By hook or by crook
My hook is gone.
Shhhhhhh. Quiet. I don’t want the Queen of all I Survey to know that I know that she is a hook crook.
She is, though, and there is nothing I can do to change that. My hook, the one inside my closet door, has now become part of her system, her global organization plan. And I will have to find someplace new to hang stuff that must be hung.
Right now, my hook -…her hook -…is covered by a gigantic terrycloth robe, the purchase of which I regret for a couple of reasons. First of all, my hook is gone because of it. More so, the bulky robe has never served its intended purpose.
I first saw it (the robe, not the hook) on a television commercial featuring a gorgeous woman who walked – in excruciatingly slow motion…- down a long hallway and into a luxurious bathroom. She seductively slipped it from her shoulders and stepped into the shower.
Hubba! Hubba! Hubba!
Thanks to Michael Powell and guys like him (Remember, the Federal Communications Commission is watching everything you watch, waiting for someone other than Howard Stern to slip up.) I saw only her shoulders, but that glimpse inspired me to shell out $95 bucks for the chance to experience my own hallway, bathroom, shower fantasy.
In the dream, the Queen, not me, wears the robe. Bumawitz (he says, referring to himself in the third person) is many things, mostly bad, but he is no transvestite. Uh, oh, I probably shouldn’t have said that, political correctness and all.
Transvestites are nice, I just don’t have the physique to be one. There, I feel better now.
Anyway, back to the tragedy of the robe and the loss of the hook.
After the robe arrived at Citadel Abramowitz, it became part of the Queen’s cold weather collection, which involves layers and layers and layers of clothing, blankets, quilts, comforters, afghans, bedspreads, socks, cats, slippers and anything else that might keep her warm during chilly, southwestern Pennsylvania nights.
When she shrugs the robe from her shoulders, it reveals flannel jammies covered with happy, smiling domesticated farm animals.
It’s just a real mood-killer.
Only longjohns could be worse.
The robe, which weighs about 10 pounds and has become kind of lumpy and shapeless over the years, has taken on a new role.
Before last week, it was just a big disappointment, a destroyer of fantasies. Now, it mocks me each morning as I stumble around gathering clothing. It hangs there on my former hook, big and bulky, crushing neckties and wrinkling shirts.
I hate the robe and I covet the hook.
“I am not a hook crook,” the Queen declared upon learning about this tale. “You’d better quit putting me in Bumawitz. People will think I’m nuts.”
Well, she certainly is not nuts. She is wonderful, beautiful, perfect, intelligent, interesting, compassionate, stylish, generous, a wonderful cook, an excellent housekeeper, a great mother, an ideal wife, the envy of all, an effective manager, a gifted athlete, a skilled driver -…and a hook crook.
And I told her all that.
“I did not take the hook,” she said.
“You can still use the hook. I just put my robe over your stuff.”
When the robe is on the hook, there is room for nothing else, not even a germ.
“I had to use the hook because there is no place to hang the robe,” she explained in her concise and easy to understand style.
While I did not respond, I wondered where the robe has been hanging for the past 12 years. Knowledge is not always power. I am confident that, in this case, I will be better served by ignorance.
Blind obedience requires neither thought nor discussion.
It causes no pain and, for me, ensures continued marital bliss. If the robe is now hanging on my former hook, then I must be better off because of it.
Meanwhile, I will find another place to hang my stuff, all the while hoping the Queen does not decide to store shoes on my side of the bed.
Happy New Year.
Bumawitz also is known as City Editor Joe Abramowitz.