On her sixtieth wedding anniversary, Ida decided, “Enough is enough.”
She texted her children.
“I’m outta here. Don’t ask. They predict a scorcher. Wear sunscreen.”
Then Ida packed a bag, grabbed her car keys, drove to the airport and flew the coop.
Her husband, Sam, asleep in his chair, didn’t hear Ida leave the house.
When the plane landed, Ida hopped on a bus and rode to the end of the line.
“This is the end of the line,” the driver said.
“Not for me,” Ida said.
She got off the bus and set up shop.
The sign read: Suck It Up Saloon. Open 24/7. Let’s talk.
Word spread. Women came in droves to schmooze and knock back the vodka.
“My Sam,” Ida groused, “tells the same stories over and over until I wanna sock him.”
The women groused, “Me, too.”
“He wipes the dishes and always asks, ‘Where does this salad bowl go?’ even though I’ve told him a million times. It make me nuts,” Ida griped.
The women griped, “Me, too.”
“He wears a hearing aid and needs a magnifying glass and shuffles his feet and makes odd noises and I hate it that we’re not young anymore,” Ida bawled.
The women bawled, “Me, too.”
“I’m worried he’s going to stumble and trip and break a hip,” Ida sobbed. “And die.”
The women sobbed, “Me, too.”
“I’m scared,” Ida wailed.
And the women wailed, “Me, too.”
Then Ida and the women made a circle and held hands and stamped their feet up and down up and down up and down and screamed, “Damn. Damn. Daammmnnnnnnn!”
“I feel better now,” Ida said.
“Me, too,” the women said.
The next morning, a note tacked to the door of the Suck It Up Saloon read, “That helped. Thanks. Buy yourselves tulips once in a while. And wear mascara.”
Ida tiptoed into her house. She walked over to Sam, asleep in his chair, and kissed his forehead.
Sam opened his eyes. “Must have dozed off for a minute,” he said.
Ida texted their children. “Come for dinner. I’m making meat loaf and roasted potatoes. It’s supposed to rain. Wear boots.”
"I love your meatloaf, Ida,” Sam said.
“I know,” Ida said. “Me, too.”
Ozzie Nogg copyright 2016