no. 638 – Now What Part Exactly Do Chicken “Fingers” Come From?

Coincidently to the prior post, I notice the door to the laundry room is open while we were sitting down to supper. I bit my tongue instead of creating a scene ripe for a food fight and once we had finished eating, went to address my OCD wife-iness.

Before I shut the door, I saw a zip lock bag sitting on the floor full of yellow, powdery stuff. "Aw, hell, now what hazardous material has that man brought into our house now?" I thought. First let me show you what I saw:415_078

It looks innocuous enough, doesn’t it?

I go to stand over it, while also trying to figure out why that stupid bucket is sitting in the middle of the floor (I have a few like that in the basement and there are several in the shop, leftovers from our cat-owning days, so it didn’t immediately strike me as whacked).

When I did, something in the bucket moved. I startled. I leaned in for a closer look…

MOTHERFUCK!!

Literally.

Kind of.

My mother dropped these off for us, presumably for XBoy.

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Don’t ask what will happen next to them. Mr. DD is less than pleased with his MIL and asked if I was going to take them out and shove them down a badger hole. After briefly considering it, of course I told him no.

We haven’t told XBoy yet. I’ll wait to see if they make it 24 hours in the house, which is unlikely. It’s probably not warm enough for them, even though I have the bucket situated over that heat vent and have the opening draped with a towel to reserve heat. I even threw in some easter grass for them to sit in instead of that lid with food.

Normal kids get goldfish. Grandchildren of farmers get livestock. And since it will be impossible (whether physically or mentally) to flush these poor bastards down the toilet if they die, I’ll also be out in the field somewhere digging a shallow grave.

no. 637 – Ask You Once, Shame On Me; Ask You Twice, Nag On You

Do you know what the difference is between politely requesting a domicile task and nagging?

When you’ve made the request tenfuckingmillion times already, it becomes nagging.

Here’s a list of the things I now nag about:

If you had to open the door to get into the room, shut the door when you leave it, e.g. the laundry room door, especially when the 20 year old dryer is grinding and pounding as if a rabid badger was trapped inside. This makes it impossible for me to hear Tyra Banks snark on one of the model wannabes inability to look "fierce".

Put your clothes in the hamper. Not just your pants/shirt. The underwear and socks, too. Especially the underwear and socks since they are completely vile and it’s bad enough I have to touch them at some point to transfer them to the washing machine. Make a game of hoops out of it, if you have to. I don’t leave my pregnancy panties strewn about, now do I?

On a related note: Do not put your dirty socks on the kitchen counter, because Duuude! that is so fucking janetjacksonnasty! And c’mon, you just walked by the laundry room (that you left the door open on….again), how hard is it for you to just put your socks in the basket?

Throw your nose tampons in the trash. Do not leave them on the bed/couch/counter/nightstand. (What? You don’t know what a nose tampon is? It’s when you take a tissue and roll it up into a tampon-shaped device and shove it up your nose to clear out those pesky boogers that won’t come out through regular blowing.) Again, I don’t leave my tampons around the house, all willy-nilly.

When you are done with the dishcloth, please rinse it, wring it, and lay it next to the sink. Now this one, being multi-directional, can be confusing, but please….a dishcloth shouldn’t be an all-you-can-eat buffet, complete with a fountain drink, to errant cockroaches and mice.

And finally after you come inside from the garage, please take off your shoes and put them away. Yes, those shoes that you have tracked through spilled motor-vehicle paint, solvents and adhesive from work. No, I don’t care that you are going to put them back on, because you aren’t going to be putting them back on for at least another two hours since you will insist on taking a break to lounge around on the couch in your spilled motor-vehicle, solvent and adhesive soaked work clothes to watch America’s Next Top Model with me (even if you make some really funny remarks about Tyra’s current weave).

I’m going to put my shoes back on in 12 hours, but I don’t leave them somewhere a pregnant woman could trip and fall over. Plus, you see this area that divides the garage from the kitchen? It’s a "mud room"! With built in cubbies! For each of us! To hang your coat and put your shoes in! How fucking awesome is that! I know it’s been only two years since we’ve lived here and it can take you a decade to figure these things out. I respect that in you, a man, who is oblivious to anything that doesn’t have gears, or control buttons, or a flat screen. I still love you.

Of course, you could always refer to this website about why women nag and how men should respond to it. I’m not quite sure why the very simple solution to nagging wasn’t mentioned and that is LIVE IT – LEARN IT the first time and then, Dear Heart, you would never have to hear me mention it again.

Otherwise, there’s the old stand-by, Common Sense, right? Oh, yeah, you’re a man. Never mind. I lost my head there for a moment. I can’t be the only one…am I?