PILLOW TALK

June 12, 2025

by Janet Mitchum

I was asked to “Please” rerun this old story of Janet’s. Well, here it is.

Rusty is out of town again and he asked me to rerun one of his old articles. Instead, I’m going to take over the reins again. Not that I really enjoy this, but I feel like it’s my duty to let you know that I’m not as bad as Rusty makes me out to be. I do get frustrated with him from time to time. Well, to be honest, I get frustrated with him most all of the time, but it’s not my fault.

I sometimes wonder what it would be like to be married to someone normal. I talk to other women and they tell me about the kinds of conversations they have with their husbands, and I guess I get sort of jealous. Oh, I have conversations with Rusty all the time, but I wouldn’t call them stimulating. Those women tell about how they go to bed at night and they will be lying on their pillow facing their husbands discussing their day. They said they also talk about their fears, their dreams, their wishes, things like that. Then there’s Rusty.

The other night I thought I’d try to engage Rusty in some conversation. (You women out there know how much men like to discuss their “feelings.”) Of course, first I had to let him get settled down. Rusty is like the Tasmanian devil on caffeine. It takes him quite a while to get situated. First, he jumps in bed, literally. Then he wiggles, flips the pillow, scratches, and yawns so big you’d think he’d turn himself inside out. Finally, he quiets down. This is an every night ritual.

“Are you through?” I asked.

“Through with what?” he asked.

“Through making your nest,” I replied.

“Yeah, I guess,” he sighed.

“Good,” I said. “Do you know what I’d like?”

It got really quiet for a moment, and then Rusty began to sing seductively.

“Heh, heh Baby, you know what I like.”

“Great,” I said, as I rolled my eyes. “I’m in bed with Jerry Lee Doofus. What I’d like,” I continued, “is to talk.”

“Talk?” he said. “In that case, I think I’m tired.”

“Rusty,” I warned.

“Okay, okay,” he sighed. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Whatever you want to talk about,” I said.

“Awww, come on,” he whined. “Don’t do this to me.”

“Rusty.”

“Okay, I give up. Let’s see? I know. Let’s talk about your breath.”

“My breath? What about my breath?”

“Well,” he said. “The last couple of nights, it’s smelled kind of funny. Not bad, just funny; familiar, too. I’ve smelled that smell before.”

“Oh,” I said. “The other day I went to the dentist and the hygienist told me to start rinsing with Listerine before going to bed. It’s supposed to be good for my gums.”

“Listerine!” he exclaimed. “That’s it. It makes your breath smell like Odie Dozier’s dump.”

/“My breath reminds you of Odie Dozier’s dump.”

“Not your whole breath,” he said. “Just the Listerine part.”

“I know I’m going to regret asking this,” I said, “but why does the Listerine remind you of Odie Dozier’s dump?”

“Well,” he began. “Back behind Mr. Dozier’s house was his burn pile. You know, where he burned his trash? Anywho, me and Coy…”

“Coy and I,” I corrected him.

“No,” he said. “I’m pretty sure it was just me and him. This was before I knew you.”

“Go on,” I sighed.

“Well, Mr. Dozier didn’t burn his trash very often, so we’d go dig through it.”

“What for?”

“You’re kiddin’, right?” he asked.

“No, I’m not kidding. Why would you dig through his trash?”

“To find stuff,” he said. “Why else would you dig through somebody’s trash?”

“I wouldn’t know about stuff like that, but go on,” I said.

“Well, we’d find bottles and jars and such to use as targets for our BB guns.”

“What does this have to do with my breath?”

“I’m comin’ to that,” he said. “Like I said, we’d get the bottles and jars and line ‘em up on top of his trash pile and take turns shootin’ at ‘em.”

“Wow,” I said. “Sounds like loads of fun.”

“Yeah,” he said ignoring my sarcasm. “It was. Mayonnaise jars were the coolest. You see, they be lyin’ out there in that hot sun and the mayonnaise that was left in the jar would start workin’ and would build up pressure and when you’d hit it with a BB, it’d blow up and sound like a firecracker goin’ off.” And talk about stink, Pee-yew! That’s why I can’t stand mayonnaise to this day.”

“Fascinating,” I sighed.

“Idn’t though? Anywho, he always had a bunch of Listerine bottles and when we’d bust them, well, the air would start smellin’ like your breath does now. Pretty good story, huh?” he said.

“Riveting,” I said.

“Hey, this is fun,” said Rusty. “What do you want to talk about now?”

“That’s okay,” I said. “I think we’ve talked enough.”

“I know,” he said. “Did I ever tell you about the time I got my bubble gum stuck in my armpit hairs?”

I turned over and faced the other direction. “Good night Rusty,” I said.

He snuggled up next to me and put his mouth next to my ear. “Good night, Odie,” he said.

Please pray that I do not kill him. Although, I’m pretty sure I would be acquitted.