Category Archives: Housekeeping

Mates: Shape-sorters and Spatulas

MatesMy husband never learned to put like things together or anything in the same place twice. In his preschool years, a shape-sorter toy never appeared under his family’s Christmas tree. You know, the bucket with the star-shaped, round, and triangular holes in the lid? Most toddlers are adept at dropping the appropriate hunk of plastic through the correct opening. Not Bacon. In fact, matching of any kind isn’t his forte.

Before he leaves the house everyday, my girls give him a make-over. Cherry in particular’s been know to say. “No. Just. No.” To which he replies, “What?” And Coco answers, “Change your shirt.”

That’s easy enough to handle compared to what happens when he unloads the dishwasher. No kitchen tool is ever returned to its original location. In Bacon’s world, a wire whisk is a refugee, camping out in a nebulous borderland, never to return to its true home.

When Bacon reads this, I can predict his exact response. He’ll say what he always says, “If it bothers you so much that I can’t remember where things go, I just won’t put the dishes away.” So before I go on, let me reassure him, “It won’t work. Pleading ignorance is no excuse.”

We have one utensil drawer divided with IKEA drawer dividers. The immersion blender fits on the left. Corkscrew and wine stopper in a slot. Can opener and apple corer in a slot. Ice cream scoop and small spatula in a slot. At any time, I can open the drawer and reach for exactly the tool I need without a glance. Unless . . .

Despite this innate flaw in his character, we’ve survived twenty plus years of marriage. I suppose things could be worse.

Go Togethers

PBandSpamSoup and Sandwiches. Mac-n-Cheese. Wine and Chocolate. Peanut Butter and Spam? I found this savings coupon attached to a jar of peanut butter in my local supermarket. The combination made me say YUCK right there next to the jars of Welch’s Grape Jelly.

Raccoon Swifted, Part 3

Rustoleum2Ah the sweet smell of ammonia success! The Taylor Swift marathon proved too much for the raccoon. Our neighborhood pet pest removed himself from the chimney. I’m moving on with the fireplace project without cage, capture, or release.

Today, I bought paint for the inside brick. Scratch that. Today, I bought paint twice for the inside brick. The first time, Bacon convinced me that high heat spray paint would be quick and painless. I knew better. After we got home with the rattle can, I took a look at the proscenium. That’s a college word (borrowed from the theatre) for picture frame.

“How the heck am I going to keep paint off of the brick?”

“You can mask it with something.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. Paper. Tape.”

I dragged him out to the front porch, where two years ago I spray painted wrought iron columns.

“See that?” I pointed to a black gash on the concrete. “Two years ago, I covered the porch with tape and paper. You complained about it that day. The mark is still there. Why do I let you bully me into buying the cheapest thing?”

“I did not bully you.”

“You did.”

At this point, Bacon did something miraculous. He quit arguing and left home to run an errand. I took the rattle can back to Home Depot and exchanged it for a quart of brush-on High Heat Rustoleum.

Rustoleum1

Bacon came home with flowers. Happy Valentine’s Day!

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