The Antelope in the Living Room: The Real Story of Two People Sharing One Life

by Shankle, Melanie

  (This is the type of scenario I began to imagine as I sat alone in the dark for what felt like hours.)

  As I waited for Perry and debated whether or not I could be like Gwyneth and learn to prefer eating air instead of real food for three meals a day, I thought about how proud of me he was going to be for shooting that hog. It had been a long time since I’d shot something on my own, and I knew he’d be impressed. Especially since it had obviously been such a perfect shot.

  About that time, I began to hear the rumble of his Ford F-350 driving toward me. As I looked to see what direction he was coming from, I watched the hog I’d shot that had been lying there for almost two hours jump up, shake itself off like it had just woken up from a nap, and trot back into the thicket of mesquite trees like nothing had ever happened.

  What the actual heck?

  It was a hog playing possum.

  And that’s why I don’t hunt anymore. I can’t handle the stress. If an animal appears to be dead for the better part of two hours, then by all means, it should stay dead. That’s like some sort of law of basic science. I’m pretty sure Marlin Perkins said it one time.

  While hunting became an interest we no longer shared (or at least I no longer pretended to share), we both enjoy fishing at the coast. Well, Perry enjoys fishing, and I don’t mind spending a day on a boat working on my tan while holding a fishing pole.

  So for several summers we planned an annual beach vacation down to Port Aransas. Some friends had a condo they would let us use, and it was a delightful way to spend a few days. We’d usually spend the first half of the week by ourselves and then invite a few friends to join us for the last half of the week, and we’d eat fresh seafood and swim out in the waves and occasionally fish.

  Then one summer Perry decided it might be fun for a group of us to go out on a deep-sea fishing excursion for the day. I agreed to this because I must have not heard him when he suggested it and just said yes because I didn’t want him to think I wasn’t paying attention.

  But here’s the thing. As I mentioned in an earlier chapter of this very book, I have motion-sickness issues.

  (I have recently traced the origin of these issues back to a childhood of riding in the backseat of my dad’s car. He has never met a stretch of road that he doesn’t like to pretend is the last lap of the Indy 500 —but with more twists, turns, and weaving in and out of traffic.)

  So, in hindsight, deep-sea fishing —not really the best idea.

  But I was reeled in (get it?) by the thought of all the cool fish we might catch. Maybe I’d catch a huge swordfish, even though I’m pretty sure they don’t live in the Gulf of Mexico. But they might have decided to go there for vacation, and what if I was the first person to catch one?

  Plus, I really wanted to go because I knew Perry really wanted me to go. And sometimes (a lot of the time) marriage is about being selfless. So I convinced myself it was going to be a great trip. Seasickness has no hold on me. It’s all about the power of POSITIVE THINKING. OPTIMISTS UNITE. Power to the (seasick) people!

  However, as a precaution, I stocked up on Dramamine, Dramamine patches, and ginger pills, which are supposed to help with the motion sickness.

  Because I am like a Girl Scout. Always prepared —and a big fan of cookies.

  The details of that morning are hazy, which is probably due to the fact that I’d already popped two Dramamine and was wearing a Dramamine patch on my arm. I just remember that we left well before daybreak, which should have been my first clue that I was not necessarily cut out for deep-sea fishing expeditions.

  We arrived at the boat and were met by Captain Awesome and his first lieutenant, Tattoo. Honestly, I don’t remember their real names, so I just made those up. (It’s called CREATIVE LICENSE because I was too whacked out on Dramamine to remember anything.)

  The boat began heading out toward the deep sea. And here’s a critical fact that I was not previously aware of: it takes a long time to get out to the deep sea. A really long time. Fear started to overtake me as I realized that I couldn’t just decide midday that I’d had enough of the fishing. I was clearly going to be stuck out at sea. Just like Gilligan.

  So I popped another Dramamine to quell my rising fear.

  It’s a good thing that this was years before the Carnival Cruise debacle occurred, or I would have jumped ship so fast it would have made your head spin. I mean, those people were stuck out on the middle of the ocean eating only pickles and onions and pooping in paper bags. Used paper bags. Kathie Lee Gifford never sang about that on those old commercials. “In the morning, in the evening, ain’t we got an engine fire and bags you can poop in?” It’s not as catchy.

  Anyway, we finally stopped at our destination, which was, for lack of a better term, in the middle of the dadgum ocean. I couldn’t see the shore. I COULDN’T SEE THE SHORE.

  Even now I can still feel the panic.

  And the boat started rocking. Not rocking in a good way, like “rocking” from all the fun we were having. Oh, no. It was rocking because of the waves. Oh, sweet mercy, the waves. The sea was angry that day, my friends. But not as angry as my stomach, which immediately began a mutiny on every meal I had ever consumed in my life.

  Captain Awesome and Tattoo tried to distract me by baiting my hook and handing me a fishing pole. I think the logic was that if I could start catching fish, I would forget about writing my will and screaming, “JUST KILL ME NOW” in between singing verses of old spirituals.

  All of a sudden, my fishing pole almost bent in half, and the line started dragging like crazy. Everyone was yelling at me to reel, reel, REEL! So I did, and I forgot I was in total agony because I was about to bring in the largest fish ever caught in Texas deep-sea-fishing history.

  And I did catch something very large. Our boat.

  That’s right, my friends. (Why am I talking like the Most Interesting Man in the World on those Dos Equis commercials? When he fishes, the fish jump into his boat just to be near him. Stay thirsty, my friends.) My line had gotten wrapped around our boat motor. And that pretty much sums up how the rest of our day went.

  Perry and his friends Todd and Jay fished with Captain Awesome and Tattoo while I lay on the back of the boat, popping Dramamine like they were Smarties, hoping that seagulls would carry me off and drop me in the mouth of a whale to put the final nail in this nautical nightmare I was living out.

  We didn’t catch one fish that day. Not one.

  Captain Awesome was not awesome. He was the devil. The devil who knew nothing about fishing. The devil who had bought a boat on a whim and a book called So You Want to Be a Deep-Sea-Fishing Guide and then had forgotten to read the book. In fact, his last words to us, as he took his money for the day, were “I’m going to go get drunk.”

  But no matter how much he drank, I bet he wasn’t as hung over as I was three days later, when I finally woke up from my Dramamine-induced coma. Perry said at one point he thought about holding a mirror under my nose to make sure I was still breathing.

  Perry and his friends were furious about the way the trip had turned out. Not because I had almost died at sea, mind you, but because we hadn’t caught any fish.

  Which warms my heart to this day. It’s so tender.

  They felt that Captain Awesome had misled them about the way he fished and the places we would go to find fish, and since Perry had read about Captain Awesome in Texas Fish & Game magazine (not to be confused with Cheaper than Dirt!, which is the catalog Perry wants me to quit saying he orders things from but I can’t resist because I love the name), he wrote a letter to the editor voicing his displeasure.

  He had me proofread the letter before he sent it because I may not be able to deep-sea fish, but boy can I proofread. And that’s what every man really wants —a good editor. It’s like that old saying: every man wants a cook in the kitchen, a tiger in the bedroom, and an editor in the home office. Or maybe I just made that up.

  The letter went into great detail about our disappointment in how the day we
nt and how Captain Awesome hadn’t lived up to the hype of the article about him in Texas Fish & Game. It was passionate and heartfelt. A tale of our struggle with the angry sea and a belligerent captain determined to do things his way, no matter the cost. Like a modern-day Moby-Dick.

  But my favorite line of the whole letter —in fact, maybe my favorite line ever —was the part where Perry wrote, “The real tragedy is that because of this experience my wife will never go deep-sea fishing again.”

  I told him to add an exclamation point to that sentence. And put “never” in all caps.

  Even though I disagreed with him.

  The real tragedy is that I spent four days of my life passed out from Dramamine. Days that could have been spent lying by the pool. Looking at water that doesn’t move.

  And the truth is, I never would have gone deep-sea fishing again anyway. Fish or no fish. Sometimes you just need to admit that you and your spouse might be better off just sharing a nice dinner together instead of trying to share a hobby.

  That’s why Perry doesn’t watch old episodes of Friday Night Lights and cry with me. There are just some things about each other that you’re not meant to share or understand.

  CHAPTER 16

  Don’t Stop Till You Get Enough or the Feds Show Up

  MY BEST FRIEND, Gulley, works at a preschool. And on occasion one of her fellow teachers will walk into the break room at school with an economy-sized box of granola bars or assorted chips and announce, “Please help yourself! My husband went rogue again and made a trip to Costco without me.” This particular teacher happens to be older, and she and her husband no longer have any children living at home. So you can see how a box of 150 assorted granola bars might be more than the two of them could possibly eat in a year. Or ever.

  She has my deepest sympathy because I, too, am married to someone who tends to frown upon buying items in quantities you can actually use before the expiration date. Perry never buys just one of anything. If it’s worth having one, then in his opinion, it’s worth having at least fourteen. He believes in the Michael Jackson philosophy: “Don’t stop till you get enough.” This applies to just about anything, and particularly knives, flashlights, and guns. Otherwise known as the redneck trifecta.

  It’s almost like he lived through some sort of Great Depression that causes him to buy in bulk. (I know this isn’t the case because we are children of the ’70s and ’80s. While we may not be the Greatest Generation, we are most definitely the Walmart Generation.) At least once a week he asks me if I’m going to the store because we are “out of everything.” I’ve learned to ask him to make a list because his definition of “everything” and mine are very different. Case in point, his list usually looks like this:

  York Peppermint Patties

  Q-tips

  What? No York Peppermint Patties or Q-tips? Are we savages? What if Armageddon began and we were left trapped like rats without any means with which to clean our ears or enjoy a chocolate mint treat?

  And maybe it’s precisely because I have been so complacent as to let us run out of Yorks and Q-tips that Perry has become a fan of the bulk purchase. Whenever I make a grocery list, he’ll always write deodorant or shaving cream and then instruct me to buy five cans of each. Because who doesn’t want to spend $250 at the store with $150 of that being excessive toiletry items?

  In the interest of full disclosure, I will admit I do occasionally forget to buy important things such as toilet paper. So, yes, I have contributed to his problem. Because I think we can all accept that there isn’t any greater dilemma than being caught without toilet paper.

  Unless it involves being without Peppermint Patties.

  One day when Caroline was four years old, I decided it might be a fun activity for Caroline and me to wash my car in the driveway. I blame this lapse in judgment on the fact that our smoke alarm had gone off four different times the night before, causing me to wake up with what can only be described as deluded optimism.

  In what is probably not a coincidence, Perry had to leave to meet with some clients, but before he left, he got out a bucket, some soap, and a few sponges for me to use and told me I could find anything else I needed in the garage.

  Caroline and I got to work washing the car. Surprisingly, it wasn’t nearly as fun as I’d remembered it being when I was sixteen. It was hot and messy, and cleaning out my wheel wells made my back hurt because I am not in the shape I was in when I could do forty high-kicks in a row while wearing white cowboy boots. Not to mention that my current car is an SUV and significantly bigger than the sweet Honda CRX I drove in high school.

  Plus, due to my OCD tendencies, I couldn’t just do it halfway. The car had to be spotless, and this wasn’t a task for the faint of heart when you consider the atrocities I found hidden between the backseats where Caroline sits. Let’s just say that goldfish crackers that have been subjected to heat and spilled apple juice don’t maintain much structural integrity. I realized I was in need of some Armor All to really clean the interior, so I went into the garage, and I couldn’t believe what I saw hidden on the back shelves.

  I mean, I’m not one to air my family’s dirty laundry, but I discovered that Perry has clearly been running a sideline business as a car wash operator behind my back. Why else would one family —a family that has washed their vehicles at home maybe twice in the last ten years —need twenty-six bottles of Armor All? Maybe you think I’m being too quick to jump to conclusions, so this is where I’ll also tell you about the eleven squeegees and the orange safety cones. What other explanation could there be for this type of car-wash-supply excess? Was there some worldwide alert I’d missed about an impending shortage? I don’t even understand.

  In my opinion, the only time you really need to buy in bulk is if you discover your favorite lip gloss is about to be discontinued.

  Several years ago I went on a trip to the Dominican Republic with Compassion International. During the trip, all my fellow seasoned travelers told me I should definitely buy some vanilla extract and coffee to take home, and so I did, because who am I to argue with food science? I bought one very large bottle of vanilla for myself and two small bags of Dominican coffee for Perry.

  He is particular about his coffee, which is why I bought only two small bags. I cannot even express the various coffees we have purchased throughout our marriage in his quest for caffeinated perfection, including one unfortunate incident that got us enrolled in Boca Java’s Connoisseur Club and caused us to get approximately six pounds of coffee delivered every month, which is a little excessive, unless maybe you’re Juan Valdez. We soon discovered the Boca Java Connoisseur Club is kind of like the mafia or selling Arbonne because once we were in, it was almost impossible to get us out.

  I seriously thought I was going to have to cancel our credit card just to make the coffee quit showing up on our doorstep, but I finally got a representative on the phone who let me halt our coffee deliveries after I explained that Perry’s medical adviser had told him to limit his caffeine intake. And by “medical adviser,” I meant myself.

  Anyway, I returned home from the Dominican and presented Perry with his two small bags of coffee. He seemed skeptical but agreed to give it a whirl. So the next morning he made (Brewed? Is that better coffee terminology?) his first pot. He was in love. I seriously thought he might need a moment alone with his coffee. Perhaps he and his Dominican coffee might want to get a room.

  Those two small bags were depleted very quickly, but I discovered you could order it online. One evening I casually mentioned that the coffee was available online and that I’d get around to ordering more at some point. Then I forgot all about it. Until ten pounds of Dominican Santo Domingo coffee showed up on our front porch, courtesy of UPS.

  Unfortunately, the shipped coffee didn’t taste nearly as great as the bags I’d brought home from the trip. A fact I was reminded of every morning until our ten-pound supply of coffee beans was finally depleted. Which takes even longer than you might think, especially
when you have to hear about their lack of flavor every day.

  After sixteen years of marriage, I’ve grown accustomed to Perry’s tendency to stockpile various things. (I’m using the word stockpile instead of hoard in an effort to be more sensitive to his affliction.) I’ve learned that every year in early January we’ll receive a large shipment of Williams-Sonoma peppermint bark that he buys at half price after Christmas. I know now that if I need a flashlight, he can offer me about ten different varieties, complete with batteries. When I think we’re out of paper towels, I’ve learned that he always has at least two more packs of twelve in the back house.

  And, admittedly, this comes in handy. Especially because it never occurs to me to buy more than one of anything for any situation. We were once under a hurricane warning, and the news anchors suggested that people should stock up on essentials in case of power outages and bad weather. So I made my way to the grocery store and came home with a six-pack of bottled water, a bag of Sour Patch Kids, some Cheez-Its, and a People magazine. I don’t know that anything has ever been a stronger test of our marriage. Perry’s disappointment in my lack of basic survival skills was palpable.

  But nothing could have prepared me for what happened a while back.

  It is well documented that Perry loves nothing more than to hunt. It’s his favorite. So naturally he enjoys loading up on various hunting supplies. I mean, this is a man who once rode the city bus to a political rally while packing heat. Which is why I didn’t think anything of it when he was leaving to spend the day at the ranch and said as he was walking out the door, “Are you going to be home today? Because I’m expecting a shipment of ammo I ordered to come in, and I don’t want it sitting on the front porch.”

  I assured him I’d be home all day and could make sure his beloved ammo was safe and sound.