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        Sunday, March 16, 2008

    I Want To Know...

    I woke up this morning like I usually do on Sunday mornings, to the clatter of the kid's church shoes heading out to our ratty car, the clicking of the wife's heels following close behind. Car doors slammed, the engine struggled to life, and the car limped off to take them to their social club.

    I sat up in bed, rubbed some life into my face with the palms of my hands, and rose to head for the bathroom to take a whiz. The wife had, thoughtfully, closed my door, and put a towel under it. She knows I hate the smell of her brewing coffee, and that it wakes me up, and makes me cranky.

    I open the door, and another smell hits me...Corned Beef, cooking. Rich, and wonderful. She's crock-potting again.

    The question I have is, does anybody know of any stories where a crock pot has fucked up, and burned a kitchen, or even the entire house down? I've heard a lot of scary appliance stories, but never one involving a crock-pot. Are they the perfect appliance?

    I had a blow drier explode flame out of it and singe my hair, and pepper my scalp with metal fragments. Good thing I was already in the bathroom, because it startled the shit out of me.

    Oh, and I might as well put this here: Last week, while I was at the movie, the wife had the kids help her take the big recliner out of the kid's room, down the stairs, and out to the dumpster. From the tale she told, I wish to heck I had a video of the entire process.

    The chair had served its purpose. It was the one she used to sit with Johnny in her lap when he was little, and rock him and soothe him on the Bad Nights. Or she'd just give Nat huggies while sitting in it, and then lay her down when she fell asleep.

    But now, the chair was just used to stack clothes on, and it stole a lot of valuable play space from the room, and I've been bitching about it for weeks, and the wife agreed.
    I think it just took her some time to grieve over it, to get used to losing something that had figured so prominently in her and Nat and Johnny's lives.

    So they ganged up on that big heavy fucker, and shagged it out to the dumpster. I know she's very strong, but I still don't know how they did it. Willpower, I guess. I'm not long for this earth, and it does me good to see that I have made myself a strong, independent woman out of her. No woman should 'need' a man. They should want one.

    So after some rearrangement, the kid's room is a lot more open, and I notice that they both spend much more time playing in there. Yesterday Nat made a cage (out of cushions) for several of the stuffed lions they have (Johnny loves lions, so people give him lions, please, no more lions) and then she punched them all in their heads to 'knock them out' and then put a comforter over the top ("It's solid steel, Dad!") to keep them in, then got a couple of the biggest stuffed dogs they have (big, very big) and put them on the perimeter to 'guard them, in case they tried to get out'.

    And then, as she is wont to do, she butterflied off downstairs to do something or other, so I crept in and bent back the solid steel cover and got the two biggest lions out, and arranged them and the dogs in fighting poses, with the lions on top, obviously winning.

    Eventually, she flitted back up the stairs, and went in to check on her prisoners. I heard a gasp, and then some good and proper lion punchin, and they all got warnings and a good talkin to, and then she flew into me here at my desk and gave me the angry monkey look. I lied, of couse, when confronted, and said dammit, girl, Daddy is too busy to go messing around, and she began to look puzzleificated and confusious.

    In other words, she bought it. And until her logic circuits evolve, and she quits believing in Santa and the Tooth Fairy, and the Easter Bunny, she will believe that two of her stuffed lions broke out and somehow attacked their guards.

    And that's just the way it should be.