Too many cooks in the kitchen?

I have discovered that the age old saying of  "too many cooks in the kitchen" is not the problem but that is it is indeed the fact that my significant other (I question that significant part), since retirement,  is in the kitchen quite often and touches my stuff! Bless his heart he tries to be helpful or so he thinks, but dammit some things are just sacred.

Don't  get me wrong here, it's not that I don't like my stuff touched  if you were headed down that particular path of thought (shame on you): it's the fact that after touching my cooking, preparing and eating utensils,  they are not put back where I have been  putting them  for years. Years I tell you!  Minor detail right? WRONG!

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh, sooooooooooo wrong. 

Let's think about this for a moment here, shall we? It's akin to putting a brain surgeon's tools in a backpack without the benefit of being sterilized, wrapped and labeled and since plumbing (the profession he retired from) is akin to brain surgery do you know what the hell would have happened if I'd have rearranged plumbing tools?? If I'd have said "Here Honey, I thought I'd help you today, and I've rearranged all the shelves and tools in your plumbing truck"? Yea, would have gone over like a fart in church. 

This is SERIOUS crap here, do not take this rant lightly. It is not that I am not grateful for someone to unload a dishwasher, I am, but learn where each tool goes! I have a system, an age old system for that matter,  and the cheese grater lying neatly on top of the forks is NOT part of my system and it doesn't work for me. The same way a plunger  is not the first thing you would grab to install a drain pipe from a sink, a cheese grater is not my first eating utensil of choice.

 Sigh.......... I'll leave the art of  putting groceries away for anutha day while I ponder the beauty of chopsticks and exploding toilets.

 Can a toilet really explode?
Yes. But it’s a perfect storm, written up in plumbing textbooks and witnessed by few in the trade.

Muddy Waters ..or footprints as the case may be

No, not the artist McKinley Morganfield, aka Muddy Waters if that’s what came to mind http://www.muddywaters.com/home.html but muddy gravelly water from the parking lot of the office  which caused an insufferable offense to the carpet as I walked into the office this morning.  

Unbeknownst to me the heel of my left boot was committing this atrocity and leaving a path that the most novice of trackers could follow without the aid of a full moon on a dark and stormy night. Halfway to my desk I hear, “Whoa…..STOP, who’s filthy!!” rather like  "Halt, who goes there?" from the  Fort Apache movie from 1948! Not that I'm that old mind you but I do like old movies.

Seriously? Did I just hear El Jefe ask “who’s filthy”?  How rude is that? Not who’s tracking mud,  not who’s got something on the bottom of their shoes but “who’s filthy”?   I don’t see guns drawn nor do I see John Wayne which would be difficult at best without a seance but okay, I’ll stop. Much to my dismay I see that my boot is the culprit and there is no denying that it’s on my left foot.  Damn.

Forget that this is one, embarrassing and two, easily remedied quietly with several multiple choice cleaning aids but you’d have thought I’d just tracked in 3 pounds of elephant dung topped with a good dose of Penzoil the way Mr. Clean was carrying on.  Why I do believe it might have compared to what one would refer to in the venacular of the beloved South as a damn Hissy Fit.  Bless his heart!

Not one to miss a golden opportunity I’ll be sporting these courtesy of  http://www.kiko-kids.com/product/ashiato/index_en.html on my next trek through the parking lot and on into the office.

 Seriously Dude? Mom’s have been cleaning up tracked in mud and havin’ hissy fits over it for eons but  I doubt not a one compared to yours. In the meantime I'll be perusing the web to find Jack Ass tracks to add to the bottoms of your footwear.

29 ... one more time?

Forget the fact that he’s now 6’4 and that I still call him my “Baby Tom”!  My baby turns 30 tomorrow. Well, he’s really not the baby, as in baby of the family; we’ve just always called him ‘Baby Tom”.  I’m quite certain that our term of endearment has caused him to roll his eyes on more than one occasion.

All that aside, I am still amazed at how this could possibly have   happened. He cannot be older than me now! After all I’m still 29. How dare him! And wasn’t it just yesterday that I was breathing a sigh of relief for getting him through high school?  Actually I’m sure I felt a collective sigh by many a teacher who had not taken early retirement.   It was just yesterday that I was thanking a school principal for his fortitude and the persistence of his teachers for being a part of my village.

Mr. Romans,

                It is with great pride that I write this letter to you. I would like to sincerely thank you for the interest you took in my son. Those many months of Horticulture and your confidence in his abilities inspired a much-needed confidence in him. Your respect for him as a person inspired him to be a respectable young man who has now hurdled obstacles in his path that a year ago seemed insurmountable to him. You have instilled a desire in him to further his education and for that, his father and I thank you!

                Our kudos to Mrs. Keithly who did what no other teacher or private tutor could do, and believe me there were many who tried. She taught him Algebra! Through her diligence he was finally able to comprehend it and pass! In our opinion she deserves and should receive the Congressional Medal of Honor.

                Mrs. Miller taught him “failure was not an option”. She opened up an entire new world for him; the written word. How she was ever able to get him to read a novel in its entirety is beyond us. This young man has fought reading for an entire school life and now wants to major in English! Her faith in him gave him faith in himself.  Mrs. Miller, “the memory of a good deed can never be taken from the heart of one who is grateful”!

                And last but certainly not least there is Mrs. Bratton. Our thanks to her for making him feel loved and one of her own! He calls her one of his other mothers but don’t tell him I told.

                We thank you all for being a part of Our Village.

Well, he’s turning 30 tomorrow and I’m feeling jist a tad bit melancholy that those days of fighting over homework and broccoli are long gone. Though I can’t say the same about the then president who didn’t like broccoli either and with whom Tom felt he had an ally. Wait ‘til NATO hears broccoli has caused so many wars in America; Civil and otherwise!

 Where did the time go?

Seriously?

Some conversations with my significant other often just make me shake my head in wonder. Not like a winter wonder land type of wonder more of a hmmmmmmmmmmm, I wonder what now.  Especially when it comes to the logistics of transportation once one of your vehicles decides that this is NOT the day that thou shalt drive. Today's lively little banter was just such a nugget.

The scene: at the dental office with Dr. Cheap Cheap drillin' away and my trusty terminal trainee at my side. More on that at a later date.

Assistant #1 answers the phone with her sing song "Good morning, Dr. Danger's office". Hands the receiver to me saying it's your hubby.

Tim via phone from the mechanics: You need to come get me, they need to keep your car and we need to get you a rental.

Me: Reeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaly? Seriously?
Why would I come and get you if you need to rent me a car when you are standing in the mechanic's  car rental office? Just rent me a car and drive it to my office so you can take your big friggin truck I had to drive to work this morning without killing 97 illegal aliens in various crosswalks and exchange it with me.

Tim: Oh. ...Okay I'll rent the car and bring it over there.

Me: Honey? Don't rent something stupid, K? I don't need anything of Mr. Shelby's.  sigh

Some days are just not worth chewing off  the restraints. Hell, some are not even worth getting out of bed for and then there are those that are just like sneaking back out of the grave. And yet it's always a revelation when I find myself standing up and once again proclaiming to myself "Carpe diem"!

Today not so much. I am now driving a Mazda.

Carpe Noctem!
Dar