Little Dress And Big Problems

I doubted we were ever going to get summer this year despite all the warnings about global warnings. It has been a litany of cold; long, drawn out winters, hardly any spring and barely a few days of simmering heat. What was I going to do with my short dresses and shorts? So far, my husband had not panicked about my short shorts (I don't know what else they could be if not short). He's used to that. What a husband! But he did become alarmed about a dress I was going to wear for a party. Basically, the length of the dress caused the alarm; it was not like the Duchess of England's knee high length dresses. Being petite, I cannot wear and should not wear long dresses. I would disappear completely so the only solution to this height problem would be to give the world an impression of height with a short dress. Yes, it's important the world sees women preferably with some added height.

Along with the dress, I had to contend with additional heels as well. I don't know if the dress was bought for the heels or heels were bought for the dress. Basically both had to go together, one without the other would not have done it. If I did not wear this dress on this particular day, an opportune moment would have slipped by, my friends would have left for Texas and I would have been left with a dress and heels still waiting to be outed. 

Anyway this is how it all played out between the little dress, little ol' me and husband:

Husband: Is that what you are going to wear?
Me: Yes, what's the problem?
Husband: Oh nothing, only ...
Me: Yes?
Husband: How will you sit?
Me: Primary reaction, no words - open mouth, wide eyes, hands on hips
        Secondary reaction, no words, mouth still open, hands holding head
Husband: You can't sit down!
Me: Should I just hang around the door?
Husband: Do whatever you want.

I don't know if my husband realized that this was going to be a small party where people sat, stood and sipped. I doubt any people would have been lying around on the floor with drinks or kabobs in their hands; it's not possible to interact in that state! Did my husband think that if I stood, everybody else would stand up and stare? Or did he expect that as soon as I sat down everybody else would go one step further and immediately fall to the ground and that's when the viewing would change! He was worried I might forget I had a dress and for no apparent reason would end up doing somersaults. He worried immensely about me in a little dress. So his solution: Do Not Sit!

But sit I did. Standing is the worst position for me. I invariably look for a place to settle in including the floor. With a dress on, floor was not a possibility. We are talking about eye level conversation here; we are talking about little dresses riding up a bit but hands being able to pull it down to a discreet level; we are talking about decent people sitting and having a conversation; we are talking about women having the freedom to wear shorts and dresses without having their throats slit and being accused of infidelity by the moral police; we are talking about husbands going cuckoo over sitting and standing in innocent-little-not-quite-white-dresses!

Ms Harley Davidson, my Husband's first Love.

For many days now I've been hearing this low growl. As I am not particularly a dog lover or even a cat lover, I don't think it's an animal caught in the boards. Perhaps it's the kids just being boys and maybe that sound is mere complaining or maybe just joy - I cannot tell. I finally decide to take matters in my hand, find this damn noise and be done with it. This has been the nth time of my sleep-in-Saturdays being rudely disturbed. I decide to roar downstairs to investigate the sound from the basement where my husband aka Bapi does his browsing and works out. There he also drools over various Ms Harleys. I find him sitting in front of the computer watching clips of Harley Davidson on a loop. I cannot believe it - Bapi is watching one particular Ms Harley start up, rumble, die down, and then like the obsessive compulsive disordered being, do this repeatedly. Argh, it's that sight of Ms Harley that gives meaning to Bapi's existence; it's that sweet rumble; it's that thing that throbs between the legs; it's what Bapi lives and dies for; for all I care it's that big black buffalo that permeates the air.

What is with men and these glorious roaring machines? My husband's current love luckily sleeps in the garage. I've put my foot down, the garage or nothing. If Bapi had his way, Ms Harley would be sleeping with us every day. Pre-marital counseling nowhere in the universe includes husbands' first love - Ms Harley eternal, past-present-future. Woe is me who thinks this was going to be a passing fancy. Heaven forbid that I even remotely considered that this affair would fizzle out with time. Time has only added to the menace. It has in fact grown larger and bigger! After all this affair is unique unlike others which often result in divorce, death, or destruction. Harley love is directly proportionate to size. The bigger the beautiful; the blacker the better. On the other hand, the more I hover around Ms Harley Davidson, the better I too feel for me and my size. Not to be undone by such blatant affirmations of love, I too have found a way to get around this conundrum; love the lover better than the love. 

I thought the first Harley, a mere 1200 cc and weighing a 1000 pounds would suffice. Then way deep into our marriage, having survived the 7 year itch, the Harley mania began to surface again. For the past month, the madness has been in full bloom. Ghosts of Ms Harley are being seen and heard around the house; finances are being re-calculated; trade-ins are being discussed; the sounds of Harley growls are being turned into the morning raga as well as the evening ones. That rumble that I mentioned in the first paragraph, well that is our household's newest mantra sound. It is the Fat Boy Low that Bapi is pining for. Bapi now wants the 5000 pound bike, the kinds that would require a truck to haul them up, if they fell. This is what Bapi wants. This is what is going to make him the complete man that he's always dreamed of being. When he gets his Fat Boy Low, oh boy would he feel the veritable HOG. He would finally hold his head high among those insufferable Harley riders who till now have been sneering at him; sniggering at the sight of him riding one of those Sportsters, the kinds that women ride. This mistress I feel is not going away; if Harley is the sweet Sauten, it can stay ...

Saute' the Sauten.

I get a kick
out of sautens
they work so hard
untangling knots
knots
hardly interesting
as other matters
pending

do justice however
to monitoring pressure
inflating one
deflating another

keep things cooking
simmering at best
spicing it
with a battle at rest

don't care
for the cadence
of pretty
fade-ins
it's the intent
of the maiden
that will
saute' the sauten ...