” He continues, “Ah, Stanley Baker was marvelous. He died. Oh, Nigel Green—what a wonderful actor. He’s dead.” The only survivor in this cast, I believe, is Michael Caine. Unlike most of the cast, who are all dead now, he doesn’t even die in the film.
The Brit does not limit his macabre comments to films and television shows. He has ruined my listening pleasure of several songs, too. I like to listen to music while driving and I thank God every day for Sirius radio.
I love crooners, especially Frank Sinatra, Perry Como, and Dean Martin. “They’re all dead now,” The Brit reminds me. It’s an ingrained habit. He simply can’t help himself.
Recently one of my favorite collaborations between Sinatra and Antônio Carlos Jobim was playing. I took pleasure in the gentle samba rhythm as I drove The Brit to an appointment. Suddenly, my reverie was interrupted. “That’s a terrible musical arrangement,” he observed. “The bass just goes thump, thump, thump.”
“I’m going to thump you, if you don’t be quiet!” I fumed.
But he wasn’t finished. “I’m not that keen on Sinatra, but Jobim was wonderful.” Wait for it—“They’re both dead now.”
Were they still alive, both Dickens and Poe would hold an intervention.
“Sir, enough already! Nevermore!” Poe would say.
“Get a bloody hobby!” Dickens would scold. “It could be the best of times!”
However, that’s the problem. The Brit has a “bloody” hobby. When he’s not watching football (soccer) games on the telly, he gets into grim. No, not grime—he’s no mechanic. He still hasn’t figured out how to properly use his iPhone. The Brit is into grim.
He loves to read books about murders and murderers. He has a penchant for gory, grade-C horror movies. He loves watching television shows and films about animals eating animals, animals eating people, and people eating people. My worst guilty pleasure is programs about people eating animals—I adore cooking shows.
The Brit’s favorite murder study has always been Jack the Ripper. He will watch, read, and revel in anything and everything about Jack the Lad. I think some genetic mutation may account for his fascination with the Ripper murders. His grandmother was a child living in London’s East End just doors away from White Chapel and the scene of one of those brutal killings.
In The Brit’s honor, Briteen and I call him the Ripper because of his murderous farts. Sadly, there are no birds in our neighborhood anymore.
My poor, sweet husband has had serious health problems of late, but that’s not why I marvel that he’s not dead already.
I was once asked during a job interview to describe my most difficult supervisor. I said five words: “My husband when I’m driving.”
“Watch your speed! Stay in the lane! Get in that lane! Two hands on the wheel, please!” This is what I get at 7:30 each morning while taking The Briteen to school. I need to sip my coffee to stay sane and he needs to keep his mouth shut to stay alive!
During shows and movies I’m watching, he talks.
When listening to my favorite songs, he talks. While trying to fall asleep at night, he talks and talks.
“We need to ship that package to my brother in Wales. Don’t forget we have to be at the doctor’s at 10. Rosh Hashanah services are tomorrow night. Remember to ship that package to my brother!”
I’m going to ship a package to his brother all right. He and his lovely wife had better make up the spare bedroom should The Brit survive the journey.
If he keeps this up, instead of an obituary my spouse is going to make headlines. I can see it now: “Lady rocks husband to sleep with a real rock. News at 11.”
Then again, perhaps he’ll live forever. I love him madly, so I do hope so!
Ariel Waterman would never hurt a fly. Send fly swatters via her editor, Joe Payne, at jpayne@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Oct 13-20, 2016.
