Tiggers Bounce

I must be part Tigger. I don’t jump, I bounce. Tiggers don’t like honey and I don’t like honey. My husband, however, doesn’t have an ounce of Tigger in him. He trudges, and loves honey. If I had to pick a ‘Pooh’ character for his personality, he’d be an Eeyore.

Honey is nothing more than bee vomit. Yuck. How can anyone eat that stuff? Do you dine on cow cud? My point exactly.

As for the trudging, it’s irritating. Steve walks differently with his shoes off. Barefoot or sockfooted, he strikes his heel down hard, causing a floor shaking stomp. We always know when he's home because of the stomping.

My Sweetie tends to lumber along anyway, shoes or no shoes. Due to his Aspergers, his running gait is skewed.

When Steve runs, he puts one foot out to the side and the other foot out to the opposite side. When I run, I put one foot straight forward, swinging my other foot straight alongside and straight out in front. My method keeps me in a smooth straight line while Steve’s method has him lumbering back and forth from side to side in a choppy, awkward, admittedly forward moving motion. It’s painful to watch.

Steve grew fast at the end of grade school and into junior high. Pictures of him show a very tall, quiet looking young man slouched down in the back row of whatever group he was with. He was (and is) extremely clumsy. He has incredible strength. He often twists off head bolts and fine threaded screws. We go through a case of easy-outs every year.

With Steve’s bumping and stumbling around the house I’ve finally given up my propensity for collecting nicnacs, or ‘sit pretties’ as my hubby called them. He would bump against tables or shelves, hit one with his elbows as he passes by, or stumble into lamps and candle stands. Crash – that would be the end of that.

Coffee and sodas are spilled. Food goes down his front. Clothes are snagged on who-knows-what and tear. Shirt fronts are riddled with holes that can only come from battery acid.

“Please change into outside clothes before checking under the hood of the car, Dear!” I beg.

“But it will just take a second!” roars hubby.

“Well, from the look of your shirts it takes less than a second to get battery acid on you!” responds I, becoming hopping mad.

Or is that bouncing mad?

Make that T-I-double"guh"-errrrr!

Or maybe just ‘grrrrrrrrrrrrrrr’.