by irene bean

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A Solid Foundation



Not Trying to be Corny

This Little Light of Mine

We Were Once Young

Veni, Vedi, Vinca

U Tube Has a New Star

Packing a 3-Iron

Getting Personal

Welcome Again

Well... Come on in

Christmas Shopping

There's no Substitute

Dressed for Success

Cancun Can-Can

Holy Guacamole

Life can be Crazy

The New Dog

Hurricane Reenie

He Delivers

No Spilt Milk

Naked Fingers


Have Ya Heard the One About?

The Great Caper


Barney's P***S

My New Security System

Dressed For Success

Yesterday morning my husband had an appointment with a new doctor for his annual check-up. Annual, my foot. It's been years since he's been poked and probed to a prognosis of good health.

As he prepared to leave, I was eating a stevedore's breakfast (negating my early morning workout at the gym) and watching escapism TV - a travelogue on Greece - no pun intended.

Brian walked into the room, his face tight with worry. His stride was more like an agitated pace. Men seem to dread doctors more than women. It's their big sissy moment.

Now this is the kicker. The scent of his cologne preceded him. It was as though he had anointed himself before a ritualistic sacrifice. I lifted my eyes and wiped buttery toast crumbs from my slippery lips, which he was about to peck. He was wearing a pair of dress slacks (fresh from the drycleaner's with creases as sharp as a sickle), a collared golf shirt, his fanciest socks (I splurged this Christmas with a pair of Tommy Bahama socks decorated with tiny palm trees), his finest leather belt with faux silver studs, and a pair of European-styled leather loafers fit for high tea at the Ritz Carlton (I've never been, but have read about it). He bought them six years ago and they are only worn on special occasions. They still look brand new.

Hmmmm, I thought to myself, I wonder what her name is - surely the doctor's appointment was a ruse to meet with this other woman.

But the emotion that so completely ambushed me was an amazing abundance of love. He had dressed in his finest for his doctor - not to impress him, but as a show of respect. People used to do that - at church, airports, and teachers' conferences. Though I don't subscribe to dressing for success (my wardrobe is major raggy), Brian clearly succeeded with me yesterday. I admired his appearance - he was a mighty handsome specimen as he stood before me festooned in his finest, even if it was for his doctor.

I chose not to comment, to flatter his attractive choice in clothes. I worried he would suddenly become self-conscious. He had simply dressed according to what he believed was proper protocol. Wouldn't it be nice if everyone did? In that moment, I loved him more than I thought was possible. I also didn't have the heart to remind him he'd probably be buck-naked when he met his doctor. Cough, cough.

Suddenly, an idea momentarily sped through my head. What if I dressed better while at my computer? I might get published! Not.

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