Who's THAT Guy?

Oh, those? Those are our dining room windows. We haven't ever discussed those beauties yet. Someday, my dears, someday. But in the meantime -- who's that young guy throwing them open on this bright springy morning?

Okay, here’s what happened:

I came home from work yesterday in a foul mood. I didn’t even know I was in a foul mood until Johnny came up from the basement, where he’d spent the entire day organizing and cleaning up. He made one innocent remark about his trip to Ireland – and I stretched my neck out like a snake and swallowed him up whole.

You should have seen it. It was gross. I still maintain the point I was trying to make was valid, but I concede I could have been a bit more diplomatic with my debate technique. My point, as a matter of fact, never quite so much got made after all, seeing as how it was hard to talk with his ears all stuck between my teeth the way they were.

When I spit him out, he retreated into the bathroom for a half an hour and came out looking like this:

Yuck.

I told him he looked like William Tecumseh Sherman, and that was not okay.

(It turns out I was confused: he didn’t look W.T. at all. Although he has been known to, after a rough night.

But Johnny, being a foreigner, never heard of old Tecumseh, so it didn’t matter.)

I can’t prove it, but I think he did it just to piss me off. I mean, the impetus towards shaving was certainly the itchy day spent in the dirty basement, but the leaving-it-unfinished was a big proverbial bird flipped at the monster in the living room. I told him he was going to have to go back in and finish up the job, and he said nobody ever told him what to do with his own face! I bared my fangs again and—

Okay, maybe by this time my braggadocio was fading. Maybe my bad day had caught up with me while he was in the jakes. Maybe it wasn’t a bad day I’d had, so much as a day that made me think a lot about loved ones and death. And maybe, while he shaved, I’d realized I was yelling at him not because of his plans or of his facial hair, but because he was going to goddamn die someday. Not tomorrow, hopefully. Hopefully not for years, yet. But, you know. It’s out there. Death. For him and all the rest of them. Including me. Goddammit.

So maybe, just maybe, there was a mist in my eye – perhaps the slightest tremor in my voice – when I said:

“What will we do, then? Have two winners?”

He agreed to lose the Van Dyck. Poor bastard, he had no idea what I was really upset about. I’ve told him since, but at the time he just saw my lip begin to tremble and turned into a puddle like he always does. Too bad I’m not a better actress; I could really rule this roost if I knew how to turn on those waterworks at will.

Anyway, he said he’d shave. But first he went out for a pint.

By the time he’d had two pints and come back, I had had myself a good cry over what a terrible person I can be. (It’s true, I’m an ogre. Or I can be. Especially to the people I love most. Random strangers can run over my sprained ankle with baby strollers big enough to hold four preschoolers, strollers with a single newborn infant in them that they’re trying wedge down brick Boston sidewalks like they own them, and I smile and apologize even though I had to move my crutch to let them through – but god forbid a loved one should be in my vicinity five minutes afterwards. I think I have some wires crossed somewhere or something. It’s a wonder all the folks I love aren’t raging alcoholics. Or are they?) Anyway, by the time he got back from the pub I was feeling better, but I still insisted that he shave.

So he did (see? I told you my bathroom looks just like Estelle Getty’s).

And did.

And here is where he had himself a silly thought:

And here’s what that thought was:

Then he wouldn’t let me stay while he finished the job. He kicked me out, I -- what did I do? I think I started knitting a bootie -- and he emerged again looking like this:

Baby boy!

Therefore, Ladies and Gentlemen, the Official Winner of The House and I's Johnny Game is… DonnaStaf! Donna guessed March 1st at 9:30 p.m., and the beard came off completely on March 3rd at sometime around 6:00. (After all that hoo I made, insisting people say a time, I forgot to notice when it happened. but it doesn't matter, because the next closest person was more than a week away).

Let's hear it for Donna! Yay, Donna!

So, Donna, what do you want Johnny to draw you a picture of? There’s nothing in the rules requiring you to actually hang the picture in your house, so you can be as silly or as serious as you desire.

And now that I know who the winner is, I'm going to go buy myself -- I mean you, going to buy you -- a few more toys! One good trip to the toy store ought to steer my mind away from the doomsday trip it was taking yesterday.



P.S. Ew! Look what I just found on the bathroom sink:

He's gonna die, all right. Because I'm gonna kill him.