Shoe Drills

This conversation (based on a true story) is between two people whom we shall call "Pamelina" and "Jayson" (to protect the guilty) while they empty their master bedroom closet in preparation for new bedroom flooring.

Jayson (putting shoes in bags): Here's another pair of black boots. Did you know you have this many pairs of black boots?

Pamelina (puzzled): Of course. I bought them, didn't I?

Jayson: Let me rephrase that. Why did you buy so many pairs of black boots?

Pamelina (even more puzzled): To wear them. Why else?

Jayson: You have two feet, so why do you need more than one pair of black boots?

Pamelina (patiently): I need different boots for different occasions. I wear the medium-heeled, suede boots with casual outfits and the leather, stiletto boots with nicer outfits. I wear patent leather boots when it's raining, and the slouchy boots-- 

Jayson (shaking his head): That's just the boots! I have a pair of black shoes, brown shoes, athletic shoes, sandals, and work boots. Why do you need more than five pairs of shoes?

Pamelina (fondly reminiscing): I guess they've accumulated over the years. I bought most of them on sale. These silver sandals were originally $385 marked down to $25! These jute wedges were free during a buy-one-get-one-free sale. These red pumps were--

Jayson (persistently): I'm sure you got great deals, but I still don't see why you need to keep all these shoes!

Pamelina: Honey, we have a lot to do, so can I justify my footwear later? If you get a drill, we have time to fix this shoe rack before the flooring guy gets here.

Jayson (long-suffering sigh): Fine, Imelda Marcos. We'll talk about your 85 (or is it 185?) pairs of shoes later. I'll get the drill.

Pamelina (muttering as they walk to the shed): If I'm going to be accused of owning 85 pairs of shoes, then I should at least have 85 pairs of shoes.

Jayson (ignoring her comment and scanning his workbench): Where is that drill?

Pamelina (idly): Here's the drill.

Jayson: That's the cordless rechargeable drill. That's not what I want.

Pamelina (holding up another drill): Is this it?

Jayson (rummaging through a cabinet): No, that's my old battery drill. I keep it as back-up for my newer battery drill. I'm looking for an electric drill.

Pamelina: Here's an electric drill.

Jayson: That's an impact driver drill. I want the regular electric drill. Now, where did I leave it?

Pamelina narrows her eyes for a moment as an illuminating thought assails her brain. Jayson doesn't notice.

Pamelina (brightly): My, you have a lot of hammers! What's this?

Jayson (shifting some lumber): That's a sledge hammer.

Pamelina (feigning ignorance): What about this itty-bitty one?

Jayson (briefly looking up): That? That's a ball-peen hammer. Here's the drill I want!

Pamelina (pointedly): And so many in-between sized hammers!

Jayson (sifting through a box of screws): Yeah. I've had some of them for years. That one used to be my dad's. I should get the grip on the handle replaced.

Pamelina (casually): Why do you need more than one hammer?

Jayson (still distracted): Each size has a different purpose. Hey, could you hand me that level?

Pamelina doesn't move. Surprised, Jayson glances at her. She folds her arms and raises her eyebrows. He mentally backtracks.

Jayson: Oh.

Pamelina (brightly): My, you have a lot of saws! 

Jayson (sheepishly): Okay, okay.

Pamelina (no longer feigning ignorance): Let's see, you have a table saw, a hack saw, a circular saw, a jigsaw-- 

Jayson (hoping in vain to duck out of the conversation quickly): Point taken. Let's see! Now, I need that level and a pencil--

Pamelina (innocently): I just don't understand why you need so many tools when the pioneers typically only had a knife, an ax, a hammer, and a handsaw.

Jayson (with a grin, drops a quick kiss on her forehead, hoping to shut her up): Yeah, yeah.

Pamelina (undeterred, she muses): With nothing but hand-powered tools, they cut down trees, made boards out of the wood, whittled pegs to use instead of nails, raised houses and barns, fashioned furniture--

Jayson (laughing): Truce! I won't count your shoes if you don't count my tools. Agreed?

Pamelina (with smile that's maybe a wee bit smug): Agreed.

Verse of the day: (Proverbs 19:14b) "only the Lord can give an understanding wife" or an understanding husband. It cuts (saws, and drills) both ways.

Firefighter Funny

A few years ago, Jay, who is a Fire Captain, was assigned to a different fire station. Because I am such a good wife (and not at all because I was stuck at home, bored), I called the station one evening to investigate his new crew. 

The conversation went like this:

Young, yawning Firefighter (who shall remain unidentified): Fire Station. Can I help you?

Me (in a superficial drawl): Hi. Um, there's like this guy at your station who's like really cute. He's like the Captain or something. Um, he's tall with like brownish-blond hair and killer dimples. He's like really, really hot. So, um, do you think he'd go out with me?

(Long, long pause.)

Firefighter: Uh, just a minute.

Jay: Captain Nastase.

Me (in my normal voice): Put. That. Firefighter. Back. On. The. Phone.

I could hear Jay laughing as he handed the phone back because he knew the kid was in trouble.

Firefighter (thrown by the call and confused by Jay's reaction): Uh, yeah?

Me (archly): For all you know, some hussy is calling the station to see if your married Captain will go out with her, and you put that call through?

Firefighter: Oh. (He really meant "Uh oh.") Um, I'm sorry about that. But...but I was caught off guard and--

Me (with a gasp of mock horror):  You put that call through? You're supposed to be a 'band of brothers.' You're supposed to watch out for each other. 

Firefighter (madly backpedaling): Yeah, I shouldn't have done that. But...but I was in the middle of--

Me: You're supposed to have your Captain's back!

Firefighter: Yes, that was bad. Really bad. But...but--

Me (firmly): The correct response is, 'Sorry, but our Captain is married. Unless you're his wife, he will never go out with you.' Then you hang up. Got it? 

Firefighter (still sweating): Yes, ma'am. I totally agree, ma'am. 

Me (mollified): I trust this won't happen again.

He: No, ma'am. I mean, yes, ma'am. I mean, it won't happen again, ma'am.

When Jay took the phone back, he was laughing so hard he could hardly breathe. He might have me repeat that call every time a new guy comes to his station.

Verse of the day: (Luke 11:14b) "Lead us not into temptation..."

Jay and one of his recent crews. They're tough, but I can make them prespire faster than a fire.

Hey, their lives depend on their ability to think quickly, so anything I do to keep them on their toes is a public service. A civic duty. That's right, y'all, I prank call them because I care.

To read how I pranked our Pastor (which is even worse), click here. 

Just Manflu

I once made the mistake of commenting that a certain man seemed to think he was near death when he "only had a cold." A friend (the insightful Robin Peel) quickly corrected me. He said that men are "either well or are flattened by a particularly nasty man-flu." Man-flu, he gravely informed me, covered all male ailments, and the depths of its insidious suffering is incomprehensible to women.

Be that as it may, I learned a few things from years of observing men during their extremely rare bouts of illness.

When a woman is unwell, she forces herself to shower (after making breakfast for the family), lifts her gland-swollen arms to brush and style her hair, gargles, painstakingly applies make-up to hide her pallid complexion, dresses in clean clothes, matches her shoes to her outfit (just in case she sees someone she knows in the waiting room), and pastes on a brave smile. 

The doctor tells her that she looks great, probably has a cold, and to come back in a week if it doesn't get better.

If a man is sick enough to need medical attention, he crawls into whatever clothing he finds crumpled on the floor. He doesn't shower, shave, or brush his teeth. He limps into the doctor's office, groaning. If he bumps into someone he knows, he's gratified to hear, "You look horrible!" He's ushered into the examination room (ahead of all the well-groomed women), gently placed on the table with a soft pillow and heated blanket, and given a battery of tests and chest x-rays. 

To find out that he indeed only has a cold. Ahem, I mean, "the vicious and dreadful man-flu."

I'm humble enough to learn from others, so now when I'm in need of medical help, I let my appearance match how I feel.

Instead of brushing my hair, I let it stand on end.

Instead of carefully applying my make-up, I slap it on. If I get blush on my chin or smear eyeliner across my cheek, all the better to emphasize my peaked condition.

Instead of dressing carefully, I pull leggings on under my sweat-soaked pajama top, put on mismatched socks, and attach a pair of Jay's slippers to my feet with duct tape.

When the nurse offers me a chair in the examination room, I instead crawl onto the table and sprawl there like a squashed bug, moaning. 

When the doctor arrives, I open one eye and croak. I don't have to tell him how badly I feel; one glimpse of me sends him hollering for oxygen and a defibrillator. 

Verse of the Day: (Luke 5:31) "Jesus answered them, 'It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick.'"

Doctor? Is that you?

P.S. Robin photographs churches in the beautiful English countryside. You can find his unusual, stunning, and funny (like the gargoyle, made by an underpaid stonemason, who moons the village) photos by clicking here. My favorite photo is the wooden cross at Peakirk, probably made by a child for a pet. It always tugs at my heart.

Fun, In Theory.

(Names and a few details have been edited for the sake of those involved. And "Jim" was not Jay, for those who will wonder.)

I went on an awful date in college. Nothing was wrong with the guy; I even felt bad for him because he was quite sweet. And he had a great idea for a memorable first date.

In theory.

It was August, the beginning of the Fall Semester. My friend, Laurel, and her boyfriend, Russ, picked me up from the airport. On the way to campus, Russ told me that he and his friend, Jim, wanted to take Laurel and me on a double date that evening. I was hot and tired from traveling all day, but he was so excited about a surprise they'd planned that I rallied my strength and agreed. We dropped off my luggage and collected Jim.

The guys' original plan was to take Laurel and me for a sunset picnic at a pretty, little river they'd found the previous spring. There was a tiny island in the middle where they could build a bonfire at nightfall and make S'mores for us to eat under the starlight. 

It was a romantic idea.

In theory.  

In reality, we drove (as the air-conditioner struggled) and drove (while night fell) and drove (as the conversation lagged) and drove (while I fought to stay awake) and drove until we finally turned off-road, crossed a field, and came to a bumpy stop at the edge of a copse of trees. 

The guys helped us out of the car like gentlemen. In the failing light, we watched them open the car's trunk to proudly hand us roses that they'd stashed. Giving a girl a rose on a first date is a sweet idea.

In theory.

In reality, roses don't do well in 100 degree weather. 

Without water. 

In a trunk. 

They emerged from their stifling coffin quite dead.

We entered the woods. A nighttime stroll on a pleasant path through a moonlit forest is a lovely idea.

In theory.

We could hardly see the trail in the dark. Especially since the flashlight batteries quickly died. The vegetation was so overgrown that with each step we blindly fought hostile limbs, treacherous vines, and grasping thorns.

"It wasn't like this in the spring," the boys protested, trying to keep branches from whipping us in the face. "It was really nice." Apparently, the friendly flora of May turns into angry, barbed undergrowth by August.

We burst from the forest, panting, scraped, and bleeding, at the edge of the shallow river. Taking us to a cool stream on a stifling, summer evening was a splendid idea.

In theory.

I'm sure the river was refreshing when, filled by gentle spring rains, it flowed freely. But by the end of the summer, the water was rather still. 

And when I say "still," I mean "stagnant." 

Stagnant and stinky.

Malodorous. 

Reeking.

Putrid.

Foul.

You get the picture.

The boys were undaunted. They loaded us on their backs and waded through the odoriferous water to deposit us on the little sandbar island. Which was a nice idea. 

In theory.

There was nowhere to sit except on the barren, moist ground. Which was covered in a black blanket of hungry mosquitoes. I was actually grateful for the smelly sand and packed the damp grit on my bare calves and sandaled feet, desperate for anything to discourage the blood-sucking insect hoard.

Since we'd already missed the sunset, the guys decided to light the bonfire. Rallying around a cheerful fire was a great idea.

In theory.

Did I mention that it was over 100 degrees and muggy? We didn't exactly need additional warmth. The damp wood didn't burn well, but we were thankful that the dense cloud of smoke in which we sat, coughing and hacking, slowed the feasting mosquitoes down a mite (pun intended). 

At least everyone looks good in the soft glow of firelight.

In theory.

When our eyes adjusted, we were treated to the sight of each other mottled with bites, scratched and bleeding, hair frowsy from the humidity, dirty, and pouring sweat like coal-shovelers.

The boys looked less confident at this point, but neither wanted to admit defeat. They thought they could salvage the date by introducing food. S'mores are the perfect snack to eat when sitting around a bonfire.

In theory.

The chocolate bars were melted, the Graham crackers mushy, and the marshmallows congealed into one gluey blob. The guys somehow managed to drip, squish, and mix the goo and served it on napkins. Laurel and I gamely ate the sloppy mess, pretending that the bits of napkin inexorably affixed to the sticky S'mores were actually dietary fiber.

Fortunately, our dates remembered to bring something to drink. After eating all that sugar and madly perspiring for two hours (not to mention blood loss from the mosquitoes), we were desperate for fluids. So, drinks were a perfect idea.

In theory.

They'd brought only one bottle of sparkling grape juice. Which was hot, sugary, and held only enough juice for two people.

If they were really small. 

And not very thirsty. 

With no cups, we swigged drops of the precious liquid directly from the bottle. When it was gone, I would have wept but I couldn't spare the moisture for tears.

At that point, the boys (God bless them) finally gave up. They carried us across the rancid water, helped us fight our way through the hostile wood, and found the car in the dark by smashing into it. 

I breathed a fervent prayer of thanks because I was worried we'd spend the rest of the night stumbling through the field until we passed out from heat exhaustion, only waking in the morning to lick dew off the grass. 

We crawled into the car and headed home.

We drove (blinking smoke-stung eyes) and drove (with swamp-stench clinging to our sweaty skin) and drove (covered in reeking, damp sand) and drove (as I tried not to scratch my forty-plus mosquito bites) and drove (exhausted into silence) and drove until we finally made it back to civilization. 

I wanted to kiss the pavement. 

Russ and Jim walked us to the door to say a glum goodbye. Laurel and I were gracious enough to thank them for the date.

Because it was a sweet idea. 

In theory.

Verse of the day:  (I Thessalonians 5:16-18) "Always be joyful. Never stop praying. Be thankful in all circumstances..."

'Preplanned' Packing

Call me sexist or a non-feminist or non-masculinist or whatever you want, but I firmly believe there are certain things women are better at than men: like childbirth.  

And I firmly believe there are certain things men are better at than woman: like using a urinal.

Under Women Only, I also list "packing." Under Men Only, I list "carrying luggage." With good reason.

Ten years ago, my sweet husband-to-be called to tell me that after our wedding he was taking me to a resort in Jamaica for our honeymoon.

When I asked what he'd packed, he said, "I'm still pre-planning it."

If I may digress for a moment...

People, what in God's green earth is "pre-planning"? Jay says it all the time. I don't mind Southern colloquialisms if they make sense. I've even been known to pepper my conversation with "y'all." It's quite useful as a plural second-person pronoun. But I can't wrap my brain around how one plans to make a plan! Or of what pre-planning consists since the minute one thinks, "I should pack shoes," then one is already planning.

Thank you for indulging me. Back to our story...

I suggested (whenever he got around to actually packing) that he include some nice clothes in case any of the restaurants at the resort had dress codes in the evening. He promised to do so.

Since we would spend most of our time on the beach located mere steps from our room, I brought (along with unmentionables) four bathing suits, three cover-ups, and several each of sundresses, t-shirts, tank tops, shorts, and sandals. Oh, and a couple of dresses for the nicer restaurants. Jay grumbled a bit when he hefted my suitcase for the first time, but I wore nearly everything I brought.

The view from our room.
To the right was the beach, where we spent most of our time.

When we arrived at the resort, Jay opened his suitcase (which was significantly lighter than mine). He proudly showed me that it was filled with dress pants and button-down shirts. Even a few ties. It was wonderful of him to remember, and I appreciated how great he looked on the few nights we went out for fine dining.

Unfortunately, he'd also brought only one t-shirt, a pair of shorts, and one swimsuit.

For two weeks.

On the beach.

In Jamaica.

He finally relented and bought another t-shirt (of the overpriced, tourist variety), but he washed his swim trunks and shorts in the sink. 

For two weeks.

We still had a lovely honeymoon, but, based on that experience, when we went to visit family in another state, I considered it my wifely duty to check Jay's suitcase before we left home. 

He was highly offended. 

So, like good wife, I apologized.

"I'm really sorry, honey; I don't mean to be patronizing," I humbly confessed. "Yes, you are old enough to pack your own suitcase. I was way out of line. Please forgive me."

"I do," he graciously replied, mollified.

"...which is why," I added, "I won't mention that the only pair of socks and underwear you'll have for the entire trip are the ones you're wearing to the airport."

"What? You're kidding!" he exclaimed, digging through the suitcase in vain for a pair of buried undies or an overlooked sock.

"Not changing your boxers or socks the whole time might get a bit smelly," I added, "but since you also didn't pack deodorant, shampoo, or a toothbrush, I'm going to assume that you're not concerned with how you'll smell on this vacation."

"You're kidding," he groaned.

"But that's okay," I assured him, cheerfully. "I can work around it. Instead of having people to come to my parents' house to visit us, perhaps we can meet our friends and relatives at the zoo where your odor won't be obvious."

He laughed, shaking his head at his suitcase in disbelief.

"Or rendezvous at a fish-packing plant," I continued.

"I can't believe I didn't pack underwear," he muttered incredulously.

"Or arrange a stroll through a cow pasture," I suggested.

"Okay, okay," he admitted with a grin, "I can't pack.

"Or we could say," I proposed, "that we've always wanted to tour the city dump..."

"This is why I need a wife. Pack my suitcase for me. Please."

"I wish I could, honey," I answered, sadly. "But by the time I'm done pre-planning and then making a plan based on the pre-plan that I'd planned, I won't have time to pack."

Pre-planning definitely pays off--he has all he needs for at least a month.

Verse of the day: (I Peter 4:10) "Each of you should use whatever gifts you have received to serve others, as faithful stewards of God’s grace in its various forms."

P.S. As usual, this has been posted with Jay's approval. Yes, I did pack for him that day--and for every trip thereafter.

For another Jay story, check out She Said, He Heard. For a story about an unfortunate airport incident, read Our Trip was the Bomb.

Doggy Bags or Daddy Bags

My dad (for whom we can blame my sense of humor) wanted me to share this story on my blog because he thought it was funny. My reaction was a little different than his.

This post is for you, Daddy, in honor of Father's Day.

Jay (my husband), Caleb and Zoe (our dogs), and I visit my parents across the country at least once a year. On our last trip, one of my cousins took Jay and me out to lunch. Caleb is my Medical Alert dog, so he went to the restaurant with us, but Zoe (a little Bichon-mix) had to stay home. 

We ordered barbequed ribs. Delicious. I collected the fatty scraps, chopped them up, and put them in a "doggy bag" to dole out to my spoiled pups throughout the next week (to the Pet Police: we mix very small amounts with their dry food for flavor). I also packed up a ton of fries that we hadn't even touched.

Fat and half-chewed-on-meat for the dogs

After lunch, we stopped by my parents' house. I went in to tell my dad, "We're going to the cabin to watch a movie. I'll call you if we're going to be gone more than a couple of hours. Oh, and I brought food for you," I added, as I shoved the containers in the refrigerator. "They gave us way too many fries." 

As evening fell, I dutifully called home to say, "Dad, we decided to eat dinner here. Zoe's probably hungry by now, so could you feed her? In the refrigerator you'll find two containers. One has fries for you. The other has fat that I brought home for the dogs. Just mix like half a teaspoon of that in Zoe's dry food or she won't eat it."

My mom was at my sister's house, so I expected my dad to be a little grumpy when he found out he'd be eating alone, but I was surprised to hear how annoyed he sounded when he snapped, "You said you brought food home for me."

"Fries are food. I didn't say that I brought you an entire meal. You can make some scrambled eggs. French fries taste good with eggs."

Looks like food to me

"You said you brought food home for me!" he persisted.

"Dad, you can figure out something to eat with the fries. There's lunch meat in the refrigerator. Why don't you make a sandwich? After you eat, will you please feed Zoe?"

"You said you brought food home for me!" was his stubborn reply.

"Sorry, dad, but all we had left were fries. Eat them or not--your choice. Anyway, in the other container you'll find a blob of chopped fat covered in sauce from the barbequed ribs. Just mix a tiny bit into one scoop of Zoe's dry food, okay?" 

"You said you brought food home for me!" he insisted, slowly and distinctly, as if I were the one with a communication problem.

I was getting exasperated when Jay laughingly interrupted me with the interpretation. "Pamela, he's trying to tell you that he thought you brought the fat home for him, and he already ate it!"  

Oops.

Ew!! 

Verse of the day:  (I Corinthians 10:27b, 31) "...eat whatever is set before you, asking no question for conscience’ sake...Whether you eat or drink, or whatever you do, do it to the glory of God."

My dad grew up during the Great Depression when lard on toast was a treat, so he insists the fries with barbeque-sauce-soaked-fat were delicious. I'll take his word for it.

Medicated Part Two

This post will make more sense if you read last week's post first. It's ingeniously titled Medicated Part One to distinguish it from this one, Medicated Part Two.

Then we get to the worst part of the day. I was feeling better in the afternoon after a long, damp nap (reference is from last week's post) when I heard sirens in the distance. Why is that important, you ask? Let's back up a bit.

The nice thing about Korean Jindo dogs is that they don't bark much. Caleb would bark to alert me when a person came on our property, but he wouldn't bark at birds, squirrels, or paper bags flying in the wind. Which was good, generally speaking. 

My problem was that on the few occasions he did bark, he only barked when outside. I wanted him to bark when he was inside and someone came to the door (especially while Jay was at the fire station for a 24-hour shift and I was home alone). Caleb's fierce, white-wolf looks didn’t intimidate strangers when he was silently peeking from around the corner. 

Our vet told us we'd done an amazing job with Caleb's rehab so far (a neighbor rescued him and gave him to us several months earlier), but advised us to continue to build his confidence until he felt secure enough to bark while in the house. The vet was an older man with a heavy European accent, and since I'm illogically convinced that a heavy European accent guarantees expertise, I raptly listened.  

While looking for ways to boost Caleb's confidence, I noticed that when he was outside, he howled happily, tail wagging, when he heard firetruck sirens.

 

A light bulb went on (bing!). I figured that if I could encourage him to howl indoors, then he would eventually feel secure enough to bark indoors as well. Brilliant!

So, the next time Caleb was inside and I heard sirens, I cleverly said, "Howl," and gave him a demonstration. He looked perplexed that I was howling in the house, but eventually joined me by making some faint, strange noises, with his forehead puckered. He was possibly asking if I was losing my mind, but I praised his vocal efforts with an enthusiastic, "Good howl!"

When Jay came home from work the next morning, we heard sirens again (no, we don't have an arsonist on our street; we live a couple of miles from the fire station.), so I commanded, "Howl," and we both howled for Caleb. After a few minutes of our idiotic indoor bawling, he finally joined us with a response that sounded like a dying moose.

Most likely it was doggy laughter.  

But I exclaimed, "Good howl!" to encourage him.

 

Back to the worst part of my day...I was feeling better in the afternoon after a long, damp nap (reference is from last week's post) when I heard sirens in the distance. Caleb was outside, and I knew he'd howl when they came closer. Excitedly, I shouted for Jay, who was in the kitchen, to rush outside and join him. 

Jay obligingly ambled out the side door. He's very good to me.

Thinking, I, too, could help, I climbed out of bed and went out on the back deck. I couldn't see Jay, who was around the corner of the house, but when I couldn't hear him, I had an annoying suspicion that he was humoring me by standing there whispering, "Howl. Howl. Ah-rooo. Ah-rooo," under his breath. 

The sirens were lessening, but I smugly decided that I, at least, was dedicated enough to our pup's rehab to continue the exercise. 

I leaned over the deck railing in my powder blue, snowflake pajamas and howled. 

To my joy, Caleb raced from the side of the house, barking! I proudly assumed that he was responding to my feral vocalization, so, although the sirens were long gone, I threw back my head and howled again. 

Nice and long and loud. 

It was a spectacular howl!

As I slowly lowered my head at the end of my award-worthy canine call, I noticed that Caleb had kept running because he was actually barking at the neighbor who lives behind us; she was next to our back fence, partially concealed by the bush she'd been clipping, staring at me in open-mouthed shock. 

She abruptly put her head down and scurried away. 

We don’t know her well, so I desperately wanted to yell to her rapidly retreating back, "I'M MEDICATED. HEAVILY!" 

Verse of the day:  (2 Corinthians 15:13-14) "If it seems we are crazy, it is to bring glory to God. And if we are in our right minds, it is for your benefit. Either way, Christ's love controls us."

Zoe pretending she wants a howling lesson (I wasn't going to lean over the railing this time).

She didn't let out a sound, so I began to suspect she was just egging me on.

Confirmation of the set-up complete when she burst out laughing.
"Humans! Ha! They're so gullible."

Follow up:  I stopped taking that prescription (to the great relief of my husband and several neighbors). So I can no longer use medication as an excuse for my behavior.

I miss that.

Medicated Part One

A few years ago, in March, I sent a cousin several birthday cards. It would have been a sweet gesture except that each card was exactly the same. And her birthday is in July.

My defense was that I was medicated.  

I was trying a new anti-seizure medication for pain-control, and the side effects were dizziness (Whee!), drowsiness (Yawn…) and brain fog (Who is this cute man in my house, and why does he keep calling me his wife?). My doctor warned that it takes a while to adjust this particular medication and that I might act a bit strange for a month or two. Of course, with me, how could one tell?

One morning, I woke to find myself with a nearly-empty cereal box on my lap cramming granola into my mouth with both hands. There were empty wrappers on the bedside table, evidence that my binge hadn't started with nutty oat clusters. 

Another morning, I tried to take a dose of the new pills and at some point lost consciousness. I didn't pass out, I just checked out. When I found myself back in reality, I was leaning on my elbow staring at the medicine bottle. It was filled to the brim with water. 

Incorrect

Something seemed wrong, and I realized that I had to get the water off the pills immediately, but instead of pouring the water into the cup conveniently located on my nightstand, I poured half of the water directly on the nightstand.
 

Also incorrect

That also seemed wrong, so I dumped the remaining water on the bed. 
 

Surprisingly, this, too, was incorrect

I reiterate; I was drugged.

At that point, I knew I was incapable of rationally dealing with the situation further and woke Jay. He patiently took over, spread the capsules out to dry, and cleaned up the nightstand. He left the soggy bedding alone. He figured it would dry on its own, and, after all, it was on my side of the bed.

Jay tried to put a positive spin on my actions. He said, pragmatically, "You came up with viable options. Not normal options, but options, nonetheless." He added, benevolently, "You were thinking outside the box!" 

To this I replied, "What box?"

Then I went back to sleep.  (To be continued next week. It gets worse. Much worse.)


Verse of the day: (Matthew 9:36) "When (Jesus) saw the crowds, He had compassion on them because they were confused and helpless..."  I know the feeling. 

Delectable Disagreement

In honor of my favorite veteran, my husband, and posted with his blessing.
 
Jay is good-natured and level-headed. But, like us all, there are times he's not in the mood to listen to reason. On those rare occasions, I've learned that it's easier to agree with him than to argue.

For example, when we were first married, he wanted to learn how to cook. I used the term "learn" loosely since he refused instruction and abhorred following recipes. He just haphazardly threw food items together hoping an edible dish would miraculously emerge. Most experiments rapidly emerged from his mouth directly into the garbage can.

I'll spare you the details of debacles he concocted at home, and merely mention that he was banned from the firehouse kitchen for "helping" with dinner by surreptitiously adding arbitrary ingredients to meals as they were being prepared. You don't get between hungry firefighters and palatable food without suffering consequences.

When he complained, I was unsympathetic. "Sorry, babe, I don't blame them. First, you can't add something to a meal without telling the person who is cooking it. Second, until you have experience, you have to stick to recipes."

"But I see people grab stuff out of cupboards, add it or substitute it for something else, and the meal turns out great. If they can do it, than I can do it," he insisted.

"But, honey, we don't add random ingredients. We've cooked from recipes long enough to understand which flavors work together," I reasoned. "When the Oriental dressing ran low, I added sesame oil, rice wine vinegar, soy sauce, ginger, and brown sugar to stretch it. Not olive oil, lemonade, Dr. Pepper, cinnamon, and jelly beans. You have to know what you're doing if you want it to taste right."

He remained unconvinced.

One weekend, friends were coming to dinner. They'd asked if I would serve a casserole that I'd made them on a previous occasion. (Well, not that casserole exactly, because we ate that one, but one remarkably similar to it.) Jay had been my sous-chef in the past, but this time he wanted to make the casserole by himself. It's not a difficult recipe, so I didn't mind as long as he agreed not to change anything without consulting me.

He reluctantly promised, and so I stayed out of the kitchen.

Later, Jay came to the bedroom to tell me that the meal was progressing well. As he walked away, he tossed over his shoulder, with feigned nonchalance, "Oh, and we're out of unsweetened cornflakes for the casserole topping, so I'm using something else."

"Wait!" I yelped.

"What?" He poked his head back into the room with a set expression.

Trying to sound calm, I answered, "Yeah, see, honey, I'm just curious about what you plan to use in place of unsweetened cornflakes. Especially since we don't have any unsweetened wheat, rice, or oat flakes."

"I'm using granola," he firmly replied, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Yeah, no, see, we have like mango yogurt granola. And a berry, vanilla, and brown sugar granola. Neither of which will work on a chicken, veggie, and rice casserole."

"The recipe calls for cereal," he enlightened me, with exaggerated patience, "and granola is cereal."

"Yeah, no, see, sweetie, the recipe specifically says unsweetened cereal. And we don't have any."

"I don't have time to go to the store, so I'm going to use granola," he informed me, determinedly.

"Yeah, see, that won't taste good with chicken, celery, onions, mushrooms, and rice."

"I'm using granola," was his stubborn reply. "Cereal is cereal!"

At that point, my patience waned, and I wanted to yell, "Are you crazy? Don't you dare do that to our guests. What is wrong with you!" But 1 Corinthians 13 says that love is not irritable or rude, and I vowed to love Jay, so (for better or worse) my response options were greatly limited. Also, had I forced him to go to the store "unnecessarily," he would have been grumpy for the rest of the evening. I didn't want that, so instead of arguing, I agreed with him.

"You know, Jay, you do have a point," I acquiesced. "Cereal is cereal."

"Yes, it is." He affirmed, nodding with satisfaction at my capitulation.

"Then leave the topping off 3/4ths of the casserole, make a topping with granola, like you want, and put it on the remaining 1/4th. That portion will be just for you."

That gave him pause.

"Who knows? It might even be edible, " I added, brightly. "You can let us know."

He mulled that over, and then muttered, "I may have time to go to the store."

"Really, darling, if you're too busy, you don't have to," I assured him. "We'll enjoy the meal without the topping, and you can have the wonderfully unique experience of eating sugary berry-granola-chicken casserole."

Another pause. 

"That's okay," he finally said, grudgingly. "I think can find time to go to the store."

"You know, honey," I encouraged, "I think you should make granola topping. For your personal portion, that is." I was beginning to get curious. Not curious enough to subject our guests to the experiment, but curious enough to let him try it. 

"No, no. I'll go to the store for the cornflakes," he answered, dryly.

"Unsweetened cornflakes," I reminded. "Come on, be adventurous; put granola on your section," I coaxed, because by then I really, really, really wanted him to try it. "You might start a whole new food trend!"

He rolled his eyes as he put on his shoes.

"You might become famous," I continued, optimistically, "for inventing chicken and celery oatmeal cookies!"

He tried to hide a smile as he reached for his wallet.

"Or chicken, blueberry, and onion breakfast bars!" I enthused.

He snickered as he reached for his keys.

"While you're there, pick up some Lucky Charms. The marshmallow bits might taste 'magically delicious' with chicken, rice, and vegetables!"

He was openly laughing as the door shut behind him.

Yep, it's easier to agree with him than to argue.
 

Mushrooms, celery, chicken, onions, and Lucky Charms® are a nutritious part of this complete breakfast!

Verse of the day: (Ephesians 4:2-3) "Always be humble and gentle, making allowances for the faults of others because of your love." I've perfected the art of humbly and gently spitting out the culinary results of "the faults of others." Because of my love.

Follow up:  Shortly after this episode, he decided to leave the culinary decisions to me. So if we invite you to dinner, you can eat without fear.
For another Jay story, check out "Preplanned" Packing.