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I’m pretty sure there’s a memo that is distributed to people just after they close on their new home in my neighborhood:  directions to Costco and Home Depot, the best takeout places, and the crazy batshit stuff they’ll hear from the house on the corner.  I prefer to think of our little inappropriate outbursts as entertaining.  However, even on a quiet evening the neighbors clearly should remain on guard.

Thunder and I like to watch Jeopardy together.  It’s not really a heavy competition thing between us, and we’re happy for the each other when one of us pulls out a tough one at the last moment.  But Final Jeopardy always works the same for us.  We see the category and fast forward through commercials to the Final Jeopardy answer (we usually end up watching it from the DVR).  Once we’ve heard Alex read the answer and it appears on the screen, we pause the DVR to think.  We don’t say our own question until the other person is ready – very democratic, I think.

Tonight we get to the Final Jeopardy answer, and the category is Literature.  I always feel extra pressure because I’m supposed to remember all this shit, but my memory is scattered these days.
Here’s the Answer:  This 1928 novel is partly based on the author’s wife Frieda & her affair with Angelo Ravagli.

I was pretty sure the author was D.H. Lawrence; I do remember some things from grad school.  But I couldn’t remember which novel.  I’m standing in the living room while Thunder is sitting in his chair.  He’s paused the show, and we’re thinking.  I know the title of the novel is swirling right near the front of my brain.  The dogs begin to whine to go out, and I follow them to the back door.

I throw an title or two at Thunder, knowing they’re not right.  That’s okay, he knows it’s not my final choice.  He also knows I have to go out onto the deck with the dogs (you have to watch the little one and make sure he’s not getting into trouble).  My plan is to take them out and then come back with my final question for him.

So when the novel’s title suddenly comes to me, it should have surprised no one that I would shout it at the top of my lungs toward to sliding glass doors so that Thunder could hear me in the living room.

In my opinion the elderly couple walking past the house in the dark tonight had no business being startled by the disembodied voice yelling “Lady Chatterley’s Lover” at them.  I’m not quite sure if they thought the voice in the dark shadows was actually accusing them of a clandestine affair or not.  But the level surprise on their part seemed extreme.  On the other hand, I happen to think that jumping 3 feet in the air is good exercise at any age.  As for the tumbling and looking around for the source of the insult shouted at them…well, clearly there is only 1 possible explanation: They didn’t read their memo.

Mar 27th, 2012

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