jobob
Rock n' Roll Doggie ALL ACCESS
It's the afternoon after St. Patrick's Day at The Maze of Jobob's Imagination. The Author is happy. The staff is worried. Their favorite Irish music plays (as always). "Top of the afternoon to ye!" The Author says. "The sun is shining, spring's in the air, and I still have my 'real' job! Yes, it's a beautiful day!" "Author," the staff replies. "You were too busy drinking Guinness Stout and eating corned beef and cabbage to post your Big St. Patrick's Day Chapter yesterday! And you're not even Irish! "Oh, that!" Author replies. "It's really a day-after-St. Paddy's Day story anyway. And I pick up where I left off, just after Valentine's Day. A lot can happen between holidays, you know."
Disclaimer: This is fiction. B's based on Bono. I don't know Bono. Happy St. Patrick's Day weekend.
Ever wonder if fanfic writers have real lives? I have a life, and I write about it -- in my Interference journal. Click View Journal to read about it.
It's been a couple of weeks since Valentine's Day. B's back on his feet, thanks to physical therapy sessions and a leg brace. Life's returned to normal around your house. Except: Your love life hasn't returned to normal.
The first few nights, B was still in pain and a little afraid. Then he was staying up late to finish some work from his office. "Big, big presentation, love," he kept telling you. On the weekend, you were out late Saturday night at a party one of his friends was giving. Sunday, the two of you went to church, and then you spent the day with your family while he worked. This week, B's spent his mornings at the physical therapist's and his evenings working, while you've kept busy with housework and jobhunting. So you haven't been alone with each other very much since Valentine's Day.
This afternoon, it's Friday and you miss him. You really miss him. In more ways than one. But especially in one way. How to let him know? Usually, B's pursuing you. Why not take the simple, honest approach? You dial his office number, and he answers.
"B, honey, are you staying late at work tonight?" you ask.
"No, love, I don't plan to. We gave the presentation this morning. It was a big success."
"We haven't seen much of each other the last few weeks, have we? I've missed you. I'd like to spend this evening with you. Come home as soon as you can tonight, okay?"
"Okay. J?"
"Yes, B?"
"I love you."
"I love you, B."
*******
It's after six o'clock. Actually, it's a quarter after six. Where's B? You asked him to come home early tonight. You hope he's not running late at the office or at Happy Hour at the bar with his friends and coworkers. Because, God love him, sometimes B forgets things like, oh, dates with his wife. Or he's late meeting his wife.
Men. Didn't Mom always say men don't care about things the way we women do? No, that's not really true. Your B cares, he really does. B just has an organizational problem. He could really use a Palm Pilot or a Blackberry or one of those cool Treo phones/organizers to keep track of appointments and to-do lists and important dates. But then he'd lose it.
You're in your kitchen, chopping vegetables and trying to decide between broiling chicken or fish for dinner, when your phone rings.
"Hello, my love. What ya' doin'?" It's B, flirting with you over his cell phone. There's traffic noise in the background; he must still be in his car.
"Deciding what to make as our main course for dinner. How's broiled fish sound?"
"I don't think fish make sounds. Especially after they're caught. Oh, you mean fish for dinner! Fish would be fine for dinner, thanks."
"You can be such a silly honeybee. But I like that about you. Are you coming home soon, B?"
"I'll be home before you know it." You hear the car's ignition turn off, then the "click-click" of the remote locks. "Anytime now." Your kitchen door opens, and B walks in, cell phone to his ear, one arm hiding something behind his back. "See?"
"I can't talk to you anymore, my husband just came home," you tell him. You giggle, hang up your kitchen phone as B clicks his phone closed. You go to B and hug him close to you. "Welcome home, B."
You feel only one of his arms around you. He pulls the other arm in front of you to reveal a bouquet of pink tulips. "The neighborhood flower shop had a special on spring flowers. And since you're special, here you are."
"They're lovely, B."
"And so are you, J."
Did someone miss you, too? Or is B trying to flirt with you to make up for being late? Or is it both? Who cares? Either way, he's home and in your arms.
******
You're having a quiet, ordinary dinner. The tulips are in a vase in the middle of the table.
Start slowly, you think. Don't scare him off.
"How are you doing in physical therapy, dear?"
"They say I'm doing very well, love. And the clinic's staff is very nice."
"Really?" B's so pleasant, so charming, to everyone he meets, it's hard to imagine people not being nice to him in return.
"Yes. That makes it easier to tolerate the pain of the exercises they put me through."
"Did they say how much more therapy you have to go through for your ankle?"
"A few more weeks of visiting the clinic, and of exercises at home, and of wearing the brace."
"Then you're back to normal?"
"Normal? Me?" B winks at you. "Well, I'll be walking normally again, anyway." He smiles.
"Speaking of normal, B, something hasn't returned to normal since you sprained your ankle." you say. "Oh, B, I don't quite know how to ask you this, but ..."
"Try me," he replies.
You take his hand (and a deep breath): "Are you afraid to make love to me since you injured your foot? Are you afraid you'll hurt yourself again?"
"What?"
"I'm asking you because I haven't been approached by you since it happened. The first few nights, I understand; you were in pain. But then, you were either bringing work home, or finding reasons to either get up early or stay up late. So -- are you avoiding having sex with me?"
"Me? Avoid sex?"
"As unlikely as it sounds, I think so. I think you were afraid you'd reinjure your foot and ankle. It's okay, B. I doubt it'll happen again, ever."
"It's okay? J, you've told me you had a sprained ankle once. It hurts! And it's no fun wearing this big, ugly brace, either!"
"Now who's being the optimist and the pessimist here, B?" You're enjoying the little role reversal in your marriage. You stroke his hand. "We can figure out a way around this problem this evening. If you decide that you'd like to." You raise his hand to your lips and kiss the back of it, then flutter your eyes at him. You see him gulp.
"I'd like to."
He's back.
***
B's first St. Patrick's week in America was an eventful one. The Sunday before the big day, you took him to Detroit's St. Patrick's Day Parade in the historic Irish section of Corktown, with bands and floats and beautiful Irish lassies (his favorite part of the parade). And Irish food and pints of ale afterwards.
All week long, friends, relatives and neighbors kept asking him just how big the St. Patrick's Day parties are in Dublin, only to be surprised when B told them March 17 is not the party-hearty holiday in Ireland that it is here in the U.S.A. -- for one thing, it always falls in the midst of Lent.
On Saturday morning the 18th in your kitchen, you're happy, even though you spent the night exhausted at home without B as B's friends made the rounds of their favorite Irish pubs with their favorite Dubliner. Of course, B's hung over.
"Good morning, dear! Here you are: Dry toast, tea, water, and aspirin. That ought to help. I could make you some eggs if you like."
"No! I mean, no eggs, thanks, love. Why do Americans, even if they're not Irish, insist on getting drunk on green beer on St. Patrick's Day?" B moans.
"I don't know, dear. I've never drank green beer. My father was German. Germans wouldn't ever put food coloring into their beer."
"The next time I go to Octoberfest, I'm going to thank the Germans for not dying their beer." B gets up and walks, then runs, towards the half-bathroom off your kitchen. You hear retching noises, which are the last noises you wanted to hear right now. Because you're feeling queasy yourself. And you haven't been out drinking in months.
"Dear, are you done?" you ask from the other side of the door once he stops.
"No."
You run to the master bathroom in your house, where you lean over the other toilet and vomit.
After a few minutes, after you manage to wipe your mouth and sit on the toilet, you hear a knock on the door.
"How are you feeling, love?"
Busted, that's how I'm feeling. And how did he manage to hear me?
You were going to tell him the doctor's test results yesterday, but B ended up spending the whole day at the bar. (Pubs. Whatever.) Now you weren't planning on telling him until later tonight (after B recovered from his hangover and you somehow got him to take you out to dinner). Now what?
"Uh ... fine! Guess it was just something I ate, B! I'm fine now!"
"When I called to invite you out to the pub with us yesterday, I was surprised you begged off."
"Oh ... well, I, uh, between working again at the library, keeping our house, and keeping track of you, it just wears me out sometimes. I was kinda tired yesterday. Unfortunately, B, we all don't have your energy. Speaking of energy, maybe we both should just crawl back into bed and sleep for awhile?"
"Go ahead. I'll be back shortly."
You go back to sleep, only to wake up to find a can of Vernors ginger ale -- every Michiganian's favorite cure for an upset stomach -- and some saltine crackers on your nightstand. And a note: J: Want to go out for dinner when we both feel better? Love, B.
"You, my dear, should feel better by tonight. Me, I should feel better in about eight months," you say to yourself.
******
After a nap, you go downstairs.
"Sweetheart. You're awake! How are you feeling?" B's sitting on your sofa, looking over his March Madness college basketball brackets for his office's betting pool.
"Better." Better distract him. You sit down next to him. "How about you? Are you feeling any better?"
"Nothing that time and aspirin hasn't started to cure. But I don't know why you were sick this morning. You didn't go out drinking for St. Patrick's Day."
So much for distracting him. "You want to know why I was sick, B? Actually, it's something I wanted to tell you last night, but you came home late and you were still a bit drunk. So it wasn't a good time."
"So, what is it?"
"I'm pregnant, B."
"You are?"
"I am. I went in for my regular doctor's appointment yesterday after work, took a pregnancy test, and found out we'll be parents in November ... Wait a minute, you already thought I was pregnant! That's why you left the crackers on my nightstand, right?"
B nods. "The only other time I've seen you sick in the morning was when you caught the flu from me at Thanksgiving." He holds you and kisses you as you begin to cry. "We did it, love."
"We certainly did. It was that weekend in February that did it," you joke.
"Oh, that was a wonderful weekend. Now we'll have the best souvenior of it," B says.
"Yes, we will. But I'm also worried, B. What if something happens to this baby?"
"Trust in God. Would He allow that to happen to us again?"
"I can only hope and pray not."
"And you've already taken such good care of yourself preparing for this pregnancy. I know you take good care of yourself while you're pregnant."
"I know you take good care of me while I'm pregnant."
"Well, you need to eat healthy meals. And you probably don't feel up to cooking right now. I'll make us something we can both keep down for lunch, and then we can decide where to go and what to do tonight to celebrate our little baby."
Disclaimer: This is fiction. B's based on Bono. I don't know Bono. Happy St. Patrick's Day weekend.
Ever wonder if fanfic writers have real lives? I have a life, and I write about it -- in my Interference journal. Click View Journal to read about it.
It's been a couple of weeks since Valentine's Day. B's back on his feet, thanks to physical therapy sessions and a leg brace. Life's returned to normal around your house. Except: Your love life hasn't returned to normal.
The first few nights, B was still in pain and a little afraid. Then he was staying up late to finish some work from his office. "Big, big presentation, love," he kept telling you. On the weekend, you were out late Saturday night at a party one of his friends was giving. Sunday, the two of you went to church, and then you spent the day with your family while he worked. This week, B's spent his mornings at the physical therapist's and his evenings working, while you've kept busy with housework and jobhunting. So you haven't been alone with each other very much since Valentine's Day.
This afternoon, it's Friday and you miss him. You really miss him. In more ways than one. But especially in one way. How to let him know? Usually, B's pursuing you. Why not take the simple, honest approach? You dial his office number, and he answers.
"B, honey, are you staying late at work tonight?" you ask.
"No, love, I don't plan to. We gave the presentation this morning. It was a big success."
"We haven't seen much of each other the last few weeks, have we? I've missed you. I'd like to spend this evening with you. Come home as soon as you can tonight, okay?"
"Okay. J?"
"Yes, B?"
"I love you."
"I love you, B."
*******
It's after six o'clock. Actually, it's a quarter after six. Where's B? You asked him to come home early tonight. You hope he's not running late at the office or at Happy Hour at the bar with his friends and coworkers. Because, God love him, sometimes B forgets things like, oh, dates with his wife. Or he's late meeting his wife.
Men. Didn't Mom always say men don't care about things the way we women do? No, that's not really true. Your B cares, he really does. B just has an organizational problem. He could really use a Palm Pilot or a Blackberry or one of those cool Treo phones/organizers to keep track of appointments and to-do lists and important dates. But then he'd lose it.
You're in your kitchen, chopping vegetables and trying to decide between broiling chicken or fish for dinner, when your phone rings.
"Hello, my love. What ya' doin'?" It's B, flirting with you over his cell phone. There's traffic noise in the background; he must still be in his car.
"Deciding what to make as our main course for dinner. How's broiled fish sound?"
"I don't think fish make sounds. Especially after they're caught. Oh, you mean fish for dinner! Fish would be fine for dinner, thanks."
"You can be such a silly honeybee. But I like that about you. Are you coming home soon, B?"
"I'll be home before you know it." You hear the car's ignition turn off, then the "click-click" of the remote locks. "Anytime now." Your kitchen door opens, and B walks in, cell phone to his ear, one arm hiding something behind his back. "See?"
"I can't talk to you anymore, my husband just came home," you tell him. You giggle, hang up your kitchen phone as B clicks his phone closed. You go to B and hug him close to you. "Welcome home, B."
You feel only one of his arms around you. He pulls the other arm in front of you to reveal a bouquet of pink tulips. "The neighborhood flower shop had a special on spring flowers. And since you're special, here you are."
"They're lovely, B."
"And so are you, J."
Did someone miss you, too? Or is B trying to flirt with you to make up for being late? Or is it both? Who cares? Either way, he's home and in your arms.
******
You're having a quiet, ordinary dinner. The tulips are in a vase in the middle of the table.
Start slowly, you think. Don't scare him off.
"How are you doing in physical therapy, dear?"
"They say I'm doing very well, love. And the clinic's staff is very nice."
"Really?" B's so pleasant, so charming, to everyone he meets, it's hard to imagine people not being nice to him in return.
"Yes. That makes it easier to tolerate the pain of the exercises they put me through."
"Did they say how much more therapy you have to go through for your ankle?"
"A few more weeks of visiting the clinic, and of exercises at home, and of wearing the brace."
"Then you're back to normal?"
"Normal? Me?" B winks at you. "Well, I'll be walking normally again, anyway." He smiles.
"Speaking of normal, B, something hasn't returned to normal since you sprained your ankle." you say. "Oh, B, I don't quite know how to ask you this, but ..."
"Try me," he replies.
You take his hand (and a deep breath): "Are you afraid to make love to me since you injured your foot? Are you afraid you'll hurt yourself again?"
"What?"
"I'm asking you because I haven't been approached by you since it happened. The first few nights, I understand; you were in pain. But then, you were either bringing work home, or finding reasons to either get up early or stay up late. So -- are you avoiding having sex with me?"
"Me? Avoid sex?"
"As unlikely as it sounds, I think so. I think you were afraid you'd reinjure your foot and ankle. It's okay, B. I doubt it'll happen again, ever."
"It's okay? J, you've told me you had a sprained ankle once. It hurts! And it's no fun wearing this big, ugly brace, either!"
"Now who's being the optimist and the pessimist here, B?" You're enjoying the little role reversal in your marriage. You stroke his hand. "We can figure out a way around this problem this evening. If you decide that you'd like to." You raise his hand to your lips and kiss the back of it, then flutter your eyes at him. You see him gulp.
"I'd like to."
He's back.
***
B's first St. Patrick's week in America was an eventful one. The Sunday before the big day, you took him to Detroit's St. Patrick's Day Parade in the historic Irish section of Corktown, with bands and floats and beautiful Irish lassies (his favorite part of the parade). And Irish food and pints of ale afterwards.
All week long, friends, relatives and neighbors kept asking him just how big the St. Patrick's Day parties are in Dublin, only to be surprised when B told them March 17 is not the party-hearty holiday in Ireland that it is here in the U.S.A. -- for one thing, it always falls in the midst of Lent.
On Saturday morning the 18th in your kitchen, you're happy, even though you spent the night exhausted at home without B as B's friends made the rounds of their favorite Irish pubs with their favorite Dubliner. Of course, B's hung over.
"Good morning, dear! Here you are: Dry toast, tea, water, and aspirin. That ought to help. I could make you some eggs if you like."
"No! I mean, no eggs, thanks, love. Why do Americans, even if they're not Irish, insist on getting drunk on green beer on St. Patrick's Day?" B moans.
"I don't know, dear. I've never drank green beer. My father was German. Germans wouldn't ever put food coloring into their beer."
"The next time I go to Octoberfest, I'm going to thank the Germans for not dying their beer." B gets up and walks, then runs, towards the half-bathroom off your kitchen. You hear retching noises, which are the last noises you wanted to hear right now. Because you're feeling queasy yourself. And you haven't been out drinking in months.
"Dear, are you done?" you ask from the other side of the door once he stops.
"No."
You run to the master bathroom in your house, where you lean over the other toilet and vomit.
After a few minutes, after you manage to wipe your mouth and sit on the toilet, you hear a knock on the door.
"How are you feeling, love?"
Busted, that's how I'm feeling. And how did he manage to hear me?
You were going to tell him the doctor's test results yesterday, but B ended up spending the whole day at the bar. (Pubs. Whatever.) Now you weren't planning on telling him until later tonight (after B recovered from his hangover and you somehow got him to take you out to dinner). Now what?
"Uh ... fine! Guess it was just something I ate, B! I'm fine now!"
"When I called to invite you out to the pub with us yesterday, I was surprised you begged off."
"Oh ... well, I, uh, between working again at the library, keeping our house, and keeping track of you, it just wears me out sometimes. I was kinda tired yesterday. Unfortunately, B, we all don't have your energy. Speaking of energy, maybe we both should just crawl back into bed and sleep for awhile?"
"Go ahead. I'll be back shortly."
You go back to sleep, only to wake up to find a can of Vernors ginger ale -- every Michiganian's favorite cure for an upset stomach -- and some saltine crackers on your nightstand. And a note: J: Want to go out for dinner when we both feel better? Love, B.
"You, my dear, should feel better by tonight. Me, I should feel better in about eight months," you say to yourself.
******
After a nap, you go downstairs.
"Sweetheart. You're awake! How are you feeling?" B's sitting on your sofa, looking over his March Madness college basketball brackets for his office's betting pool.
"Better." Better distract him. You sit down next to him. "How about you? Are you feeling any better?"
"Nothing that time and aspirin hasn't started to cure. But I don't know why you were sick this morning. You didn't go out drinking for St. Patrick's Day."
So much for distracting him. "You want to know why I was sick, B? Actually, it's something I wanted to tell you last night, but you came home late and you were still a bit drunk. So it wasn't a good time."
"So, what is it?"
"I'm pregnant, B."
"You are?"
"I am. I went in for my regular doctor's appointment yesterday after work, took a pregnancy test, and found out we'll be parents in November ... Wait a minute, you already thought I was pregnant! That's why you left the crackers on my nightstand, right?"
B nods. "The only other time I've seen you sick in the morning was when you caught the flu from me at Thanksgiving." He holds you and kisses you as you begin to cry. "We did it, love."
"We certainly did. It was that weekend in February that did it," you joke.
"Oh, that was a wonderful weekend. Now we'll have the best souvenior of it," B says.
"Yes, we will. But I'm also worried, B. What if something happens to this baby?"
"Trust in God. Would He allow that to happen to us again?"
"I can only hope and pray not."
"And you've already taken such good care of yourself preparing for this pregnancy. I know you take good care of yourself while you're pregnant."
"I know you take good care of me while I'm pregnant."
"Well, you need to eat healthy meals. And you probably don't feel up to cooking right now. I'll make us something we can both keep down for lunch, and then we can decide where to go and what to do tonight to celebrate our little baby."
, Bono is so lovely in it! Both characters are great 
*is in heaven* lol. 
