Hot Pockets

In my last post I alluded to our kitchen project.  Those of you who know me know about the project, and how I nearly lost my marbles during it.  


It really wasn't even a huge project, we didn't remodel anything.  We didn't replace cabinets or counter tops or appliances.  And yet, the inevitable disaster area was present for one ENTIRE month.  For a person who doesn't rest easy when the house is a mess, (not that it never gets messy) this was a living nightmare; a constant source of unease and tension.    


And the food situation!  Oh the humanity!  Somehow I was under the delusion that I would be able to pull food together in a torn-apart kitchen.  But when push came to shove, and I had lessons to teach and painting to finish up, food preparation just wasn't top on my priority list.  So we started dining out.  A LOT.  Enough so, that when I tallied the dollars up that we spent during January and February eating out, I thought I might mistakenly be looking at the bank statements of a Las Vegas high-roller.  Enough that I resigned myself to the fact that we would have to take out a second mortgage on our home to pay it back.  Enough that I briefly passed out and dreamed of a world where we hadn't spent enough to send 30 children to school in Kenya for 14 years. Waking up merely found me once again, facing this cruel reality. 


With the kitchen project still unfinished I realized that we had to find another solution.  Without any usable counter top space, a stove that was sitting precariously in the middle of the kitchen, and less than hygienic conditions, I realized we had only one option.  Microwaveable food.  


I grew up in a home with a thrifty mother who prepared well balanced meals for us.  "Instant" anything was simply not in her menu plan or on her grocery list.  (My poor mom, who lovingly baked us cookies from scratch, all the time had to listen to me whine about how I wanted "store bought" cookies just once in a while.)  As I've matured, this is something I have tried to emulate - cooking from scratch, avoiding overly process foods.  So it was with great shame that Brian and I went foraging for frozen foods that would take only minutes to heat up.


Into our grocery store we went, completely reversing our normal shopping experience.  The items that our eyes normally just skim over were now what we sought.  We loaded into our cart: Deli meats, bread, (so far not so bad), microwaveable Kraft macaroni and cheese cups, three boxes of Little Debbie snack cakes, a bag of frozen burritos, and a family-sized box of Hot Pockets.  And then we hightailed it for the self-check-out counter with great haste lest someone we know, or even strangers, would see our embarrassing bounty.


Now, all of this is not to say that I am opposed to the occasional Hot Pocket or frozen burrito.  I am not such an elitist that I find it impermissible to occasionally partake of such fare.  Life gets busy, things happen.  A frozen burrito can save the day.  It was that our shopping cart was filled up entirely with these culinary delights.  It felt like some sort of guilty pleasure to purchase so many easy options.  


So we went home, filled up on, what became, really boring food, for the next several weeks, and gutted it out.  (Ha!  I didn't even mean to make a pun but it's funny right?)  For those of you with a little spare time, here is a video of comedian Jim Gaffigan talking about Hot Pockets.  (It's a clean clip, other than some talk of poop.)  Every time we grabbed a Hot Pocket out of the freezer, we sang the theme song and thought of this little clip.  Hope you enjoy!

Break Down

Now that our kitchen is complete, it would seem that the cosmos has let loose a slew of bad luck upon us.  It's one of those times where you think that being an adult, owning a home, owning a car, responsibility, is all completely overrated. 


Brian's fancy new car has an ominous "clunk," our washing machine is leaking water, one of our windows won't open, the burners on our stove only come on with gentle coaxing, we have a HUGE clogged drain situation, and - Brian would say, most notably - his beloved watch literally fell apart while at work.  


So our week has been spent dealing with the above crises.  The watch (which Brian loves only a little less than his sunglasses, which he loves only one half of a degree less than me) is now fixed.  The car is repaired.  The clogged drain is well on its way to wholeness.


There are days that I feel like I'm the only one who does anything around here.  I throw a grand old pity party for myself...and then I start getting a bit snappish, shall we say.  But then there are days like yesterday when I watch Brian lay on his back in a filthy crawl space for five hours, cutting into pipes that are spraying and spilling the most horrifying sludge of disgustingness all over him, and I realize that I do not, in fact, do everything around here.  These are things I could not begin to accomplish on my own.  I would gladly clean the toilet for the rest of my life rather than once deal with what Brian valiantly tackled last night.  


Now I feel kind of bad for telling him he was singing too loudly in church Sunday.  Well, I actually felt bad immediately.  I sort of stole his joy in the Lord.  Clearly, I am a lazy ogre, and Brian is an attacker of muck-filled-pipes with the voice of an angel.  


Here's hoping your week is finding you with a smoothly running household.

Fishing Story

This is a story about two things: a pair of shoes, and two men who love to fish.

Brian owns a pair of basketball shoes that I'm pretty sure he purchased in 1983. Maybe he hasn't owned them that long but I feel like these shoes have been with us our entire marriage and helped us usher in the new millennium.

I hate these shoes.  

When they were new and shiny - and being used for playing basketball - I'm sure I was fine with these shoes.  But I don't even remember the time that they were actual basketball shoes and not the main point of contention in our marriage.

First of all, Brian has had a hard time coming to grips with certain fashion trends.  I know that back in the 90's it was completely acceptable for men to wear basketball shoes with any kind of attire.  It was what guys did.  I have tried to kindly explain to him that men no longer do this.  Basketball shoes are for basketball, only.  Unlike giving up pegged pants, this particular concept has been difficult for him to grasp.  He literally tried to wear these basketball shoes to my grandfather's viewing.  (Let that soak in for a second.)  He had them on his feet and got huffy with me when I made him change them.  

And thus began the great shoe debacle.  

Just so you can see what we're working with here, feast your eyes on these beauties:

I have hid the shoes, placed the shoes in the trash, had stern words about the shoes with him, and still these shoes are never in our closet - BECAUSE THEY ARE ALWAYS BY THE BACK DOOR BECAUSE HE IS ALWAYS WEARING THEM.  Now to be honest, if I wanted those shoes gone, they would be gone.  But I don't want to be like that.  So my hiding and trashing the shoes has always been with the intent to help him see how serious I am.  

He claims they are good work shoes.  Which I can agree with.  We all need a trashy pair of sneakers for mowing the lawn and doing muddy yard work. But he has been through a plethora of basketball shoes and other various sneakers since these have been purchased.  Why aren't they getting mixed into the rotation?  He doggedly hangs on to this pair?

So I thought we had come to an agreement.  He could keep the basketball shoes if he wore them only for dirty jobs and NEVER wore them out in public again.  And yet, over and over I find them on his feet.  If he has to run out to the grocery store, on go the old shoes.  If he's running to Menard's, on go the old shoes.  If we're going over to our friends house for a casual evening, there they are again.  You'll often hear me saying things like, "oh, the grocery store must be a construction zone, huh?" or "you expecting to play in the mud tonight?"  He really is incorrigible.  

So you'll understand why the next portion of this story is beyond horrifying to me.  Brian and his friend Dan love to fish.  They spent many happy hours together last year fishing the lakes of this region.  This past Tuesday was a beautiful, warm day and they decided to make this year's inaugural fishing outing.  What shows up the next day on the front page of the Warsaw Time's Union Newspaper?  This:

(Brian is the one sitting there looking like he's not really doing anything.) 

And guess what shoes Brian has on.

Which brings me to part two of this post, which is not shoe related.  (Thank goodness, right?)  

As I mentioned Dan and Brian spent MANY hours fishing together last year.  (We had an AMAZING fish fry at the end of the season.)  I was always a little curious about how Dan and Brian would spend their time, because let's face it, fishing is not, well, like playing a game of basketball.  There's a lot of downtime.  So Brian would come home and I'd ask, "what'd you guys talk about?"  And he'd saying, "Nothing really."  

Really?!?!  You sat side by side for four hours and you didn't talk about anything?  

Now I'm not trying to be nosy with him.  Their man time is sacred.  He doesn't have to share everything with me.  But I can't imagine coming home from my friend Heather's house and being like, yeah, didn't really talk much.  Just ate dinner and then watched a show.  No!  We're catching up, discussing worries, talking about work, talking about family, etc. I usually fill him in on a few things we talked about (whether he wants to hear about it or not) because that is what you do with your life partner.  i.e. "Heather and I were discussing your shoes and she totally agrees with me."  (JUST KIDDING!)

One day last summer Dan and Brian took Felicia's (Dan's girlfriend) nine-year-old son with them fishing. When they got back Felicia and I were sitting on the porch and Brian and Dan busied themselves with some other activity but Austin joined us there to tell us about their trip.  

We had our chance.  We would finally discover what these two talked about whilst fishing.  We began, very casually, pumping Austin for information.

Us: "Did the guys talk while you were out there?"

Austin: "Yeah."

Us: "Did they talk about baseball?"

Austin: "No, not really."  

Us: "What did they talk about?"

Austin: "Fishing."

Well. Mystery solved.