Mr. Responsible Buns

Just call me Mr. Responsible Buns. My fiancee does and it gives me a warm fuzzy feeling in my craw, if you know what I mean. I shouldn't complain. She means well and she's affectionate when she calls me Mr. Responsible Buns. And I guess I've earned it. I'm the kind of guy who makes sure that the things in my life that need doing get done, for the most part. I've held jobs for most of my adult life. I've never made a lot of money, but I've managed my money well enough to make sure that all of the bills are paid and that the IRA is funded - usually. I keep the cupboards stocked. I manage the household accounts. I'm starting my own business with my fiancee, and I have four (Yipes!) cats that I feed, water, de-poop, and medicate on a daily basis. Well, I don't medicate them daily, but sometimes.....you get the picture.

So, when my fiancee sees me doing all these things, and she puts her arms around me and says, "Look at you, being all Mr. Responsible Buns and everything" it makes me feel good even though I'm just doing what just about everybody else is doing on a daily basis, usually a heck of a lot better than I am. But, I'll take it because it lessens some of the anxiety of being:

Mr. Oldie Buns. Yep. Oldie Buns. And not just because I like the Beach Boys, the Beatles, the Animals, and the Dave Clark Five, and assorted other music acts from the 60's and early 70's. Nope. I like 80's, 90's, and 00's too, much to the surprise of many younger human units that I encounter. I'm Mr. Oldie Buns because I have my AARP card and I am authorized to use it. I'm Mr. Oldie Buns because it takes me ten minutes to get out of bed in the morning and dress, with eight of those minutes spent putting on my socks. We won't talk about how long it takes me to take my socks off at night. Ever.

I'm Mr. Oldie Buns because most of the music of my youth is now used to sell cars, televisions, insurance, retirement products, and pharmaceuticals to other Mr. and Mrs. Oldie Buns. Don't tell them I said that, because I know my people and we really don't like being called Oldie Buns, even by one of our own. We do, however, like being called Mr. Creative Buns.

All of my life I have wanted to write. And I have written. You probably haven't seen most of what I've written, unless you've been rooting around in the bottom of my sock drawer, an activity I would not recommend. Trust me. I wanted to be a professional writer. I've taken classes. I've read Writer's Digest. I've studied writers that I liked and writers that I didn't like. I've read great works. I've read dreck. And I've said to myself, "I can do that", but I haven't done it. I just haven't done it.

Until now.

Because of my fiancee, I am taking my first baby steps in the frightening world of professional writing. I'm putting my words OUT THERE and hoping and praying that they don't come back to kick me in my keester. And if they do, so what? My fiancee is right there behind me, telling me it's time to be Mr. Creative Buns. Heck, she's even teaching me to draw, which is another lifelong dream of mine left unfulfilled, because I've always been:

Mr. Military Buns. Not because I'm currently in the military. I'm not. Not because I devoted twenty or thirty years of my life to one of the most honorable career fields I can think of. I didn't. Not because I'm a veteran. I am. She says I've been Mr. Military Buns because I've always had a stick shoved up my......well, you get it. I tell her that that is just the way I am and she says it's okay, but I have to learn to loosen up and I say I'll try and she'll say try harder and I'll say something smart and then she'll call me:

Mr. Sassy Buns. She also calls me Mr. Sassy Buns when I disagree with her, which doesn't happen often if I know what's good for me. Usually, Mr. Sassy Buns comes out when discussing whether Mr. Responsible Buns has enough warm clothing on, or needs to wear a hat and raincoat, or has been taking his vitamins. And we all know what happens when Mr. Responsible Buns doesn't take care of himself.

He starts to feel like Mr. Poo-Poo Buns, and trust me on this.....Mr. Poo-Poo Buns is not the affectionate nickname that you want the world calling you. Ever.