My Birthday, and the War of the Roses

Carla and Henry were here for my birthday last weekend. They arrived Friday. Carla requested that I pick them up late, because, as she stated it to Henry, "we need some 'us' time before Lucifer picks us up."

Friday night we had a dinner party at Enat, an Ethiopian restaurant here in Atlanta. After dinner, we went to Wendy's house for Birthday pie (one pie was chocolate and the other was fruit). I got lots of good presents, including a "roast" by Andy. Don't ever email anything to Andy -- he will use it against you.

Saturday we went to Inman Park festival. It was great -- lots of art vendors and most of the art is not of the cheezy variety one usually sees at community fairs. I almost bought a $100 black walnut salad bowel, but came to my senses. Saturday evening Carla and Henry had had enough of me; they had dinner with Henry's friends Hank and Mindy, and I had dinner with Katherine Hankins, her husband Jeremy, Andy & Jody, and one of Katherine's new colleagues in Geography.

Sunday, the idyllic courtship between Carla and Henry came to an abrupt halt.

Anyone who knows Henry or who has even been around him for 2 and a half minutes knows that his only source of pride, dignity, and self-worth is his feet. Henry could brag about his law degree, his expansive knowledge of US political history, or any number of other things, but he reserves his boasting rights solely for his FEET. Henry could (and has, believe me) go on for hours and hours and days and weeks about his feet. He spends hundreds of dollars at a time on pedicures. I've caught Henry before, by himself, in an empty room, LOOKING at his feet, with a self-satisfied smile on his lips.

So anyone who knows Henry Baranczak knows that his feet are about the only source of positive self-identity the man has -- everyone, apparently, EXCEPT Carla. The two major, universal taboos that I can think of are (1) incest, and (2) insulting Henry's feet, and Carla would have been better off this weekend if she had flown home to Texas and had sex with one of her cousins.

The peaceful events of Sunday morning were interrupted when Carla looked downward toward Henry's feet to tell him he had a "hammer toe," not just once, but repeatedly. I can't say whether or not Henry does have a hammer toe because I try not to look at his feet, but all I know is that Carla and Henry's cloy, disturbing, sickening two year love affair is over.

Of course Carla and Henry will chime in now to say that all is forgiven, that I'm just jealous of their special friendship, that I'm simply reveling in their tiff because they love each other more than they love me, etc., etc. But I know how Henry Baranczak's mind works, and I know that one of these days, when Carla least expects it, Henry will reach into Carla's chest and pull her beating heart out with his sausage-like fingers. Carla won't even see it coming. She'll gasp for a moment; she'll look shocked and betrayed; her eyes will flutter, and it will all be over. I have insulted Henry innumerable times and in the cruelest of ways over the years, but never ever ever, even during my most suicidal moment, would I dare to insult his feet.

That's Carla and Henry above before the Great War began. Carla is holding a little statue she bought, and Henry is wearing Carla's "Mrs. Roper" blouse. The next time you see Henry wearing orange, it will probably be at his arraignment.