In the car a song comes on with an Asian singer; I sinisterly mimic her high voice, only sounding weirder.  Who the heck told Asians they could sing, I think.  Have I always felt this way or did it begin with my almost ex-husband (who swore that he is going to die on that island, never going anywhere) taking off to China to meet his next wife-slave, after emailing over the Internet on a porn-like website?  The vision brings to mind my (now, ex-husband) and his soon-to-be fourth wife (obviously he struck-out with me, his third) and the fact that she’s Chinese and can barely speak English, just the way he wants his women so that their lack of communication resembles our past relationship, only I can speak English perfectly well and he pretended not to understand me.  Apparently, this woman walks around with a hand-held thingamajiggy that translates his every sentence.  The thought makes me ask myself out loud, what the heck was I thinking when I married him, in the first place?  I was thinking with my breasts and genitals that’s what, I decide, in answering...not to ignore the number of pretty fantastic orgasms in the thirteen years we spent together; our chemistry knew no bounds.

In the kitchen, as I reach for the pasta inside the dishwasher, then close it, I easily make the transition to the drawer next to it.  I do crazy thingys now and then and am getting used to it.  One afternoon I pick up the TV remote control (that we only use for movie watching) and click it on, trying to answer the landline.  I’ve since let go of our landline and it makes life just a slice easier.  Another time I go on a long walk with the dog, bemoaning the fact that my sunglasses are lost and the sun is pealing away my eyeballs.  At the end of the walk I arrive home and realize they are sitting on top of my head, doubled with my reading glasses. 

Our doorbell now rings every time our neighbor’s bell rings, three doors down.  The dog goes nuts barking her head off, I run downstairs (after hiding my vibrator and slipping my pants back on) and open the front door; no one’s there.  It’s the mystery bell-ringer.  And I am reminded of the oldish board game that I play with my cousins, “Mystery Date,” where there is always an unknown guy behind one of the three doors; we all dread the funny-looking guy with the carrot-red crew-cut hair, freckles and odd name, Poindexter.  With my luck that’s exactly who’s going to show up at our door, the next time the bell goes off.  Hopefully, I will remember to zipper my pants.