Humor – Hot Flash of Genius

The Party’s Over…

Hope you had fun on New Year’s Eve. I had a very tame New Year’s Eve. When you get to be a woman of a certain age, like me, tame is okay. I’ve already done my share of partying. My last real New Year’s shindig, MC Hammer was singing “Can’t Touch This” over the speaker. Stop laughing.

My partying days are long gone. Last night, for instance, my “partying” consisted of watching Kathie Lee and Hoda on TV pretending to have fun at a New Year’s party. Whoop- di- doo! I went to bed at 10:30. I figured New York would drop the ball whether I was watching or not.

I was sleeping peacefully until a boom woke me up around midnight. A neighbor shot off some fireworks, or my husband was reacting to the mushroom puffs he’d eaten earlier in the evening. Either way, excitement was definitely in the air, at least momentarily.

Have a Happy 2017 that’s full of life, laughter, and love. God Bless and Party On…

Getting Old is a Pain

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“…There will be no more…crying or pain…” Rev. 21:4

I’d like to introduce you to my two new best friends. Say “Hello” to Mr. Heating Pad. I couldn’t ask for a better friend. He’s soft, warm, and doesn’t talk too much. Not exactly a bosom-buddy; more like a butt-buddy. In fact, we’ve been together so much lately, you could say we’re attached at the hip. My second friend is not as soft, but always seems to come through when I’m really hurting. Meet Ms. Ibuprofen. I always seem to feel better when she’s around.

It all started the day after Christmas, when, without any warning, I awoke to pain only a champion bull rider should experience the day after being thrown to the ground by a black bull named Tornado. But, instead of riding a bull on Christmas Day, something even more horrific happened to me. I got older. In spite of my best efforts to act like a kid at Christmas, my body wasn’t buying it.

The reality of getting older is the pain we’re feeling today, was actually caused by something we did many years ago. I remember my grandfather saying one day, “If I’d known I’d be living this long, I’d taken much better care of myself.” At the time, I didn’t know what he meant. Now, his message is painfully clear.

So, here’s a partial list of the injuries I’ve endured over the years. There was the groin injury in my twenties, the result of an overzealous aerobics instructor. And, then there’s the professional masseuse, so impressed with my flexibility that she lifted my left leg next to my right ear. I found out later she was a scout for the Cirque D’ Soleil. After that, there was the skiing accident. The first of many skiing accidents. It was the first day of our vacation and happened on Robert Redford’s lovely Sundance Ski Resort. I should have stayed home and watched The Way We Were on video, instead. Fortunately, I’d only torn a few ligaments or tendons in my knee, a mere flesh wound. So, no surgery was necessary.

My husband, in his infinite wisdom, decided to go on another ski trip the following year. This time I was able to enjoy the trip, except for the last night. He decided he wanted to go night-skiing. I have trouble skiing in the daytime, so don’t know what he was thinking. Falling off at the beginning of the ski lift should have been my first clue. But no, I had to get back on and try again. This time, I rode to the top of the mountain alongside a rookie snowboarder. We both made it off the lift, then, Wham! She slammed me into a wall, where I heard the sickening sound of my knee snapping. The trip wasn’t a complete bust, though. I got to ride in a bone-sled pulled by ski patrol going a hundred miles per hour down a snow-covered mountain at night. I was strapped in so tight, thankfully, all I could see was the stars flying by as we made our way down the length of the ski run. The highlight was being shoved through the square in the door of the emergency building just big enough for the bone sled to fit through. I now know what a pizza feels like being slid off a paddle and into a brick oven, except I was freezing.

Which brings me back to today’s pain. Evening is when the pain gets worse. I start moaning like Randy on Christmas Story when faced with eating a plate of meatloaf. Know what, Randy, I’ll trade ya’.

Happy Hoppin’ John Time!

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Verse: Save now, we beseech You, O Lord; send now prosperity, O Lord, we beseech You, and give to us success! Psalms 118:25(Ampl. Bible)

It’s New Year’s Day, and in a short while, probably between college football games, I’ll begin preparing a meal that’s been a family tradition for years, Hoppin’ John. According to my mom, Grandpa Zach began serving Hoppin’ John to his family on New Year’s Day. He believed eating it would bring more luck, money and prosperity to them in the coming year.

This is a tradition I carry on to this day. I decided to do some research on Hoppin’ John, and discovered its roots began in Southern states during the mid’ 1800’s. One story behind the unusual name recalls how an old man named John hobbled through Charleston selling rice and peas. But, most historians believe Hoppin’ John is actually derived from the French term for dried peas, “pois pigeons.”

Here are the main components of Hoppin’ John. Black-eyed peas are the star ingredient in this scrumptious concoction. The peas symbolize pennies or coins, and part of the ritual is placing a coin either in the pot, or under your bowl. I prefer the “under the bowl” method, since there’s less risk of accidentally ingesting the coin. I use a penny, and have too much respect for Lincoln, one of my favorite presidents, to put him through that particular ordeal. Eating peas is believed to bring both prosperity and luck. Rice, another component, represents good health, along with pork, thought to bring even more luck. Here, I’m a divergent, preferring to use smoked turkey sausage in place of ham or bacon. I think it tastes better. Hopefully, this minor alteration won’t diminish the luck factor, and might positively benefit my health. Along with black-eyed peas and rice, greens are served alongside the main dish. Apparently, any type of greens work, as long as they are, well, green, the color of currency, and represent wealth. Mac and cheese, for instance, though served in many Southern restaurants as a vegetable side, won’t work, unless, of course, they’re green. And, if they are green, better eat more rice for better health!

Like Sandra Lee, I opt for semi-homemade recipes, emphasis on the semi, not homemade. I generally slice up some smoked turkey sausage, and sauté it in a pan with a little oil. Then, I add some chopped onion, and sauté them together until the sausage begins to brown. Next, I drain a can of black-eyed peas, usually flavored with jalapenos for extra spice, and add it to the pot. I then add rice, and love using microwavable rice, for ease, choosing a wild-rice, brown blend, for more interest and flavor. Next, stir, and the Hoppin’ John is done. I like collards as my green accompaniment. My mom always serves spinach, another flavorful choice. There are some wonderful canned preseasoned collards available, like Margaret Holmes. They’re absolutely delicious, and inexpensive, too. Last, I use a boxed cornbread mix, Jiffy cornbread, that’s cheap, fifty cents a box, simple, with a slightly sweet flavor that perfectly complements the rest of the meal. Of course, you could make everything from scratch, and some may derive pleasure from doing so. Not me. So, in an effort to at least begin the year on a positive and peaceful note, I choose the easy preparation method listed above. The only thing left to do is sit down to a lovely, comforting meal, absolutely perfect for chasing the hangover/blues away.

I love eating Hoppin’ John on New Year’s Day, a tradition passed down from my grandfather. As far as I can figure, I’ve had it every year for over fifty years. I wouldn’t be surprised if my mom served pureed black-eyed peas to me as a baby. And, even though my brother Rich is not a big fan of them, he manages to ingest at least one of these lucky, coin-like peas on New Year’s Day, figuring a little luck is better than none. All this talk about Hoppin’ John is making me hungry. I better get to cooking. And, whether or not I’m more prosperous, I’m definitely more satisfied.

The Grocery Cart

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We’ve all experienced it. You go to the grocery store, and pick out a perfectly normal-looking grocery cart, only to realize you’ve unknowingly chosen the understudy to the car in Stephen King’s horror movie, “Christine”. Making matters worse, I wrenched my back heaving two tons of generic water into the “Shopping Cart From Hell”. The good news, I saved seventy-five cents buying in bulk. The bad news, it would cost fifty bucks to see the chiropractor.

The extra tonnage caused the cart to veer like a guided missile into the path of unsuspecting customers. Thankfully, no one was injured during my shopping experience, except me. Like Superman, I had used my body as a human shield to protect innocent bystanders within ten feet of the “Death Cart”. Unfortunately, I threw my hip out in the process, doubling my chiropractic bill.

My harrowing adventure came to an abrupt halt, as I managed a Transformer-like move into a nearby cash-register aisle, with no other people (I.e., targets) in line.

In light of this experience, I’d like to make the following suggestions…

Stores should create a new position called Quality Cart Inspector, whose main duty is to regularly check all grocery carts for navigability and functionality.
Those carts that fail to make the “cut” should then be shipped to the Pentagon as part of a weapon feasibility study.

Pumpkin Pancakes and Ketchup

It started out quite innocently. My son, Zach, and I headed toward Denny’s to taste one of the many pumpkin products that pops up, like Toaster Strudel(which, by the way, has its own pumpkin variety!) this time of year. We’ve already sampled our way through pumpkin spice coffee, pumpkin pie spice coffee, pumpkin spice creamers to go in the pumpkin spice coffees, pumpkin spice cookies, one with white chocolate chips, the other with cream cheese chips, all while breathing the delicious aroma of a pumpkin pie spice candle aglow on the coffee table, smelling so delicious I could almost taste it.

So, when Denny’s advertised Pumpkin Pancakes, we were in. Even though pancakes are traditionally eaten for breakfast, I prefer to eat them later in the day, where the cumulative effect of copious carbs and sugar are less detrimental to my cranial functioning and capacity. Otherwise, if I eat pancakes early, the rest of the day I resemble a post-apocalyptic zombie, which is fine if it’s Halloween. Oh, I forgot, it was Halloween. See what I mean by diminished cranial capacity? Still, I had to pick my husband up at the airport later, so must keep my wits about me. Late afternoon was the perfect time for me to try these seasonal pancakes.

I hadn’t been to Denny’s in a long time, so I was anxious to experience that special diner ambience, again. This nice young man seated us at a booth. There’s something about a booth–so cozy. Made me wish I had one in my dining room, except I couldn’t figure out where to put the TV trays. Without hesitation, I announced my order, “Pumpkin Pancake Breakfast, please”. “Do you want bacon, or sausage, or both?” “Both, of course.” Zach’s original intent was to also order the Pumpkin Pancakes, but the minute he spied that huge, cheesy, platter of nachos pictured on the front page of the menu, it was love at first bite.

Zach still wanted a “taste” of the Pumpkin Pancakes, however. So, after placing our order, he negotiated a deal. He’s become quite the bargainer. I’ve taught him well. Here’s the deal, I give him one of my pancakes, and he’ll give me “a” nacho. Whoever heard of eating one nacho? But, believing the trade would work toward the greater good of our relationship, and the lesser girth of my waist, I reluctantly agreed.

While waiting for our food to arrive, we listened to some great music playing in the background, including “Ballroom Blitz”–I’m still humming that one today. Soon, our food arrived. There were two pancakes. I carefully placed the top pancake on the extra plate I’d requested in anticipation of Zach’s deal, and slathered it with a huge portion of cinnamon-laced butter, as if the pancakes weren’t rich enough. I figured I could spare some even though this was not part of the “official” negotiations. Besides, there was least a half cup of this glorious concoction resting atop the pancakes, like a creamy, yellow crown.

Dutifully allocating the pancakes, one for me and one for Zach, I went to work on the rest of my meal. First, I salted and peppered my eggs which were cooked perfectly over-medium. Then, smashed them with my fork, just the way Grandpa Fred used to do. Next, on to doctoring the hash-browns. A little bit of salt, then I reached for the ketchup, formerly dubbed “the slowest ketchup”. No truer words were ever written, except for the Bible. I swear I heard Carly Simon singing “Anticipation” in the background.

After shaking it, I opened the lid, and carefully squeezed the bottle, not wanting any of the ketchup to find its way onto my festive, one-of-a-kind Halloween sweater. Nothing. Thinking maybe this was a new bottle, I tried to unscrew the lid, and remove the safety-seal. Forget the safety-seal, this cap wasn’t budging. To the rescue came my Knight-In-Shining-Armor, the Great Negotiator, my son. Zach carefully inspected the bottle, and began shaking it, as only a strong, young man can do, and disregarding the feeble attempts of a middle-aged, menopausal woman with a bum-thumb.

Zach turned the bottle upright, opened the lid, and, quicker than a Hawaiian volcano, ketchup spewed forth out of that tiny hole, smacking him right in the middle of his glasses, which he’d thankfully worn, instead of the usual contacts.

For a brief moment, we stared at each other, speechless over what had just happened. Then, as I looked at my son’s pitiful eyes through ketchup-stained glasses, we both simultaneously burst out laughing, and kept on laughing the rest of the day.

Zach, since the ketchup just missed your armor, you’re still my go-to-knight.

And, the Pumpkin Pancakes, by the way–the bomb!

Lost In Translation

I know very little Spanish. Several years ago, I learned a couple of essential terms for survival while on a trip to Mexico–tres queso(three cheese) quickly followed by bano, (bathroom). For my husband, the second term was absolutely essential. Poor thing. But, that’s another post. Fast forward to a recent trip we took to Talequah, Oklahoma. In spite of my language deficiencies, Mexican food is one of my favorites. I may not speak it, but I can eat it with the best of ’em. Before leaving, I searched the internet for the best Mexican food in town by reading local restaurant reviews. A restaurant simply named Jose’s, which had a 100% approval rating, was the clear winner. Armed with this crucial information, we set out on our trip.

After visiting a couple of tourist attractions, we decided to eat lunch. My husband entered the address into the GPS, and, mouths watering, we headed to Jose’s. Now, while the reviews gave Jose’s glowing reports about the food, it never mentioned that Jose’s was virtually impossible to locate. Traveling back and forth over the same road at least five times, we had to stop for gas. It was then we finally spotted a tiny sign on a non-descript strip center, not even close to the main road we were on. We’d finally found it. And, there were a couple of cars out front, so we ventured forth, hunger and hopes high.

After entering, it was apparent this was going to be a bit of a different dining experience. On one side of the restaurant was a little Mexican store, including a meat counter with a prominently displayed jar of pickled pigs feet. Beside the grocery were tables, and a counter with a blackboard that featured their specialty items for the day. No prices were listed. While surveying the chalkboard, we noticed a couple of ladies working on food preparation in the kitchen. They noticed us standing there, but continued to work. Finally, one of the ladies, rather hesitantly, approached, and in broken English, asked if she could help us. Though she tried, she did not understand our questions, nor did we understand her answers. Thankfully, a younger woman came over to the counter, and taking the pad from the other lady, asked if she could help us. The first woman retreated back into her kitchen, obviously preferring her comfort zone. Successfully placing our order, we found seats at a nearby table.

When the meal finally arrived, and we tasted it, it was easy to see why Jose’s had garnered such praise. I’ve eaten lots of Mexican food during my fifty-plus years on this planet. More than my share. In fact, I ate it everyday while pregnant with my son. I figured he’d either love it, or hate it, once welcomed into the outside world. Fortunately, he loves it, maybe even more than I do. To me, one of the true tests for any Mexican restaurant is the quality of their guacamole. And, Jose’s guacamole, freshly prepared and including the rare-seen addition of roasted corn, did not disappoint. Absolutely the best guacamole I’ve ever tasted. My whole family agreed, this was great food!

After finishing a delicious lunch, I wanted to personally thank the ladies responsible for making this delectable feast. Seeing the cooks sitting at a nearby table, taking a lunch break themselves, my son and I went over to express our gratitude for such a lovely meal. Since their understanding of English was rather limited, I decided to thank them in their native tongue. Slowly approaching the ladies’ table, and catching their gaze, I opened my mouth, intending to say, “Muchos Gracias”. That was my intention. However, to our mutual horror, out came the words, “Mucho Gasso”! What? Did that just come out of my mouth. Now, those ladies may not have understood much English, but these particular words they clearly understood. It was written all over the mortified looks on their faces. Quickly, like a knight in shining armor, my son stepped forward, announcing in perfectly enunciated Spanish, “Muy Delicioso”. Whew. The ladies looks quickly changed from horror to relief. Surely, if I can raise such a nice young fellow, I can’t be all bad. Disaster averted, we quickly paid the bill, leaving Jose’s.

Next time we go, I think I’ll practice my Spanish before opening my mouth. Better yet, maybe I’ll let my son do all the talking.

SEALED FOR YOUR PROTECTION: The Shrink-wrap Conspiracy

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The other day my mom told me she’d called a company about a spin-brush toothbrush she’d recently purchased because there was no way to extract the toothbrush from its package without causing major injury to her person. Mom has arthritis in her hands, so opening jars and other lids can present a challenge. Still, she has developed methods for dealing with this. In fact, that’s one of the reasons she married my father–his strong grip. One of many reasons, but at this point in her life, having a husband with a strong grip is definitely a plus. Still, she has figured out all sorts of ways to overcome the limited flexibility in her fingers. When encountering a difficult package, mom whips out her trusty scissors or rubber grip, and can usually negotiate the product out of its plastic overwrap–called shrink-wrap. However, no matter what method she employed(short of diffusing fireworks), this toothbrush wouldn’t budge. Using a finger bloodied in the heat of the extraction battle, mom wisely called the company. The cheerful voice on the other end of the line asked, “How can I help you?” “Well, I’m having trouble getting my new toothbrush out of its package without needing a blood transfusion.” “I’m sorry for your trouble, we’ve had lots of problems with that particular brush. Let me send you a coupon for another toothbrush that’s easier to open.” Within a few days the company did indeed send mom the coupons. Sure enough, the new toothbrush was much easier to retrieve. And, thankfully, no blood was shed during the process.

I’ve had my own encounters with shrink-wrap and other plastic coverings, most notably DVD covers. How do you take those things off without damaging the contents, or your fingers? I’m still trying to work out the mechanics of this maneuver. By the way, it should be noted that whenever something is shrink-wrapped, the label usually reads, “Sealed For Your Protection.” Based on my and others’ experiences, this surely means you’d be better off never purchasing/opening the product in the first place–unless you’ve made a sizable contribution to your personal blood bank account, and have an experienced paramedic standing by. Perhaps, “Enter At Your Own Risk”, is more accurate.

Too Dumb For A Smart Phone?

I finally figured out that the empty squares I received along with texts were pictures my friends had attempted to send from their latest smart phone. Unfortunately, they had sent them to my beloved, but antiquated, flip-phone. Begrudgingly, I decided it was time to enter the twenty-first century, and acquire one of these devices for my own. My main concern, am I smart enough for a smart phone? Historically, me and technology don’t mix. In fact, I had my flip-phone for several years before I figured out that I could send text with it. It’s a known fact that my brother, Rich, got 90% of the tech-savvy in our family, and the rest of us, maybe 10%(and that’s being generous). Sad, but true. Note to young women, marry a tech-savvy/auto mechanic/plumber who can cook–you’ll thank me later. Even if he looks like a Duck Dynasty reject, the first time he fixes your computer, car or toilet you’ll see him in a whole new way–and, in the right light(say the dim light of a computer), he might even look kinda sexy. Sadly, I did not marry such a fellow, and am left to figure out these things myself. Boo hoo!

The following “true” account perfectly illustrates my technophobia. I was thrilled to procure a position as a paralegal at a prestigious law firm after graduating from college. Once they showed me to my office, and introduced me to my co-workers, it was time to learn the firm’s phone system. Graduating Summa Cum Laude, learning a phone system would be a piece of cake. As instructed, I called the receptionist, who would assist me in setting up my voice mail–something I’d never used before in any previous employment. I breezed through the first set of instructions, no problem. Next, the receptionist instructed me to “Pound seven”. Thinking it a bit odd, but determined to follow her instructions to the letter, I firmly touched the seven key with my index finger, with as much force as I could without breaking my fingernail. Not getting the result I was supposed to get, I asked the very patient receptionist to repeat her instruction one more time. So, again she said, “Pound seven”. With as much force as I could muster, I began poking the seven key, causing me to cramp in my finger. “Any luck?” “No–I’m pounding the seven key as hard as I can, and it doesn’t seem to be working.” First, awkward silence, then, hysterical laughter could be heard on the other end of the line. Realizing my ignorance, the receptionist, quite sweetly, remarked that “pound” referred to the number(#) sign on the phone’s keypad. Index finger still throbbing, and pride a bit injured, I finally managed to successfully set up my voice mail. To her credit, the receptionist never mentioned this incident to anyone–and I decided not to file a Worker’s Comp claim for the finger I injured while setting up my phone.

So, you can understand my aversion to Smart Phones. Even the name is intimidating. Bravely, I finally took the plunge, and ordered a Smart Phone, an android smart phone, to be exact. Sounds like technology from another planet. As far as I’m concerned, it might as well be. It took me an entire week to work up the courage to actually open the box once the phone shipped, because I knew that once it was opened and activated, there was no going back. I decided to learn how my new phone worked on a weekend, so I’d have time to watch some of the “how-to” videos online. I managed to enter my contacts from my old phone, and could silence the phone. What else did I need to learn? So, as usual, I took my son to school, and told him to give me a call when he was ready to be picked up. Which he did–except for one problem, I kept trying to answer the phone, by touching the green phone icon, but was never connected to my son. Three more calls, and loads of frustration later, I realized that I didn’t know how to answer my new phone. Totally embarrassed, I finally headed over to where my son was supposed to be. Thankfully, aware that I might be having problems using my new toy, he’d wisely come out of the building to meet me. When I told him what had happened, I asked him to help me figure this thing out. Looking at my phone, Zach said, “Mom, I think you need to swipe it.” Simple as that. At last I could answer my phone. So much for Summa Cum Laude.

Not exactly a Smart Phone guru, one thing’s for sure, you won’t find me texting while driving. Hey, maybe I’m smart enough for a Smart Phone, after all.

Walmart Woes–Part One

English: Inside the Walmart (still branded as ... — English: Inside the Walmart (still branded as Wal-Mart) at West Plains, Missouri. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I definitely have a love/hate relationship with Walmart. Love the convenience and bargains–price matching is awesome. Hate the hassles and long lines. Here’s why…

After a couple of years, my $10 Walmart watch finally gave out. Figuring I’d gotten my money’s worth, I made a trip to a nearby store, hoping to find another bargain watch as a replacement. For a Saturday, the store was surprisingly quiet. Since I frequented Walmart nearly as often as my own home–I know the floorplan like the back of my hand. Surveying the choices, I found a watch to my liking, and quickly made my way to the jewelry counter where two women were standing behind the cash register. One woman appeared to be wrapping up her shift, while chatting with another clerk. Neither of them even noticed my husband and me standing within a foot of them. In fact, it seemed they were actively ignoring us, particularly aggravating, since, as a quality assurance facilitator, I trained and coached customer service reps at a large call center. We called it “acknowledging the customer”, especially important when the customer is standing right in front of you. The one lady finished her shift, left and, after a few minutes of awkward silence, the other clerk, looking like the proverbial “deer in the headlight” finally said, “Can I help you?” Shopping is not one of my husband’s favorite activities, especially when it does not involve food products, so I was feeling more than a little hurried. Plus, patience is not one of my finer qualities, and God often presents me with these types of situations to exercise it. So, I took a couple of deep breaths, in order to respond calmly. In front of the obviously inexperienced clerk, I set the watch I’d chosen down on the counter. Withholding any comment about being previously neglected, I paid for the watch. Then, I asked if she could take it out of the plastic packaging for me, so I could try it on. Again, the “deer look”, then she finally figured out how to release the watch from the container. For the first time I would see the watch out of the package. Since my hands are slightly arthritic, I needed an expandable band. On closer inspection, I determined the band was not.

So, unfortunately, it was back to the drawing board to look for a watch with an expandable band. Now, I needed a refund of my previous purchase, so I could put the new watch on my credit card. Except the clerk, with that familiar headlight look, and multiple tries later, finally called for a manager to come over and help her with my transaction. The manager was able to complete the process, successfully putting the money back onto my credit card so I could purchase the new expandable band watch.

After trying on the watch, all I needed were a couple of links taken out of the band, since my wrists are one of the few smallish parts on my person, along with my feet. Surprise, the clerk politely informed me that she was incapable of helping me with this, and that I would need to come back during the week, between 9-4, and there would be someone in the jewelry department qualified to help me. So, watch dangling freely around my wrist, dignity and sanity intact, my husband and I calmly made our way out of the store. Like the Terminator, “I’ll be back”, ready to take on the next installment in the Walmart saga.

Doggone Funny

Joyce Meyer recently told a story about something that happened with her little dog. In the morning, Joyce’s normal routine was to let her dog out to do its business, rewarding them with a treat afterwards. However, on this particular day, when her doggie came back inside, instead of giving the dog a treat, Joyce popped the tasty morsel into her own mouth. Which, reminds me of something that happened in our household recently. I must preface this with a little background information about my husband, Steve. First of all, I love my husband, warts and all. Goodness knows I’ve got my share of warts. But, some of his habits are, how can I put this, less than “tasteful”. Early in our relationship, I invited my husband to lunch with my parents, whom he’d never met. Already smitten, I was hoping he’d make a good impression. We were having a delightful lunch, and right in the middle, Steve stabbed his fork into my last bite of meatloaf, “You don’t want that, do you?” Stunned, “I guess not” was all the response I could manage. My dad, known more for his quick wit than civility, said, “You picked a good one here”. Even though my husband failed the school of social graces, I married him anyway. Some battles are worth fighting–this wasn’t one of them. Well, one of his habits came back to “bite him”, so to speak.

My son, Zach, a college student, usually feeds Rosy, our dog, her dinner. But, school has been requiring so much of his time, that I decided to give him a break and feed Rosy myself. The problem was that I was also simultaneously fixing our dinner. While preparing dinner, I normally set the spoon that I’m stirring the food with onto a paper plate. Multitasking as always, I set about fixing Rosy’s meal, which consists of dog food crunchies, fish oil, arthritis pill, and no salt French green beans, which I mash up with a fork, and stir into the rest of her concoction in her dog bowl. Without thinking, I set the fork down on the same paper plate that I had set the stirring spoon for our meal. I stepped away to fold a little laundry. As usual, my husband made his way into the kitchen, and lickety split, pun intended, licked the contents off the fork. “What are you cooking? It tastes sort of like fish, but not any fish I’ve ever eaten before.” Right then, I realized what had happened, and died laughing, totally at my husband’s expense. I wanted to tell him what he’d actually eaten was from Rosy’s meal, but couldn’t stop laughing. Finally, composing myself, I revealed the truth about what my husband had unknowingly just ingested. Grunting, “That’s gross”, he made his out of the kitchen. You know what, I think I’ve figured out how to break some of my husband’s bad habits. He hasn’t licked a random fork in a long time.

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