Don’t You Love Me Anymore?

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“Sorry, honey, but I’m just not in the mood right now,” James told his wife.

“You never seem to be in the mood anymore,” Carolyn said, her eyes tearing up. “Don’t you love me anymore?”

“Of course I love you,” James reassured her. “But I just don’t feel like it right now.”

“You never seem to be in the mood these days.”

“What are you talking about?” James asked. “We’ve done it three time in the past ten days.”

“You’re keeping count?” Carolyn said indignantly.

“No, I’m not keeping count, but I think we’ve been doing it too often lately.”

Carolyn glared at her husband. “Too often? Really? We used to do it much more often when we were first married. You were never not in the mood back then.”

Knowing he couldn’t win this, James relented. “Okay, fine,” he said, “Get your coat and we’ll head to Denny’s for dinner and then go see the movie.”

Carolyn beamed. “See,” she said. “I always know how to get you in the mood.”


Written for Sandi’s Manic Monday challenge to write a post about the 1939 song from the Glenn Miller Orchestra, “In The Mood.”

 

Memory Lane

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I was struggling when I first read Sandi’s Manic Monday challenge this week, which is to write a post using a song title, “Sentimental Journey.” I knew this would be a difficult prompt for me because I’m really not the sentimental type.

But then I read a post last night by Jerry Brotherton, aka, the Backyard Poet, and the synapses in my brain started firing. Jerry wrote about the past, saying that if he remembers it correctly, he wasn’t that fond of it at the time.

I commented on his post that when I think about the past, I tend to embellish the good memories and to diminish the not so good ones. It’s a mechanism that gives us a sense of nostalgia, a wistful desire to return in thought or in fact to a former time in one’s life.

I think it’s common, when people think about the past, for it to become a sentimental journey of sorts. Well, it does for me, anyway.

When I think about my youth, recall my college days, remember how I first met the woman who eventually became my wife, or when my children were born, I feel all warm and fuzzy inside. They’re fond memories.

I remember how great I felt when I got accepted to college and how elated I was when I was offered my first job after I graduated.

Of course there are also bad memories, like when my first dog died or when my mother and father passed away. Or that time when I got nabbed for shoplifting, when I got cut from the high school varsity football team, or when I was fired from my second job.

Yet the stronger, more vivid memories are the good ones. It’s those that are evoked when I hear certain songs or smell certain aromas. The not so great memories have faded over the decades to the extent that they’re getting very difficult to recall.

So for me, as I amble down memory lane, my trips are, for the most part, sentimental journeys.

(Notice that at the last possible minute, I snuck in today’s one-word prompt, “amble.” Pretty slick, huh?)

Kick Me

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“So what shall we do for kicks today?” Penny asked her boyfriend, Art.

“How about a road trip?” Art suggested.

“Cool! Where to?”

“We can get our kicks on Route 66,” Art answered.

“Maybe we should just stay here and kick back,” Penny said.

“Okay, fine,” said Art. “Whatcha got to drink?”

“I get no kicks from champagne,” Penny replied.

“Ain’t that a kick in the head!” said Art.

“But I get a kick out of you,” Penny purred, winking suggestively at Art.

“Now that’s a kick-ass thing to say,” Art beamed.

“I lied,” Penny admitted. “I want to kick the shit out of you.”

“Hey, kick me while I’m down, why don’t you?” Art joked.

Penny put her arms around Art’s neck and sensually whispered in his ear, “Kick me, Art.”

“Okay, Babe, but just for kicks,” Art said as he pressed his lips to hers.


This post is my contribution to Sandi’s Manic Monday challenge. Each week Sandi gives a song title and challenges us to write a post using the title of the song. This week’s song title is “Kicks,” released in 1966 by Paul Revere and the Raiders.

 

The Anniversary

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Essie was sitting in her favorite chair doing her knitting, which was becoming more of a challenge due to the recent flair-up of the arthritis in her hands. She looked over toward Bert, her husband of almost sixty years, who was sitting comfortably on the couch reading a book.

“Bert,” she said, “have you given any thought to what you’d like us to do for our anniversary?”

Bert put his book down on his lap and looked over at Essie. “Our anniversary? When is that?”

“It’s the middle of next month,” Essie explained.

“Didn’t we just have one of those about a year ago?”

“Oh ha ha,” Essie responded, a bit of playful sarcasm in her voice. “I’m serious, Bert. We should plan something.”

“Yeah, I imagine we should,” Bert acknowledged. Then he picked up his book and started reading again.

Essie sat in silence waiting for Bert to come up with at least one suggestion. After around two minutes without an utterance from her husband, she re-engaged. “Bert, we need talk about this.”

“Talk about what?” Bert inquired.

“Jesus, Bert,” Essie blurted out. “I think you’re starting to get senile, you old fart.”

At that point, Bert leaned to his left on the couch and let out a rather loud and long fart.

Crinkling up her face in disgust while putting her hand over her nose, Essie said, “Oh gross. Was that really necessary?”

“I had a great idea about how we could spend our anniversary together,” Bert answered, a mischievous smile spreading across his face. “But then, when I farted, it was gone with the wind,” and he started laughing almost hysterically.

Essie patiently waited until Bert’s laughing jag ended. She flashed her dreaded stink eye look at Bert and calmly said, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”


This post was written for Sandi’s Manic Monday challenge based upon the song title “Imagine.”

No More Manic Mondays for Me

I used to hate Mondays. After a weekend away from the pressures of work, Mondays always seemed so manic. Tons of emails, phone calls, and tasks that somehow managed to pile up over the weekend needed my attention.

But since I retired at the end of last year, I no longer suffer from manic Mondays. In fact, sometimes I have a difficult time differentiating Mondays from all other days of the week. Monday, Wednesday, Saturday, Sunday. Pretty much all the same when you’re retired.

No more manic Mondays for me. Hurrah!


This post was written for a new challenge from Sandi over at Flip Flops Every Day. The task: write a post from the title of a song. Today she chose Manic Mondaya catchy tune from the Eighties by the Bangles.

Were I choosing a song title about Mondays, however, my choice would have been one from The Mamas and The Papas. But that’s just me.