Page 9 of Dear Debbie

I don’t mind listening to what he wants, but it seems like I should get to choose the music at least once in a blue moon! What should I do?

Frustrated with Folk Music

Dear Frustrated with Folk Music,

Believe me, you’re not the first couple that has gone to battle over the soundtrack of a car ride! But marriage is all about compromise, so this is a good place to start. Before your next long drive, try to think of a few artists that you both like to listen to, and make a playlist featuring those artists. That way, you can both enjoy the music!

If your husband is not agreeable to this compromise, it’s time to get out that sewing kit! Slip an over-the-counter antihistamine into his wine at night, and while he is sleeping, you can make a hole in his eardrum using the needle from the kit (they’re so handy!). When you’ve completed the first ear, move on to the second. It can be a little tedious, but it’s a fairly simple procedure!

After that, he definitely won’t mind what you listen to in the car anymore!

Debbie

7

DEBBIE

The cameras will be here in fifteen minutes.

I take one last glance at my garden to make sure it looks perfect. I know roses are very popular, like the ones in Jo Dolan’s garden down the road, but I have a beautiful mix of vivid pink, red, and violet flowers. When the journalist asked me what type of flowers they were, I said they were windflowers because that’s what they look like, but they’re not really.

If I told them what the flowers really were, I wouldn’t be in the magazine. Even Cooper doesn’t know.

The garden looks perfect, so I take another look down at my dress, smoothing out any creases. The red splotches do look a lot like bloodstains, but I don’t know if it’s worth changing. I’m not even certain that they’ll photograph me at all, and if they do, it may just be a headshot.

I glance down at my watch—still ten more minutes. Time seems to be moving in slow motion. It suddenly occurs to me that they’ll want coffee, so I get a pot brewing using the state-of-the-art coffee machine we received as a housewarming gift, which Cooper immediately deemed “too complicated.” He now gets his coffee at work. But it’s hardly nuclear physics (which is actually nowhere near as difficult as my advanced database systems class in college). I pour the coffee grounds into the machine and press a button that makes the machine spring to life. There. The coffee is now forthcoming.

I am too restless to sit in the kitchen, so instead, I head to the front door. I peek out the window to see if they might have arrived early and are waiting until ten just to be polite. But there are no unfamiliar cars parked in front of my house. I do, however, spy Bev Petrie, who lives right across from me, on her hands and knees in the dirt, and before I can stop myself, I’m rushing out my front door.

“Bev!” I call out. “Bev, are you okay?”

Bev is eighty-seven years old and lives all alone in the small one-story house a stone’s throw away from mine. Her brain is sharp as a tack, but she’s frail enough that I worry one big gust of wind could blow her away. I’ve taken to rushing over to her house to see if there’s anything she needs help with—usually taking out her garbage and hauling it to the curb, picking up a giant bag of kibble for her dog that’s as old as she is (in dog years), and of course, lawn-related tasks. I worry that a bad tumble could send her to the hospital with a broken hip, and I hope that’s not in the cards for today.

“Bev!” I say again when I get closer, because her hearing isn’t what it used to be. “What’s going on? Did you fall?”

Bev raises her slightly bleary blue eyes, and a smile creases her face. She doesn’t appear to be seriously injured and is, in fact, gardening. “Debbie! Good morning!”

I hold out a hand to help her back to her feet—I’m concerned it might not have been possible without my help. I make a note to myself to check on her more frequently.

“I was just trying to pull a few weeds.” She gives her garden a glowering look. “Damn crabgrass is everywhere. Jo Dolan was commenting that I’ve got more weeds than flowers.”

“Bev, I can take care of your weeds for you this weekend,” I tell her.

Her eyes brighten. “You can?”

“Sure. It’s easy.”

People often write to Dear Debbie to ask for help killing weeds without harming their other plants. I usually recommend a solution of vinegar, salt, and soap. However, my absolute favorite way to kill weeds is to take a pot of boiling water and scald the little devils.

Bev looks me up and down. “Don’t you look lovely this morning! Is your photo shoot today?”

I nod. “It is. I better get back to the house.”

It’s just about ten, and although it’s clear the photographer has not arrived, it wouldn’t look right if I weren’t even home when they came.

“Good luck, dear,” Bev says. “Jo is going to be so jealous! I can’t wait to see her face!”

I shrug and act like I couldn’t care less, but I’d be lying if I said that it won’t give me a little bit of joy to stick it to my neighbor from down the block who’s always putting me down. Jo thinks she has the best lawn on the block, and she’ll tell anyone who will listen.