Lucy Lips

My sister Kat has a nickname for me, Lucy Lips.  It doesn’t make sense until you hear her say it, long and drawn out, “Loooooooooosy Lips”.  This is because she accuses me of not being able to keep any secret.  Kat warns anyone who will listen to be careful what they say to me because “If you tell Lucy, the whole world will know.”  In all fairness, she’s partially right.  I talk a lot, to anyone.  To family, friends, neighbors and most disturbingly to Kat, complete strangers.  And I often, repeat the stories I have heard unless I am told not to.  Admittedly, I have accidentally let confidential information slip out but it rarely happens.  It usually occurs when the person telling me the information forgets to remind me, “don’t tell ______”.

In reality, Kat is the one who can not keep a secret.  Everyone knows it but her.  If you are stupid enough to confide in Kat, it is practically guaranteed that in addition to telling everyone your secret, she will publicly humiliate you at the same time, usually at family gatherings and holidays.  She starts with clever puns that seem innocuous and silly.  They don’t make sense and she is the only person laughing at them.  Then you notice that she’s looking right at you as she talks and giggles.  Suddenly, the horror of it all begins to sink in and you realize exactly what she’s doing and start to squirm uncomfortably.  Finally, just in case anyone in the room hasn’t figured out what she was suggesting, she blurts out the secret and finishes with a “What?!?  Did I say something wrong?!?   What?!?”  She can be pure evil.

The last time that I was a victim of Kat’s special brand of torture was a year ago.  I suspected that my husband had started smoking again.  Actually, I was ABSOLUTELY POSITIVE that he had been smoking.  He began to do things that were completely out of character.  He started spending more time in the basement.  He took the garbage outside more often and this chore seemed to take forever.  He would offer to return my library books or recycle the newspaper, ALONE.  He started going to bed after me and set the alarm so that he would rise before me.  He brushed his teeth every hour.  But the biggest clue was that he smelled like smoke.  His hair, his clothing, his breath, his fingers, they all smelled of tobacco.  I was not pleased.  In fact, I was livid.  I knew I would have to catch him red-handed and I was not looking forward to the huge argument that would ensue.  So I continued to ignore the evidence, knowing that feigning ignorance would cause Mike to become careless.  Of course that moment had to happen while I was with Kat.

Kat stopped by one sunny morning and asked me to stop at the thrift store with her.  We had only driven the length of the block when I realized that I had left my purse at home.  We returned to the house and I ran inside.

I called out, “Mike, it’s just me.  I forgot my purse.”

No answer.  Funny I wasn’t even gone more than 2 minutes.  Then I heard it.  The rumbling of our insanely loud ventilation fan over the stove.

“Mike?”, I called again as I neared the kitchen.

I found Mike leaning awkwardly over the stove and looking over at me in shock.  He said nothing, probably because his mouth was full of smoke.

“Whatcha doing?”, I asked not really wanting to know.

“Cooking”, was his one word answer.

“Oh”, I replied uncomfortably, “I forgot my purse.  I guess I’ll be going.”

“See ya”, was all Mike replied.

It was horrible.  I returned to the car and Kat asked if something was wrong.  All the anger that I had been repressing while avoiding the smoking issue erupted.  For the next 15 minutes, I vented, telling my tale of woe to Kat.  When I realized it was a mistake, I turned to Kat, apologized for my outburst and asked her NOT to tell anyone.  NO, I begged her not to.

“Kat, please, please, please, please!  Do not mention this to anyone.  I need to handle it myself.  Please.”, I implored.

“No problem.  I won’t say anything”, she replied.

I wanted to believe her.  This was important to me but I must have rocks in my head.  Just a few days later, I had company over at the house.  Kat was there also.  My guard was down and I did not notice anything strange at first.  Then, I heard her talking nonsense to Mike in the dining room, heavily emphasizing certain words and laughing to herself.  Noooooooooo!

“Did you see the fog this morning?  It was really SMOKEY outside.”, Kat giggled.

“No, I hadn’t noticed.”, Mike replied absent-mindedly.

“Were you cooking earlier?”, she continued snickering, “It smells like something was burning, like SMOKE.”

“No, I wasn’t cooking today”, Mike answered innocently.

I rushed towards the dining room, “No, Kat!  Don’t!”

“What?  Is something wrong?”, she said with an evil grin.

“I don’t know.  Is there?”, I replied nervously.

“Karen, did you notice that Mike is SMOKIN’ hot, today?”, she chuckled.

Boom!  Message received!  Loud and clear!  Mike glared at me.  I glared at Kat.  Kat just smiled waiting for the fireworks to begin.  But Mike would not allow Kat to have the upper hand.

“Yes, Kat.  I have been smoking.  Is that what you were alluding to?”, Mike demanded.

“Oh, Karen mentioned to me that she was wondering if you were smoking”, she replied.

“Well, she can wonder no more.  Just so everyone knows, I have started smoking again”, he stated flatly.

It was awkward and uncomfortable.  But I hate secrets and I was relieved that it was over.  And Kat….well you can’t be angry with her.  Birds gotta fly, fish gotta swim and Kat can’t keep a secret.  And why tell this story now?  Because someone has told Kat a secret and she is broadcasting it everyone, except the person who confided in her.  Let the fireworks begin!

Progress weeks 29, 30 & 31 – Slowly but surely

The last few weeks, I have been digging through the clutter piece but piece.  It seems that I am at the point that I am just moving around the same objects over and over in an attempt to place like items into piles to sort.  This means that it is time to start making the hard decisions.  I’ll have to cull some of the items that I collect in mind-boggling quantity.  Or at least find a way to store them elsewhere.

Trick or Meat

I have mentioned in at least one of my previous posts that my sisters favor my husband Mike.  Without a doubt, they would claim him if we would ever divorce.  They each have their own individual reasons why they like him so much but they all agree that I do not treat him well.  Poor, poor Mike, such a nice guy and he has to live with Karen.  Why ‘o why can’t she ever cut the dear man a break?  And Mike, of course, agrees with them and enjoys watching me squirm as I try to defend my “cruel and excessive” behavior.

Mike has learned to play my sisters against me.  He doesn’t tell them why he is in trouble with me but has learned to leave hints.  And since I have been challenging his eating habits lately and have been unresponsive to his food needs, he started leaving really big obvious hints for my sisters.

It all started when I banned chips from the house unless they were for company.  I told Mike that they were unhealthy, expensive and were a source of excess caloric intake.  Mike loves chips and didn’t take the new rule very well and grumbled for days.  A few days later, he offered to make dinner for my sister Sue and my nephews.  Chicken and potatoes.  He was in the kitchen all afternoon.  And when they arrived and sat down in the living room, Mike walked in with a glass pyrex casserole dish full of brown strips.

Mike:  “You guys have to try these.  I made them myself and I’d like your honest opinion.”

Sue and the nephews:  “What are they?”

Mike:  “I’m glad you asked.  While peeling potatoes for dinner, I had a thought.  What if I baked the skins and added Old Bay seasoning to them to make chips?  I think they taste really good.  What do you guys think?”

Sue and the nephews loved his chips.  I admired his ingenuity but braced myself for what was going to happen next.

Sue:  “These are great but isn’t it a lot of work for just a few chips?”

Mike:  “Well Karen, really doesn’t want chips in the house.”

Sue:  “Chips!  No chips!  Why can’t Mike have chips?”

Just take a moment and think how to answer the question diplomatically.  Especially when you are defending your actions against a saint.  A humble and hungry man, who was willing to make dinner and even thrifty enough to use what a lesser man may have discarded to create an appetizer.  What a LOSER I am.  Sue and the nephews scolded me the rest of the night and even offered to bring Mike a bag of chips next time they were over.  Score, Mike: 1, Karen: 0.

A few weeks later, I banned sweets from the house except for special occasions.  Mike has absolutely NO self-control when it comes to sugar.  His grandfather had worked for MARS candy and when Mike was young, he had access to all the candy he could eat.  To this day, he has an insatiable sweet tooth.  Mike did not like the new rule.  And so when Sue stopped by with not 1 but 2 partial cakes left over from birthday parties at work, Mike was so happy.  So happy, that it somehow slipped out that I didn’t allow sweets in the house.

Sue:  “Karen!  Why can’t Mike have any sweets?”

Me:  “Did Mike tell you that?”

Sue:  “Is it true?”

Of course it was true.  What could I say?  She wouldn’t listen to me anyway.  She told my sisters about it.  Lucky me, my sisters called to lecture me about my behavior.  Score, Mike: 2, Karen: 0.  And the worse was yet to come.

So my sisters have been bringing Mike treats and chips.  And I have continued my campaign to have Mike eat less.  It’s not working.  He calls eating only 3 meals a day “starvation”.  To compromise, I decided that he could eat as much as he wanted as long as it was healthier food.  To me, this meant less meat but all the fruits, vegetables and grains that he could eat.  I suggested that he eat more cheese.  Maybe that would help him feel full.  Mike was not happy.  Then one day, while looking at the food ads (dreaming about the food he wasn’t allowed to eat), he had a revelation.

Mike:  “Karen!  Check this out.  You can buy boneless chicken breasts for $1.33 a pound.  It’s cheaper than cheese.”

Me:  “I feel better if you eat the cheese.”

Mike:  “Seriously Karen, it’s a $1.33 a pound.”

Me:  “Doesn’t it make you wonder how they can sell it for so little?  It bothers me.  Eat cheese.”

So again, Mike was unhappy.  I took him to Super Kmart where they were having a huge sale on cheese.  He bought pounds of muenster, cheddar, swiss, mozzarella and colby.  When we returned home, he loaded all the cheese into the refrigerator.  And as fate would have it, my sister Kat arrived a few moments later and walked right to the refrigerator to pour herself a soft drink.

Kat:  “Holy CHEESE, Batman!  What’s going on in here?”

Mike:  “Super Kmart was having a sale on cheese.”

Kat:  “Is there any left at the store or did you buy it all?”

Mike:  “Well, Karen would like me to eat less meat.”

Kat:  “FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!  KAREN!  WHY CAN”T MIKE HAVE MEAT!”

Then Kat lectured me about being unreasonable and called my sisters to let them know what a JERK I really am.  The nephews heard about the meat ban and asked Mike to go out on Halloween with them.

The nephews:  “Uncle Mike, you can trick or treat with us.  You can just say trick or meat!”

I can’t win.  Believe me, Mike is NOT starving and withering away.  Despite my claims that my actions are in Mike’s best interest and not because I am methodically plotting against him, my sisters are taking action.  One of my sisters stopped by at 8pm and brought the leftovers from her dinner.  Hot sausage and meatballs.  She joked nervously, “Oops, I made too much.  There is no way my family can eat all this food.  I thought Mike might enjoy it.”  One of my sisters brought leftovers from the high school cafeteria.  Chicken sandwiches and cookies.  “Oh my, there were so many leftovers today.  And they were just going to throw them away.  And then I thought, Mike might like these.”  My favorite story is from the sister who cleaned out her freezer and brought all the frozen meat she had in it over to my house.  She was just cleaning out the freezer and had more than she needed.  More than she needed included a package of chicken legs with a best if used by date of August 28, 2007.

Me:  “Those chicken legs go in the trash, Mike.”

Mike:  “Are you sure?  They were in the freezer.  Nothing can happen to them.”

Me:  “Listen to me.  They go in the trash.”

Mike:  “I think you’re wrong.  I’ll make soup.”

Needless to say, Mike demanded that we check the internet to prove the legs were still edible.  I was sure that I would find page after page confirming my assertion that chicken legs that have been frozen for over 2 years should not be eaten.  It wasn’t as easy as I assumed.  Mike will only believe they are bad if he sees in bold red print, DANGER!  Chicken frozen for over 2 years is bad for you!  Do not eat!  This means you, Mike! Instead we found page after page recommending using frozen chicken within 9 – 12 months or its structural integrity will be compromised.  To Mike that means, “Perfect for soup” and to me it means, “There is no way in Hell that you are going to eat that meat!”

In all seriousness, I did not think Mike was going to cook the chicken legs.  But there is always a chance that he will surprise me.  So the next time I ventured out to the store, I snuck into the kitchen, placed the chicken into a bag, walked down to the car and drove towards the nearest public trash can.  Problem solved.  Of course, my sisters will still send Mike gifts of chips, sweets and meat and he will thank them wholeheartedly.  And Mike will end up with more food than we ever had in the house before.  And I have to admit that Saint Mike is a very clever man.

Moving on

Mike placed a piece of white cardboard over the hole in the ceiling as a temporary fix.  It makes the hole a little less obvious (well, maybe).  And he has assembled the materials to fix the hole.  In the meantime, I didn’t say a word about the ceiling to anyone.  Instead, I waited for people to notice and believe me, everyone noticed.  The responses over the last week kept me laughing.

Mike:  “I KNOW I live like a hoopie but did I have to prove it by having a hole in my ceiling?”

Gabe:  “Best use of a photo in a post.”

Kristi:  “Oh, oh, oh, I have the funniest story ever to tell you guys…”, her voice trails off as she points to the ceiling, “Forget it, I think your story’s better.”

Zack:  “Why does Uncle Mike have cardboard on the ceiling?  You mean there’s a hole under there? Ha, ha, ha!”

My neighbor:  Looking up, “I would be so MAD.”

The rest of the family:  Convulsive laughter.

Mike’s laughing along with everyone now.  His accident has prompted my son to suggest that I blog about the hole in my mother’s ceiling.  It’s a family favorite but it is a long story.  So Gabe , be patient, it will take some time to get it together but it will be worth it.

Blogging with good intent

When I first started blogging, many people told me I was making a mistake.  I didn’t foresee any problems.  To me, blogging is like a diary that I choose to share publicly.  I have no hidden agenda, no ax to grind and I surely do not wish to ridicule or embarrass anyone.  It’s all about real events with real people written from my own unique perspective.  It’s supposed to be fun not confrontational.  But the truth is, no matter how innocuous and benign that I feel the subject matter is, misunderstandings can occur.

My last post is a great example of what can go wrong, will go wrong.  I found out through comments (and emails) that the subject matter of a story I wrote had serious repercussions that I was not aware of.  I felt directly responsible for someone’s ostracization at work, that I implied responsibility for an accident and had lost a valuable resource, all in one 1100+ word entry.   All completely unintended.  I was crushed and seriously doubted that I would write again.  Who knew bubble wrap could cause such a momentous misunderstanding.

But 24 hours later, everything began shifting back to normal.  I like to think that my sense of humor and idiosyncrasies (the anal retentiveness, faulty logic and such) are apparent in my writing but it is not necessarily obvious.  While typing, my speech patterns, inflections and mannerisms are lost.  Unless one knows me personally (and sometimes even when they do), I may be misinterpreted.  But most importantly, I can misinterpret things also.  It’s all about perception.  I have to trust, that in the end, it will all work out.  And I need to develop a thicker skin.

When in doubt, blame Joel

Last Saturday morning started like any other, the sun was shining, the birds were singing, all was right in the universe.  Then Joel arrived with enough bubble wrap protect my home from a wrecking ball.  Bag after bag of garbage bags full of bubble wrap.  When Joel finished his delivery on Saturday…

My porch looked like this:

My son’s room looked like this:

A bazillion bags.  Later in the day, Mike looked at the huge pile and said to me, “Do you think those bags will keep until morning?”  I took one look at the mountain of bags and said “Whatever you wish”.

Sunday morning started like any other, except there were garbage bags full of bubble wrap everywhere.  And in these bags of bubble wrap were copious amounts of small bubble wrap, large bubble wrap and air pockets.  And Mike did not have the energy to sort the bags just yet.  So Mike surveyed the situation and made a decision to store the bags for a few days.  But where ‘o where in a house full of clutter would one be able to store the bags?  Leave them on the porch?  In Gabe’s room?  In the crawl space in the garage?  No, no, no, those ideas wouldn’t do.  Mike realized there was only one spot in the house where he could squeeze all the bags.  The attic.

I can’t stress enough how much I dread hearing Mike say the word “attic”.  It scares the bejesus out of me.  Why?

1)  The only way to access the attic is through an opening in the hall ceiling.  Mike uses an old rickety ladder with one split tread that in mint condition would hold someone half his weight.

2)  Mike is accident prone.  And he can’t handle that truth.

Because of these extenuating factors there are 2 rules that I beg him constantly to strictly adhere to.

1)  Do not go into the attic unless someone else is in the house.

2)  Make sure that someone holds the ladder.

And of course, Mike does not agree with my assessment of the situation and ignores my rules and does EXACTLY AS HE DAMN WELL PLEASES.  Why?  Because he believes that I am exaggerating the potential consequences.

So on Sunday, when Mike decided to venture into the attic, I knew I should oversee the operation.  But since Mike was already in a grumpy mood because he knew that he had to navigate around all my clutter in the attic, I left him alone with his mountain of bubble wrap and headed into the kitchen to do the dishes.  From there, I could spy from a safe but respectable distance.

I watched him from the corner of my eye as he set up the ladder.  I cringed as I listened to the sound of him lifting the access panel to the attic.  I held my breath as heard the sound of the ladder creaking from the stress of his weight on the treads as he ascended.  And finally, I breathed a sigh of relief when I heard his heavy footsteps crossing the beams above my head.  All was good.  I returned to my dishes and calmly listened to the sound of Mike reorganizing the clutter to make room for the bubble wrap.

Suddenly, I heard the sound of a loud gravity driven thump, followed by a whoosh.  And then nothing, absolute silence.  “Miiiikkkeeee”, I yelled, rushing across the house toward the attic opening.  “Mike, answer me!”, I yelled again as I neared the opening.  Then, from behind me, I heard his voice.  He was swearing like a drunken sailor.  I stopped, turned around and looked……up.

I had run right past him.  His leg was hanging through the ceiling between the living and dining room.  And he was mad as Hell.  And I was even angrier.  He may have been in pain and stringing together profanities in a nonsensical order but I could form sentences.

Me:  “What the hell?  What do you think you’re doing?  I told you to be careful?  What happened?  You ruined the ceiling!”

I looked down.  There was debris everywhere.  On the rug, on the shelves, in the potted plants, everywhere I looked.  Deep down, I knew something like this would happen.  I took a deep breath and regained my composure.

Me:  “Are you alright?”

Mike:  “Well…….yes.”

Me:  “Hold still.  I’m going to take a picture.”

Mike:  “#&%*@…………….”

As I tried to take the picture, I couldn’t stop laughing.  Mike was complaining and asking me to hurry.  When I finished, he extracted himself from the ceiling.  He made his way out of the attic to survey the damage in the living room.  And when he saw it, he was angry again.  I reminded him that he was not seriously hurt and I did not have to call 911, as I have no idea how the paramedics and firemen would have pried him from the attic.  Most certainly, they would had to cut a Mike sized hole in the ceiling to rescue him and that would have been a major repair job.  Mike grumbled at my suggestion that it could have worse.  He moped about the rest of the day.

It’s a week later and Mike still feels that I am partially responsible for the hole in the ceiling.  Yeah, yeah, yeah, it’s my fault.  You see 10 years ago, Mike had found some thick large wood panels that I had stored in the garage that he wanted to use as flooring in the attic.  I wouldn’t let him use them (assembled together, they are a 10′ x 10′ mosiac art installation from my very first workplace).  And since Mike wouldn’t buy wood if we had wood, we reached a stalemate.  Oh, and we can’t forget that Mike insists that it’s all my clutter in the attic.  No clutter, no hole in ceiling.

livingroom

He’s wrong, of course.  And Karma’s a bitch.  You see many years ago, Mike banned me from the attic because he told me that I was careless and if I was left to my own devices, I would fall through the ceiling.  Since I didn’t want to argue, I agreed to stay out of the attic.  A few hours later, I heard a loud crash and found that Mike had placed his foot through the ceiling.  And it had nothing to do with wood stored in the garage or clutter.  Luckily that time, it happened in a closet.  Many years later, that hole awaits repair.

closet

In the end, I have a house that looks like landmines have detonated in the ceiling. And photographic evidence of Mike’s blunder.  And I can’t forget to thank Joel for the bubble wrap.  It’s all a reminder that life with Mike is never boring.

Beware Joel bearing gifts

Tim with Joel presents

Our friend Joel has a warped sense of humor.  As Mike says “He likes to stir the shit”.  Mike’s absolutely right, Joel likes to do things that seem charitable and benign but in reality test the limits of human patience.  One example of Joel’s devious nature is his behavior at Christmas.  We have ALL been victims of his schemes.  For example, my brother-in-law Tim.  Tim was a single man for a very long time.  He lived in a beautiful home and was financially fluid so if he ever needed anything, he would just go to the store and purchase it.  He needed absolutely nothing.  It used to be that Tim drank beer and so when Christmas came around, one could buy him a case of expensive beer or limited edition ales.  But when Tim stopped drinking, it was incredibly difficult to buy him a gift.  Unable to buy Tim beer, Joel developed a new strategy for the man who has everything.  Joel went shopping for the heaviest thing he could find.  Something that on the surface looked incredibly generous and useful.

So the first year, when Joel walked through the door with a huge and heavy box, all the kids couldn’t wait to see what present Uncle Joel had given to Tim.  They imagined all sorts of treasures.  Their enthusiasm waned however when Tim opened his present and inside was the largest industrial shop vac that Joel could find.  A generous and practical gift, huh?  Tim politely thanked Joel but mentioned that he really wasn’t in the market for so large a shop vac (or any shop vac for that matter) but Joel just ignored his comments and said very sincerely “You’re welcome.”  (It has come in handy, I borrowed it when I accidentally broke a shower door in my mother’s yard and needed to clean the tempered glass from the grass.  I appreciated its extra strength vacuuming power.)

The second year, Joel arrived with a huge and heavy box and again the kids couldn’t wait to see what treasure awaited Tim.  They were disappointed again.  This time it was a set of heavy duty industrial strength car ramps.  Just in case, Tim needed to change the oil on his car.  A generous but extremely impractical gift as by day, Tim works behind a desk at a major company and does not dream of spending his spare time underneath his or anyone else’s car.  Again Tim thanked Joel for the gift but reminded him that he would not have much use for it.  “Tut-tut”, Joel said, brushing aside his objections, “You never know when you will need something exactly like that.  Then you will thank me.”  So Tim loaded the ramps into his car and took them home to keep the shop vac company in the basement.

By the third year, we had all become suspicious of Joel’s motives.  We knew that his gifts to Tim had one common thread, weight and a lot of it.  So Christmas came and Joel arrived and announced he needed help with the presents in his truck.  And of course, one of the presents was so heavy that when it was placed under the Christmas tree, it landed with a THUMP.  The kids didn’t even blink.  We all knew whose present it was.  We all knew it wasn’t really treasure, it was the HEAVIEST THING THAT JOEL COULD FIND.  This time when Tim opened his present, it was a 3½ ton floor jack that weighed…..well a TON.  It was as practical as buying Tim a prom dress.  And yet again, Tim thanked Joel for his generosity AND gently but firmly told him, “NO MORE!”.  Joel agreed as he was tiring of the extra large and cumbersome gifts.  He knew it was possible that he was going to hurt himself or someone else if he tried to exceed the weight of the jack.  And Tim, in the spirit of Christmas, loaded the jack into his car and took it home to keep the shop vac and car ramps company.

The truce still stands to this day.  Tim kept the shop vac and eventually used it.  The jack now resides somewhere in my garage to my husbands dismay (factory sealed in the original box).  And the car ramps?  I don’t know what happened to them.  Hopefully, they have found a new home with someone who will appreciate their true purpose.  And why did I choose today to tell this story?  Because Joel is a jokester and has struck again.  Not with weight but bulk.  And it’s not even Christmas.  This time my husband is the object of his practical joke.  And Mike is in a very, very dark mood.  And Joel, I know you are reading this and you will enjoy these stories.

Progress week 28 – What the Heck happened here?

As the saying goes, “the best laid plans of mice and men often goes awry”.  This week was progressing nicely.  There was more clutter out than in and there was improvement in a few key areas.  Especially behind the coffee table.  Then disaster struck.  And how do I spell disaster?  J. O. E. L.    And to thank him, I am dedicating this week’s blog posts to Joel and his evil ways.

Bees and chicks

While perusing my weekly Construction Junction eBlast a few weeks ago, I noticed that the Penn State Extension was offering a class on raising chickens.  It was in response to an article in the Pittsburgh Post Gazette on….you guessed it, raising chickens in the city.  I had been reading about raising chickens (and bees) and I was excited that there was a class in my area.  I immediately called and reserved my seat for the event.  I could not wait to meet all the other people in my area who were either raising chickens or contemplating it.  So for the last two weeks, I enthusiastically mentioned the program to almost everyone I spoke to and even invited them along.  Not surprisingly, no one was interested but me.  Undeterred, I just couldn’t wait.  Finally, the big day came and I reminded Mike that I would be attending my class later that evening and he would be on homework duty until I returned.  Mike didn’t take it well…

Me:  “Mike, don’t forget I have my chicken class tonight.”

Mike:  “What chicken class?”

Me:  “The raising chickens in the city class.  I’ve been talking about it for two weeks.”

Mike:  “What chicken class!  What in the world are you talking about!”

Me:  “Don’t start with me, I told you about this repeatedly.  And if you don’t remember it just means that you don’t listen to what I tell you.”

I struck a nerve.  I did tell Mike about the class, REPEATEDLY.  On a good day, Mike probably listens to and retains less than 5% of all the things I tell him.  And he’s happy with that percentage.  But when something slips through, oh like chickens, he becomes agitated.  I could tell by the deer in the headlights look on his face that he was desperately trying to remember if he had inadvertently nodded and/or mumbled in agreement to having chickens at our home.  He appeared to be in a stupor so I continued on my way.  It only took a few moments until he was following me around the house.  He wasn’t happy.  He was ready to explode.

Mike:  “No, no, no, no, no, no, no……….a hundred times NO!”

Me:  “No, what?”

Mike:  “No way!  You are not raising chickens here!  It’s as simple as that!”

Me:  “Don’t get so excited, it’s just a class.”

Mike: “NO chickens.  You are NOT going to buy chickens.  You are NOT going to store feed here.  You are NOT storing lumber here.  You are NOT going to build a hen house here.  No, no, no, you are NOT doing anything with chickens here!”

Add profanities to Mike’s comments, lots of them.  He was quite animated.  He was gesticulating wildly and repeating himself.  And just like he ignored me when I told him about the chicken class, I ignored Mr. Pickle-Puss.

Mike:  “Karen, I’m serious.  Are listening to anything I said?”

Me:  “Yes.  And I assure you that I am not planning on having chickens in our yard.  Are you satisfied?”

Mike:  “Then WHY would you go to the class?”

Me:  “It sounded interesting and that’s why I’m going.”

I’m sure he was wondering if he could believe me.  Things are always appearing at our house without warning.  Large things, like cars.  Medium sized things, like furniture.  Small things, like everything else.  It drives him crazy.  But when I started talking about living creatures, it freaked him out.  And truth be told, he should be worried.  In the end, I returned home early from my class due to an unfortunate turn of events.  Mike looked so happy to see me, well he actually looked relieved to see me walk through the door without chickens.  And suddenly having a bee hive in the back yard doesn’t sound so bad to him.

Jaxon’s first Halloween

Although some family members hate to admit it, I am not the only one of my sisters to purchase like items in excessive quantities.  My sister Kat’s activities suggest a genetic component.  Her new grandson Jaxon will turn two months old right before Halloween and being that it is one of Kat’s favorite holidays, she wanted to make sure that Jaxon was appropriately attired.  Kat, Erika and Jaxon stopped by the other day and the conversation turned to Halloween and Kat admitted that she just so happened to have a few costumes in the car.  We all agreed that Jaxon should model for us.  He didn’t find the idea as exciting as the rest of us.

His mood had soured by the time he was in his 4th outfit.  When I asked Erika what she thought about all the costumes, she rolled her eyes and said “You KNOW how she is!”  All I could do was grin as I thought “Oh yes, I do!”  Instead I just nodded knowingly.

I suspected that there were more costumes.  I knew I would have to dig a little for the exact count as Kat is more secretive about her collections than I am.  I called her the next day to investigate.

Me:  “Kat, what will Jaxon be for Halloween?’

Kat:  “Erika hasn’t made a final decision yet.”

Me:  “Will he be wearing one of your costumes?”

Kat:  “Why??”

Me:  “Just curious.”

Kat:  “Why do you need to know??  Are you going to blog about this??”

Me:  “Why yes, yes I am!”

I had to pry it out of her as Kat was a little defensive.  Kat informed me that she had purchased not 1, not 2, not 3….but 6 Halloween costumes for Jaxon.  In addition to the tiger, pea pod, pepper and flower, she purchased zebra and bat costumes.  And there is no way to know if is she done shopping as there are still 2 weeks until Halloween.  The good thing is that she found the costumes at local thrift stores so she paid a minimal amount for them.  The bad thing is that Jaxon will have to change frequently if Kat hopes to see him in every costume on Halloween.  I was told today that Jaxon has grown out of the tiger costume and that Erika has nixed the flower because “HE IS NOT A GIRL”.  Two options down with 4 outfits under consideration and 16 days to Halloween.  I’m betting anything could happen and will.