Free The Grass Is Always Greener Over the Septic Tank by Erma Bombeck

evidence of breathing. I called our doctor who wheeled in an EKG machine to check the blood supply to his heart.
    My husband rallied for a moment when the machine was placed directly in front of him. He bolted upright in his chair, blinked a few times, started fiddling with the knobs and said, “All right, whose been messing around with the antenna?”
    DECEMBER
    We have found it easier to decorate Daddy than to move him away from the television set.
    First, we covered his feet with a simple felt skirt dotted with sequins. Then we hung a candy cane from each ear, and a string of lights around his head. Tonight, we are going to string popcorn and tinsel around his chest.
    It's wonderful being a family again.
    JANUARY
    I'm terribly concerned about what's-his-name. He has watched more bowls this month than the restroom attendant at Kennedy Airport.
    He does not eat well. I poked my head through the door today and said, “Have I got a bowl for you!”
    “What is it?” he asked, dipping his spoon into it.
    “I call it 'Instant Replay,' In it are shredded sports pages, a dozen or so flip tops from beer cans, a few cigarette butts, and a lock of Howard Cosell's hair.”
    His eyes never left the set as he chewed mechanically, “It needs salt.”
    FEBRUARY
    I read somewhere man does not live by Curt Gowdy alone.
    Tonight, I slid into a nightgown made of Astro-Turf, and sat on the arm of his chair.
    “I have a surprise for you,” I said huskily.
    “Keep it down. Fess Parker is trying to tree a coon.”
    “What would you say if I told you I had just bought a water bed?”
    At first, I thought he didn't hear me. Then he turned slowly. “Are you serious?”
    He bounded from his chair, ran to the bedroom and a smile crept across his face. “Are you thinking what I'm thinking?” he asked.
    “I hope so,” I breathed.
    “Now I can stock my own trout.”
    march
    All the green things are coming out this month, except my husband. He is alive (if you call this living) and is being fed intravenously on a diet of basketball, baseball, golf, and hockey.
    It has become a game with the family trying to think of ways to get Daddy out of his chair. We have tried, “Your sweater is on fire,” “Watching hockey can cause bleeding gums,” and “I am leaving. You get custody of the kids.”
    There is something very unnatural about a man .who has a niche in the wall and every day puts fresh flowers under a picture of George Blanda.
    APRIL
    The baseball strike postponed the opening game thirteen days. Through conscientious throat massage and stuffing his mouth with pebbles, we were able to get my husband up to four words a day during this period.
    The first day he said, “Wha ...”
    The second day he said, “What.”
    The third day he was up to, “Whhhat is yyyour naaaame?”
    The players settled their differences soon after and he has regressed once more to clearing his throat.
    may
    We put his mother in knee socks, shin guards, and a hockey face mask and shoved her in front of his chair for Mother's Day.
    My husband was watching a ping-pong game and granted her an audience for only a few seconds. Then he punched her playfully on the arm and said, “Hang in there, kid.”
    june
    In an attempt to clean out all of the old things we never use any more, I realized that I had inadvertently set my husband at the curb on top of a rusted bicycle.
    The driver of the truck led him to the house and said, “It's cute, but what's it for?”
    “It does a lot of things,” I said. “It eats leftovers, contributes body heat to a room, and can quote more statistics than the Sports Almanac. We use him for a doorstop.”
    “What's he doing with a candy cane over each ear?”
    “He looked so great at Christmas, we hated to take him down.”
    july
    “I am leaving you,” I said calmly. “I can't stand it any more—the loneliness, the boredom, the roller derbies, the golf tournaments, the snacks. I'm young. I have all my own teeth. I want to see a