By Mandy Carter
In a rare moment of spare time, I was scanning a favorite discussion board when one particular entry caught my eye and held it.
“What constitutes justifiable homicide?”
It wouldn’t have been so surprising except it was on a site typically used by a bunch of barrel racers who, while admittedly a little testy from time to time, are rarely violent. Normal blogs consist of everything from feeding and training tips for horses to recipes for cheese dip and tasty after-school snacks.
This blog had been posted that morning, and already had nearly 100 hits, and it wasn’t even 10 a.m. yet. I added one more as I opened the page and read on.
Her husband had made her really mad.
While he remained nameless, it was only because she was posting anonymously, as well, and he could have been anyone’s husband, anyway, so names were not important. It was the venting that mattered.
However, as I read, I wondered if my alter-ego, Andy, had created the post without my knowledge, because that husband bore an uncanny resemblance to Ike – from the trail of socks in the hallway and tools across the yard to the superior knowledge of water bucket filling technique and egg scrambling methods. It was eerie.
Subsequent posts responded with everything from “Amen, sister,” to offers to allow the initial poster to borrow a variety of shovels.
As I read the growing lists of marital offenses ranging from failure to empty pockets prior to laundry day to driving all the fuel out of the pick up, I realized I wasn’t alone.
I wasn’t sure how that made me feel.
While it’s comforting to know others struggle with the same tiny yet earth-shattering frustrations, it’s a downer to know it’s apparently the nature of the beast – and there is no hope, that’s just how it is.
I know, I know, small things. I said tiny frustrations, didn’t I? It’s just that there’s such a large pile of them, and I’m perfect, as Mike points out, sarcasm dripping, when I try to enlighten him.
The blog was posted several weeks ago, but came to mind the other night when Andy came out as a direct result of Foot-in-Mouth Disease at the dinner table.
Because there’s a lot of schedule shuffling, back tracking and short-term memory loss, stints between truly healthy and yet tasty meals are long. This particular day, I had not only managed to study a recipe, make a complete list, and remembered to take the list with me to the store, but had even returned home in time to make a chicken dinner Betty Crocker would have gladly approved. That was likely a once-in-a-lifetime event, and I wanted recognition.
What I got was the Spanish Inquisition.
“What’s for dinner?” “What’re we having with it?” “Did you get Ranch?” “What’s that smell?” “Why are you cooking in the real oven?”
I answered each one – once.
We sat down to eat and one child had one more question.
“What’s that stuff on the chicken?”
The comedian on my right unwisely popped off before he thought to take a bite and circumvent the symptoms of Foot-in-Mouth.
“It’s chicken feet.”
That’s what I heard. I think he actually said feed, but I was already mad.
I don’t really remember what Andy hollered in response, but whatever it was, it sent the kids into overdrive trying to save their floundering father.
“Mom, I love this chicken!” “The chicken is really good, can I have some more?”
It was too late and I told them so.
The evening is now referred to as the Night of the Fuzzy Chicken.
Really – it was just Lipton Soup Mix, but he might not be so lucky next time.
