Bizarre, Unsolicited Romantic Advice To And From Dirty People

Once upon a time, when I thought it was still appropriate for one’s butt cheeks to hang out of shorts, I went to a music festival with my sister. Performing on one of the smaller stages was a girl whose lack of hygiene put mine to shame. While I confess to being chronically Unwashed, this girl was grimy- her hair hung in lank, dirty locks around her face, she wore a filthy oversized shirt, her overall appearance was one of a person who questions the utility of indoor plumbing marvels such as showers.

The music was electrical synthesizer, the kind that homeless youths might dance to at during impromptu raves in back alleys. The girls swayed back and forth on stage as though she was in her own grungy world. The performance was as forgettable as she was clean, which is to say, not at all. In the same way that I live to my name, she lived up to hers; she called herself Grimes. She brought dirt to a whole new level that I had never considered.

Grimes is a Canadian artist so she resurfaces on my radar now and again. When this happens, I always check to see whether she’s bathed in the last six months. But most recently, I paid attention to the young musician because Grimes attended the Met ball with Elon Musk. I like Elon Musk- he’s accomplishing incredible feats with his company and has his head on straight about a lot of issues; the most pertinent one being his resistance to AI. However I wouldn’t want any of my friends dating him. Grimes and I are not friends but we’re kind of in the small clique of people who eschew standard grooming habits, so, we’re compatriots in the fight against an overly sanitized and wiped down world.

Anyways during my third year of university I was dating a man who my parents called “a bad choice”. My Dad disliked this guy to the point that he let loose the most damning insult in my father’s limited repertoire- “He’ll be a poor businessman.” My mother was blunter and shared her thoughts on this young man one morning while I was leaving for work.

I want to say to Grimes what my mother said to me “Oh you poor, pungent, filthy girl, I’m sorry” actually my mother did not preface her speech with that. My mother would never say “I’m sorry” when giving these types of speeches, instead my mother merely shouted at me “Don’t call him. He isn’t going to love you Unwashed, he’s not going to marry you!” There was probably more to that sermon but I ran out the door covering my ears. No doubt Grimes would do the same, but still as a fellow lover of dirt in a world where many people shower every day (why?), I feel it’s my duty to give her fair warning.

 

Magic Is All Well And Good Until You Serenade A Stranger

A friend of mine posted this message the other week “Look for people who bring out your magic, not your madness” to which my only response is “What if your magic looks like madness?”

I was having a magical morning; the sun was shining, the air was crisp but not too cold. It was the Three Bears of fall weather for vampires like me who want the sun but need the cold to soothe the burning of their skin. The only weather that is better in my opinion are the minus thirty Celsius days where it’s so bright that you wander around the snow drifts shouting “I’m bliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiind! Bliiiiiiiiiiiiiiind!” before heading back into the house for sunglasses.

I was on the bike. And singing. Because there’s no point in having a weird bike unless you own it by also performing in a one woman musical as you ride down the street. Now before anyone gets too impressed by my physical fitness, I should amend that statement to- I coasted down the street. Although we have a reclining baby seat for infants, my daughter insists on craning her little head up and forward like a tiny, ginger periscope, so to protect her neck, I go an average of ten kilometers an hour.

So I’m singing away and my excellent mood continues all the way to the grocery store where there’s a car cart just sitting out, saying “Take me, I was left out here just for you.” This of course makes me smile wider so that I look like a T-Rex about to devour the metal shopping cart. A happy T-Rex who loves Abba.

Mini-Tex climbs into the front and I pop my baby into the seat in front of the handles. This is where things went awry. Now I had an audience. Specifically my infant. So I am singing to beat the band and kissing her and smiling away, just looking like a crazy person in general, but it’s fine because crazy beats homeless and I got mistaken for a vagrant last year.

I steer my way around the fresh produce section. There’s lots of room, few people, mostly grandmas who are remembering joyful mornings with their little ones like the one I’m having. Still singing so all was eccentric but still well.

Everything was good until the narrow aisle that was closed on one end for renovations, that was when the wheels fell off the eccentric cart and it became a crazy train because I broke into a new loud song just as I was turning the cart. Which would have been fine had I not locked eyes with an uncomfortable looking man who for a second thought I was speaking to him. To make this awkward moment even more cringe worthy, I belted out the lyrics “Hold our your hand darling” at that second.

So I did it. I called a grown man “darling” in the middle of the grocery store and sang to him. He’s probably decided it’s safest to shop at the competing grocery chain and that perhaps he should consider backing the NDP in this coming election because clearly mental health sector is not getting the attention or funding it deserves.

That was my magic. It unfortunately looks like absolute madness. I’m uncertain whether I should be searching for more people to bring this out of me. My gut says “no”.

Slow Dancing With Our Nation’s Leader

Tex went away for a week and a half. I’m not what most people would describe as “normal” at the best of times, but my husband’s presence does have a tempering effect on my weird.

Which meant that eight days into his absence, this happened.Talking with Justi

In case you’re wondering, that’s a random ad for the Liberals playing on the iPad. I put it on mute and then pretend that the Prime Minister of Canada is giving me compliments and asking me out.

My strange is kind of like a freight train, it takes a while to get going but once it’s out of the station it takes a while to slow down.

cRAZY TRAIN

Which meant that four days after Tex returned, this happened.

Dancing with Justi 1

For the record, Tex does wear a cowboy hat along with boots and spurs at all times. I merely request that he remove them in bed.

Dancing with Justi 2

Our couch changes colour sometimes. This happens with children- mostly it goes from normal to puke coloured.

Dancing with Justi 3

I look forward to the return of my regularly scheduled programming. This whole situation is becoming a little odd even for me.

This Is My Cocaine

Or rather it would be but for one tricky ingredient. In addition to our family’s continued commitment to biking, buying secondhand, reducing our reliance on fossil fuels and living in sweaters for the majority of the year, I’ve started branching out with my environmental activism- by asking companies directly to change what they are doing.

Dear the good people of Nabisco,

I heard somewhere once that Oreos are more addictive than cocaine. I love Oreos, not only did I totally believe this, but I have experienced their addictiveness firsthand. You have an excellent product. I’ve never tried cocaine, but I’ve compiled a list of why Oreos are superior.

Reasons Why Oreos Are Better Than Cocaine

  1. They are delicious. Very delicious. I’m fairly certain cocaine doesn’t go in a person’s mouth. Don’t quote me on that. I’m not well informed on these topics. The only thing I’m certain of is that cocaine doesn’t go in your ear. Or maybe it does. You know what? Never mind, we should move on.
  2. You can share a box and make friends. Sharing drugs makes one a drug dealer and a felon. Best to bring a box of cookies.
  3. Three words: chocolate dipped Oreos. Again, I’m not familiar with the seedy underbelly of the drug world but I’m 99.8% certain that chocolate dipped cocaine isn’t a thing. Or at the very least it hasn’t been suggested to my Pintrest board.
  4. You can acquire them at a grocery store and not in a back alley. A plus for those who value their wellbeing, which I do.
  5. No policeman will ever search your car for Oreos. Only because I’m not a policeman. If I was I would be searching people’s cars ALL THE TIME.
  6. If you eat too many Oreos, you can ride your bike to work to get them off your hips. Good for you and a plus for the environment. Again, not too familiar with the drug world, but I’m fairly certain there are flashing lights and sirens involved when there’s a question of too much cocaine.
  7. You’ll never have to get in trouble with your roommates for consuming all the Oreos. Actually, this is a lie and has frequently happened to me. Can I hide behind the statement of how addictive Oreos are?

I then of course, had to compile the opposite list just to compare.

Reasons Why Cocaine is Better Than Oreos

  1. It doesn’t contain palm oil.

This one reason is driving force behind why our family has not purchased not only Oreos but any Nabisco cookies, since 2017, when we stopped consuming palm oil. The rainforests are burning. Part of that destruction is the result of the world’ hunger for beef, but palm oil also plays a large role. Canola oil is an excellent emulsifier and furthermore is a local product which is raised in Canada and the United States.

As you can tell from my list, I love Oreos. And I’ll be honest; I miss them dearly and stroke the packages longingly as I pass by them in the grocery store. But my desire for a world with intact rainforests is greater. Please use canola oil in the place of palm oil in your Nabisco cookies.

Sincerely,

The Great Unwashed

I Saved The World Today

You’re welcome of course.

Every so often when a package arrives at our house and it’s addressed to my husband,  I open it. Not because I enjoy breaking the law. Although who doesn’t love a good felony? But because I’m checking that the box isn’t ray gun parts.

Not that I’d know what ray gun parts look like. But even so, I try. Also Tex still swears up and down that he isn’t building a ray gun. Which incidentally is exactly what someone who was building a ray gun would say. I’m not so much concerned about Tex constructing it as I am the alleged ray gun falling into the hands of a criminal mastermind. My husband is a peace loving person but sometimes he creates wildly complex, outlandish things just for kicks.

At any rate the world’s is safe for today. Unless of course ray guns are powered by cheese in which case all bets are off. 20190826_141310

Again, you’re welcome.

Unfortunate Note Taking and Political Outbursts

Moving is amazing. The only thing better than packing up all your belongings and schlepping them to a completely different place is the process of rebuilding your social circle from scratch. We officially moved into our new community over a month ago and life is going swimmingly. The only problem is, well, I can’t recognize people. Children are easy to discern- they’re always running around shouting their names and declaring that so and so hit them, so remembering their names and differentiating little people is a snap. Adults? Not so much.

It’s to the point where if a man of similar size and build approached me on the street and was like “Hey sweetie, ready to go swimming with dolphins?” I’d be all “Dad! You always forget that I’m terrified of dolphins.” And “Is that moustache new?”

Our small community was rocked by a scandal recently. Our local provincial representative found himself at the epicenter of a sexual harassment lawsuit.

Gross. Super gross. But I was delighted because it’s a small community, meaning that I would see this knave, and could therefore take him to task.

I love telling off politicians. It’s my second favourite activity after eating hamburgers while watching people on ellipticals. I enjoy telling politicians off even when they haven’t done anything wrong. All that I require is that their political views that differ from mine. By the way my political views are that everyone should share everything always and belt out the 90’s heartthrob band Hanson once a day. Super reasonable and mainstream.

But in order for me to recognize the politician in question, the creep would have to be standing next to one of his election signs, sticking out his hand saying “I’m so and so, elected official for the area and confirmed dirty old man.”

Even then, I’d probably take in that scene and scratch my chin saying “I feel like I know you from somewhere.”

For serious most men look similar. They compound this problem by constantly dressing the same- shirt and pants or a suit for fancy occasions. My heart goes out to all those baby mamas on Jerry Springer who had their husband’s brother’s baby. When the women on daytime TV screech “Puddin’ I had no idea it was your brother- I thought it was you! I’m sorry five of our eight babies are his.” I nod in solemn solidarity because there but for the grace of God go I. For the longest time, I tried to date only men with sisters to avoid this problem.

So though I was all fired up and ready to rip the local MP a new one, even I recognized that calling out this man on his actions was a poor choice. I could even see it in my head. Last Tuesday evening, there was a massive town event. Everyone was in attendance. I pictured myself spotting the miscreant from across the curling rink.

“Oy! Pervert! You think you can harass women in private? Well I’m here to bring you your come uppance in public! Times up jerk!”

And there’d be an uncomfortable murmur through the crowd and some nice woman with a blonde bob who would later claim that we have multiple times would whisper in my ear.

And then I’d sheepishly say “Pastor Kent, I’m so sorry. I didn’t recognize you without your robe on, obviously I need to review to your last sermon about finding tranquility through God.”

So in spite of my great desire give our local politician what for, I’m going to focus my energy on learning the names of everyone in the community. Currently I have a list going by our front door. I add to it whenever I meet someone new. It looks something like this:

Sharon- grocery store, highlights, likes macrame

Max –church, tallish, weird gait, hockey buff

Cherise – church, chubby, toe ring, bakes

Fern – bowling alley, three children; one is a disappointment

Alex – park, black dog, unibrow

I’m not sure what I’ll do when Cherise takes off her toe ring or Max finally gets the orthopedic shoes he needs but I’ll cross that bridge when I get there. In the meantime, I’m blending in and trying not to introduce myself to the same person for the eighth time that week at the park and inquiring gently about Fern’s middle child. Also I should have made a note as to whether it was Alex who had a unibrow or his dog.

Why Do I Always Guest Star In Pornos or The True Secret To #WinningParenting

I don’t claim to be the best parent ever. In fact, I’m probably third from the worst but generally, in public at least, I keep my act together. Except for that time I wanted to beat up a septogenarian. Or at Halloween when we kept our three year old out so late that he lost interest in candy and decorations. However I can definitively say, that I have not bang-a-langed in public while with my child. Previously, I felt that this was a key step in raising well adjusted children, my experience last weekend now leaves me questioning that conclusion.

At the Children’s Museum, there was this pair of Francophones who were sitting on a bench pawing at each other like teenagers. You know how people shout “Get a room!” at couples who are getting a little too amorous in public? I felt like saying “Get a consent form!” or possibly “You might need to check the provincial legislation before trying that move.” It was a little extreme. And creative.

These people were going at it like it was some sort of dirty movie. I could all but hear the “Bow-chick-a-Bow-wow” music playing inside their heads. However they were kind enough to leave half the bench empty so being a person who makes poor choices, I sat next to them for a bit because it was the closest seat to my son’s chosen play area but it was kind of awkward. And by kind of awkward, I didn’t know whether I should be filming the couple or writing up a ticket for a citizen’s arrest.

All the while, I saw these two little girls who were playing so sweetly together, they were just wandering from gallery to gallery, happy as could be. Mini-Tex was having a heck of a time getting into the play structure and needed help to get from one level to another, so when the girls returned, I asked them whether they would help him. I thought maybe the girls would give my son a boost and just go back to their play. No, suddenly my three year old had two best friends who wanted to lift him and show him all the fun spots he couldn’t reach previously in the structure. The kids just had a ball together. At one point the tow girls got Mini-Tex to cling to a hanging pool noodle and pushed him like Tarzan swinging on vines through the jungle.

The girls were very careful to always make sure that he was safe. It was delightful to watch because Mini-Tex was elated to not only have such interested playmates but to try out all the elements of the structure that he had spent a year merely looking at. So there I am, trying to avoid the soft core porn on the bench occurring next to the play structure while keeping my son in my sights.

The girls played with Mini-Tex for over an hour. He had the time of his life. I kept watch for their parents to commend them on what an awesome job they were doing and how kind their girls were but never spotted them. In the meantime, the Francophones had decided to do a hands-on, educational demonstration of how to create more children. A perfect exhibit for the Children’s Museum if a person thinks about it really. The other parents and I averted our eyes while the kids played innocently around the public display.

Eventually, the girls made their way down the play structure with Mini-Tex. “We have to go, it’s his nap time.” I informed my son’s new friends. “We will walk you to the door” the little girls all but sang at Mini-Tex and me. Then, I watched in utter shock as the girls rushed over to the French couple. “Maman, Papa, on revient!”

So that seals it, apparently I have to start dry humping my husband in the supermarket so that our son grows up to be as independent and kind hearted as those two little people. Sex in public- it’s my newest parenting hack. And here all of you concerned parents were debating to spank or not to spank. Clearly the answer is to spank, just not your children.

 

Also, in case you don’t remember, this isn’t the first time that I’ve made an accidental cameo in a dirty movie. The last time was five years ago. Apparently this is something I do twice a decade.

Four Years Ago Today

img_0996-1

I still relive this day in my head with the same joy and excitement that I felt climbing up that hill and kissing my new husband for so long that the minister commented on it. (Photo Credit : Sula)

Tex,

I’m sorry. Once again, you undoubtedly bought me the perfect card which sums up your feelings for me and inscribed it with a heartfelt and romantic message of gratitude and love. And in return you received a Happy Hanukkah card with a porcupine on it-which is a bit of a head-scratcher because to start with, we’re not Jewish. I’m a little rubbish at personal milestones.

Don’t let my inability to choose heartwarming stationary make you think that I don’t care. It sounds trite, but every single day you inspire me to be a better person; the kindness that you unconditionally show to the world makes me smile. And makes me wish I could be that nice. Most of the time, I settle for having a truly empathetic and loving spouse while continuing to be my mischievous and slightly unpleasant self.

I said it in our wedding vows, but I hunted you down with all the stealth and cunning of a puma. And every day I look at you and think “I’d do it again in a heartbeat.” You’re the most funny, interesting, smart person I know. You’re the only person I ever dated who matched the magnitude of my passion and zest for life. Your deep commitment to your interests brings me joy. From the time we met, you are and remain, my favourite person ever. I can’t wait for our next wedding anniversary and all the ones to come.

Also, right now, hold onto those fluttery, nice feelings you have towards me. I need to confess something. I told our mailman that you’re a never-nude.

Cj_KtRIWUAENINS

It’s exactly like this. Only with black socks. Photo Credit : Twitter.

It just came out. Sorry. But it is odd that in the five years that we’ve been together, I’ve never once glimpsed your feet.

As always,

your loving, but overly chatty wife

An Accurate Squash Recipe

Recipes read like joke books to me. In particular, the ones involving squash. I always look at the ingredients list and think “3 cups of squash? Are you kidding me?” What I’d like to know is; who are these people who just have three cups of squash? Do they not have gardens? Or mother-in-laws that farm? Are they the ones buying the teeny baby squashes that are sold in grocery stores by the pound for exorbitant prices?

Admittedly, I have less squash than I’ve had in previous years. And nothing will ever compare to the year of the gourds. That was the year that butternuts came like the plague only instead of grasshoppers, we got gourds, an endless parade of gourds. Not even the little ones that are sold in the grocery stores- these were giant butternut squash that ate the little grocery store squash for breakfast, then took over the zucchini patch for lunch.

Tex and I ate two hundred pounds of squash that year. Two hundred. By December I didn’t love my favourite squash recipe anymore. I used to be able to eat that salad for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Also, while Tex is willing to take one for the team and eat his family’s allotment of dog fur flavoured seal meat, around about January of the year of the gourds, my husband gave up eating squash. Meaning that in twelve months I ate more than my weight in gourds. That’s right, I ate a butternut person. And if my mother-in-law drops off another couple hundred pounds of squash at my door, I’d do it again.

I started hiding squash in things. Not like couches or other people’s cars, although that would have been brilliant idea and relieved me of a couple of gourds, more like in dishes. I discovered that squash thickens up homemade spaghetti sauce. And best of all- you can’t taste it. I mashed acorn squash into chili and then told Tex that it was just chili. Because otherwise he might have balked and gone out for KFC.

During the year of the squash, we had so much that Tex, my resident knife sharpener got tired of touching up the blades every other day and invested in a cleaver. The butternuts were rendered easier but the Koboka squash were still tough to crack. Don’t be upset if you’ve never seen or heard of a Koboka squash before, its part-gourd, part-medieval-cannonball and they’ve got a rind made of  cast iron.

My uncle who grew up on a farm suggested throwing the Kobokas down the stairs to crack them open. Not only would we have lost our damage deposit along with a means of accessing the laundry room in the basement but I suspect the Kobokas would have rolled away without a scratch. Tex purchased the cleaver specifically for them.

To cut up a Koboka, Tex would stand at one end of the kitchen, and using all of his farm boy strength combined with engineering know-how, chuck the cleaver at the Koboka like a hipster at an ax throwing competition. The cleaver would barely sink into the skin of the cannonball-squash-cross but it would be enough. Then he’d walk down to the local prison and ask the largest inmate, the one who spends his entire jail sentence bench pressing weights, to lean on the cleaver. Once that strong man was exhausted, the Koboka would be pried open enough that Tex could repeat his cleaver throwing bit again and begin to carve the vegetable up for dinner.

We had twelve Koboka squash that year. All of them were approximately the size of a chubby eight month old. I know this because I held a photo survey with my family asking “Who’s larger: the squash or the baby?” The squash won by a landslide.

In addition to the sheer amount of work necessary to chop them up, I also was forced to find new recipes. Hence the laughable nature of a soup requiring just three cups of squash. So I’ve decided to make my own recipe. One that farmers and those with gardens will actually find helpful.

 

Squash Soup or Squash Casserole or Squash Rigoli or Whatever You Need To Call This Dish So That Your Family Will Eat More Squash

Minutes of preparation : Until the end of TIME

For serious, you will have squash until the end of time. Your days will be marked by time not preparing squash versus time chopping up and cooking squash. If you wanted a different life, maybe you should have considered that before taking up gardening.

Ingredients

Squash, all the squash, as much squash as you have the strength and wherewithal to chop up.

Other vegetables, probably broth.

Steps

  1. Cut up squash. Give up halfway through and start downing shots. Eye the twenty other squash sitting in the corner or your pantry with a combination of revulsion and appreciation.
  2. Return to the kitchen. Might I suggest using the dull knife after all the alcohol?
  3. Finish chopping squash.
  4. Lay squash on a tray, place in the oven. Bake at 375 F for an hour. Unless the squash is spaghetti squash from Tex’s cousin, in which case it’s going to take a minimum of two hours. While you’re waiting, down more shots.
  5. Remove squash and put in pot with other flavourful vegetables that will hopefully cover the taste of the squash. Add broth. Bring to boiling and then simmer for 30 minutes.
  6. Depending on how bad the situation is at your house, you may need to blend the sucker. In fact I recommend it, anything to disguise the fact that you’re eating squash.
  7. Serve to your unsuspecting family. Tell them it’s carrot soup. If the soup isn’t orange, add an Oompa Loompa as a garnish.

 

This post is dedicated to my mother-in-law, who has lovingly grown every one of the 600 lbs of squash that I’ve eaten since 2015. And put up with teasing about her plentiful squash patch.

There’s A Terrible, Devious Part Of Me That Wants To Call His Bluff

So I arrived home to find this on the counter.

If you can’t read my husband’s writing it says

“If I find one more of these loose in the bottom of the dishwasher clogging up the drain, I will preemptively remove all of them. We will be having “surprise” for supper a lot.

Love, Tex”

And there is an arrow leading to my label which says “Pork Spcg Sauce”, which for those uninitiated to my serial killer printing, means pork spaghetti sauce.

The ironic thing is; the containers began being labeled because of Tex. He objected to pulling what he thought was sausage soup out of the freezer, only to arrive home to a thawed container of applesauce. I don’t know about you, but I am fine with just applesauce for dinner. I just pretend that I’m eight months old again and sporadically sneeze into my dining companion’s mouths to complete the experience. Although I’m not a fan of the dessert course, when you take off your socks, rub them in your applesauce coated hair and then suck on the juicy toes.

In fact, I was accustomed to the concept of mystery dinners, because ten years ago, I started a steamy love affair. With soup. I had just begun learning to cook and while I enjoyed it, it wasn’t something I wanted to do every day. Enter my hot and freezer worthy friend. I began cooking vats of soup. And then freezing it in small batches. It was convenient, it was fabulous; I had discovered the culinary equivalent of a boyfriend sweater- all easy to heat up, comforting and right there when you need it.

When I lived alone, because there’s only so often a person can grow a beard, scratch their groin and retreat into their own personal hovel, I had potluck dinner with friends twice a week. In the morning, I would grab unlabeled containers out of my freezer then leave them to thaw all day in my car. This plan would never work now, what with my snuggling up to polar bears and camping on icebergs every night, but back when I lived in the south with that stranger whom people call “heat”, my soups melted. (It’s approximately minus a bajillion outside today. A snowdrift knocked on the door asking to come in and warm up but I had to turn him away because there was already a hypothermic ice sculpture shivering in the hallway.) Then I would crack open said “mystery” supper container at my friend’s house. There was only one occasion where I did a Homer Simpson impersonation after realizing that I had not shown up with chili- it was pasta sauce, which I also made in large batches.

Luckily my friends were as lackadaisical about food as me. I also suspect that they were grateful when I didn’t turn up on their doorstep with eight pounds of mashed rutabaga. Because this was also around the time when I turned full hippie and was a pious, irritating, root vegetable-farting locavore.  I was one stick of organic incense away from braiding rugs out of my underarm hair.

Sula, my best girlfriend, moonlighted as a taxidermist on weekends. Her freezer was often stuffed full of meats succinctly titled “STK”. A rarely discussed benefit of stuffing wild animals- sometimes hunters give you the meat. For our weekly craft nights, she’d pull one of the trays out and create culinary masterpieces. Including the one time when I walked in the door and Sula said “I’m sorry, I thought it was venison but I think it’s bear.” Then she dipped her spoon into the mixture and took another taste. “Yep, it’s bear.”

Though my friends and I loved this devil-may-care approach to dinner, this did not fly with my husband. So when I started cooking up giant vats of different soups using his old 60 liter beer making pot, the final step before stowing the endless parade of containers in the freezer became making indecipherable labels for them. For  serious it was an endless parade, even though the plastic vessels weren’t filled with candy, there’s a part of me that feels vaguely like an Oompa Loompa after dealing with 50 liters of soup. This might have something to do with my hands being dyed orange from peeling and chopping ten pounds of carrots like I’m a cook on a military base. Or an orphan in a Dickens’ novel.

Tex would even make jokes to chastise me when I would forget the labels. So there’s an evil part of me that wants to test my husband’s patience along with his taste buds because at some point, if we remove the labels, Tex will end up eating an entire container of wild cranberry sauce for lunch. Sweat sock smell, round pits and all. I’ll let you know if my diabolical or, more likely, forgetful side wins out and the labels get tossed. I can’t wait to eat apricot kiwi mash for dinner. I’m going to toss some of it in Tex’s hair just to make it authentic. What would be the best though, is if I was still nursing our son. Nothing like a wholesome cup of breastmilk to cap off a rough day.

 

Addendum

Tex arrived home right after I finished penning this post. While writing it, I had sent him a text saying “Do you have your key? Also, I did what you asked.”

The second sentence being a reference to the fact that he signed his note with the moniker I use for him on my blog. I thought Tex had wanted me to write a post. When my husband walked in the door, he breathed a sigh of relief over not seeing a pile of tiny labels next to his note. In his words “My wife is a little evil, I didn’t know what to expect.”

I love that our marriage is a bit of a crapshoot for him.