If God had wanted me sweet, I would have been born Punky Brewster. : Drinkin’ Blinkin’ and Nod

It was one of those rare mornings when I was at peace with the world.

I had slept comfortably the night before, my sinuses were reasonably clear and nothing in the house was broken down. I awoke almost smiling. That’s when my wife said, “You know what’s wrong with you?”

I had not been considering at the moment that anything might be wrong with me, though I was certain if there were, I would soon know about it. Ever since Nancy got Don Regan thrown out of the White House, female assertiveness has reached new heights of audacity.

For a while I said nothing, but I knew that wouldn’t work. She would simply ask the question again, and keep on asking it until I responded.

So I said, “What’s wrong with me?”

“You’re not sweet.”

“Well then,” I said, “thank God I’m a newspaper columnist and not a nun or a nursery school teacher.”

“You should do something sweet this week,” she said. “Pet a puppy or smile at an old lady.”

“I’ll go the puppy but not the old lady.”

“Even that would be a breakthrough.”

My nature, I will admit, is more battery acid than peach nectar, but I have always felt that was due to providential design and should not be tampered with.

If God had wanted me sweet, I would have been born Punky Brewster.

However, my wife is a perceptive person, and perhaps my gloomy outlook did need a little brightening, so I said, “Let’s go to the circus Sunday.”

“The circus?”

“Right. Circus Vargas is in Woodland Hills.”

She eyed me skeptically.

“They don’t throw Christians to the lions anymore, you know.”

“I know that.”

“And you still want to go?”

“Damn, woman, I’m being sweet!”

As I walked away I could hear her say, “What have I done?”

Circus day began with half-an-hour wait in line for a ticket, and when I reached the ticket window, it was slammed shut in my face.

“Next line,” the ticket-seller said and disappeared before I could reach her throat.

“You’re not getting in front of me,” an old lady in the next line warned.

I could have smashed her to the ground and taken her place, I suppose, but instead waited another 15 minutes and amused myself with visions of the old fool being dragged off by elephants.

Only preferred-seating tickets were left, but that was all right with me . . . until I saw what preferred meant.

“Anywhere up there,” an usher said, pointing to the top of crowded bleachers.

“How do we get there?” I said.

There was no aisle to the top, only people.

He shrugged. “Do your best.”

To insure that the day would be sweet, we had brought Travis, theorizing that his delight at seeing clowns and monkeys or whatever the hell else awaited would brighten my heart. Travis, who is 4, is my special friend.

We struggled to the top of the bleachers, walking on the heads and faces of the less fortunate, and jammed ourselves in.

I was cramped and hot, but at least I was sitting down and ready to view the aerial foolishness of the Flying Fornasaris. That’s when Travis shouted, “Cotton candy!”

“The cotton candy salesman will be by soon,” I said.

“Cotton candy now! “ Travis said, beginning to wiggle.

“Stop kickin’, kid!” the guy in front demanded.

I was about to rise to a fighting stance when my wife said quickly, “I’ll get the cotton candy.”

She struggled back down the bleachers and returned some time later with cotton candy for all three of us and a hat for me.

“I thought this would cheer you up,” she said, putting it on my head.

It was a visor hat trimmed with tiny battery-operated lights that blinked off and on.

I sat there scowling and blinking, wishing I were home.

I’m not sure whether it is my basic nature or the fact that cotton candy sticking to my mustache has always irritated me, but the circus did nothing to sweeten my outlook.

The final indignity came at intermission. I was content to remain where I was and suffer through Trudy’s Dalmatians and whatever else remained, but Travis announced his intention to pee-pee.

He said it with sense of urgency meant to convey that he would either pee-pee right where he sat or use the bathroom if we got him there in time.

So we hustled the boy to what turned out to be a set of mobile one-holers. I took one look inside and announced that I would rather have him defile the bleachers than use what was offered as a bathroom. It was filthy.

“I wouldn’t let my dog in there,” I said.

“Then it really must be dirty,” my wife said. “You don’t even like the dog.”

She looked, agreed, and that ended our day at the circus. Travis found a bathroom elsewhere, though not with considerable patience.

“Now,” my wife said after we had taken Travis home, “ I will choose the sweetness event.”

We ended up at Hamburger Hamlet where she bought me a vodka martini.

“You know,” she said, “sitting there with a martini in your hand and that silly hat on your head, you almost look sweet.”

Drinking and blinking almost always makes me happy.