Editor's Column
by Mike Richeson
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Who invited catzilla
and the crazy hippies?
Take last year, for example. Five days before my anniversary, my pastor asked me what I had planned. The answer was, of course, nothing.
Now my wife knows I'd forget my head if it wasn't screwed on, but does she remind me of these important events? No. I have a theory about that. See, women know the amount that men mess up is directly related to the expense of the suck-up gift. Because my wife is clever and is privy to this knowledge, she leaves me adrift on the sea of my own devices. This is important information my pastor never mentioned in our pre-marital counseling sessions.
At any rate, a friend of a friend suggested a weekend getaway at the Vagabond Lodge in Hood River. I made a reservation and hoped the rest of the weekend would work itself out.
A few days later as my wife and I were checking in at the front desk, an innocent "meow" came from behind. I love animals, and I quickly turned to befriend the vocal feline. This was no cat; this thing was fat on four legs and was covered in long, orange hair. He looked like a cross between Cousin It, a tiger and a basketball. I named him "Catzilla." Original, no?
We took our keys and walked to our room. Catzilla stomped behind us as best as he could. Our room was on the second floor. I thought we'd drop the cat for sure, but he moved up the stairs with surprising agility.
Our room was excellent. We had a balcony overlooking the Columbia River and a view of a pair of nesting bald eagles. As my wife marveled at the lights on the river and Catzilla tried to heave himself onto the bed, I discovered the real treasure: cable television. Seriously, shouldn't free cable be a constitutional amendment by now? Can I write to my senators about this?
Anyway, the time was late; so we decided to call it a night. I dragged Catzilla out of the room and locked the door. Richelle wanted to turn out the lights and sleep, but I had already scored the perfect TV trifecta: "The Crocodile Hunter," The History Channel and a basketball game. No number of annoyed looks could deter me from my remote utopia.
Catzilla began to yowl outside our door. He was as loud as he was fat.
For the next hour, the only disruptive events were the yowling cat and my wife, who occasionally woke to tell me to "turn off Sportscenter and just go to sleep!"
The next morning was beautiful. The skies were clear, and the previous night's rain left everything smelling fresh. We explored the surrounding countryside, hiking through the gorge and walking along the Columbia River. We had a magnificent time until we went to dinner.
While my wife got ready for our romantic dinner, I panicked, trying to find a decent restaurant. I opened the yellow pages and pointed randomly, hoping for the best. We donned our out-on-the-town duds and drove to a restaurant near the Columbia River.
The hostess seated us at a window table. The view was great; the surrounding company was not. Two men at a table next to us were discussing business in four-letter words.
By the time our appetizers arrived, a group of high school students had sat down behind us. The giggling was incessant, and I swear I have never heard the word "like" used more times in my life. If I had brought a thesaurus, I would have, like, chucked it at their heads.
Our meals were served about the same time a gaggle of aging, stoned, hippie throwbacks showed up. The women were decked out in late-'60s regalia complete with flower-print dresses, long scarves in their hair and, I kid you not, crowns made of daisies. Before long, they were shouting things like "party" and making obvious, and loud, references to "Mary Jane" and "Puff, the Magic Dragon." Check, please.
All in all, the weekend was a success. By that I mean I'm still married. Unfortunately, my anniversary is once again a week away, and you can guess what I have planned.
Would anybody like to help me out this year? Please?
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