Morning. You want a decaf? I found an English Breakfast decaf at the back of the tea thing. You want one? Okay, well, if you don’t want one, don’t make me make you one, but if you do, I don’t mind making you one, so … just lemme know? I … okay, then I’ll make you one.

(Once upon a time, I was obsessed with growing a beard and having the hair on top of my head be the exact same length as the beard. I wanted to look like the old GI Joes that had felt for hair. In a life marked by follies, this particular folly ranks pretty high up there. It was such a folly, I had a ruler to measure. This was right after dad died, and I was a bit … off my rocker round the bend.)

So whadya want your breakfast to be. We got stuff for biscuits from scratch? You want biscuits from scratch? Bittman’s got a recipe that looks like it’d be … yeah, we got everything. I checked already. Only takes a half hour or so, so … all right. Go out front. I’ll bring ‘em out when they’re done. Half hour.

(I’d get a crew cut but that’d be shorter than the beard. I’d trim the beard, but trim it too close, so I’d hafta just get a touchup crew cut, only that’d then be shorter than the beard. At which point, I was down to barely stubble. So I waited a few weeks and tried again. This lasted … a few months? Somewhere round that long. She was very supportive, that (Wife-asaurus).)

Huh? Well, it’s your birthday, isn’t it, so why wouldn’t I? We’re going out to dinner Wednesday, but … gotta do something on your birthday, don’t we? Go out front. Plop your ass in front of the tee-vee.

(Though I really appreciate(d) she told me the time to give up had arrived. She was right. I would never get the beard hair and head hair the same length. It couldn’t be done.)

Hey, you’re not gonna watch Matt Lauer, are you? See what the Kitchen Nightmare is first. Cause if it’s one we haven’t seen … Huh? Is it? Shit, we saw that one. All right fine Matt Lauer then. But if he’s doing another one of those dumb-ass Dan Brown book clues …

(She’s right bout most things, in fact. On the whole, I don’t admit she’s right, cause … well, if I did, then she’d think she was right bout everything, which would make her completely insufferable. Hah. But if I’m gonna be honest, she was right when she was of the opinion that: I shouldn’t bet Glen a hundred bucks I could beat him at golf; trying to match our drunk friend Dave tequila for tequila would not end well; driving my car home from Florida just barely ahead of Katrina wasn’t the smartest move to make; a therapist might be able to help; I should pay a repairman as opposed to trying to fix the exhaust myself; the demand for build-your-own-chili-dogs was possibly not as great as I’d thought; she’s pregnant. That last one’s the most recent, and though I doubted her up and down, turns out she … oh. Shit.)

Your tea’s ready. Get in here and get it.

(Whew. That was close. Almost over-steeped her tea. That’s the last of the good decaf, too. But it’s fine. Good color. Proper tea color. Though now, I can’t remember where I was, where was I.)

Huh? Yeah, your tea.

(Somewhere, I was somewhere.)

There on the counter. No, not that mug, don’t care whose birthday it is, you don’t get to use my dad’s mug. Sides, that’s my coffee. Yours is the … the Far Side one.

(Dunno where I was. It’s lost, gone. I lose trains of thought like Laura loses inhibitions. Which doesn’t quite work, cause it’s not like she’s ever … inhibited … in the first place, but. So … uh …)

(So …)

(So …)

(So, when dad was in hospice and halfway to morphine la-la land, (Wife-asaurus) sat with him so mom, Glen and I could get a break now and then. I caught her once, holding his hand and stroking what was left of his hair. He whispered something (a joke?) that made her chuckle. I stood unseen the doorway. Watching. Just watching. The whole thing, the sight of it, was so beautiful but unbearable, I had to punch a wall. Which I did.)

Hey, this new oven preheats way faster than our old one. You notice that? It’s at 450 already. Old one woulda only been at … 250 by now. That thing took forever. It’s almost time to do the thing with the glass, so …

(Happier thoughts now. Happier thoughts. My new favorite picture of her is her in a pick-your-own blueberries patch. She’s holding a pail. She’s pregnant to the point where she’s clearly pregnant and not just … fat in only the belly, but she’s not yet pregnant to the point of being uncomfortable. We picked over twenty dollars in blueberries that morning. The unfortunate part of that is I only had a twenty on me. She had to chip in the rest. Which means it wasn’t exactly ‘my treat’ when I said it’d be ‘my treat.’)

Okay, it’s ready to do the thing with the glass. You wanna help or are you so pregnant now you gotta just sit in the glider and watch Matt Lauer. No, I don’t mind. It’s just you like cutting the dough with the rim of a glass. That’s all. I’ll do it.

(It’s her birthday. Technically, the least I can do is make the biscuits start to finish. Technically, I should drop the put-upon thing. It’s no big deal. Cut the dough with the rim of a glass, get ‘em on a cookie sheet and into the oven. Jesus. I know I wake up grumpy, but Jesus.)

The dough makes a pffshing sound when you cut it. You ever notice that? It does. Must be … air or something, huh.

(Ann Curry’s talking bout the 9/11 memorials. I can hear it out front. On Sept. 10, 2001, I ordered flowers, chocolates and some other birthday-type crap. Had them delivered to her work on the 11th. Morning of the 11th, she barged into the bedroom to tell me the second plane had just hit. I told her I didn’t even know a first plane had hit. Planes? Hit? Towers? What the fuck was she talking bout. She dragged me out to the living room to show me. Within minutes, her boss called, saying don’t come in. The first thing I thought, before I could stop myself from thinking it, was: ‘Great. Just great. Now what’s gonna happen to the flowers, chocolates and all the other birthday-type crap. Is it just gonna sit there? Or’s it gonna get lost and I’m gonna be out a hundred bucks.’ Then I stopped myself from thinking it.)

It’s going in the oven now. You want butter or jam or both. We got … blackberry, and … you know, butter. You know. So … both? No, we’re outta honey. Used the last of that on … something … last week. I forget what. Hey, were you there when (friend of ours in L.A.) asked Sharon Stone how she got the last bit of honey outta the plastic honeybear bottle?