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Remember how mad you were when you spent the whole morning cleaning the house before heading out for a relaxing day at the beach, then came home to find the whole place looked like a tornado ran through it because your handicapped husband made a holy mess while preparing your least-favorite dish? Well, that’s what I was madder than when attempting to clean up the holy mess I created while cooking my pasta con lentils before my lovely wife Sharon got back from the beach just in time to give me hell.
Look, you all know that the ol’Screecher doesn’t like to be told what to do, especially since I’ve spent my life telling people the difference between right and wrong, so you could imagine how upset — and when I say “upset,” I mean “frightened” — I was when I knew there was no way I was going to be able to clean up the mess I made before my wife returned from her beach blanket bingo, and I was certain to hear it from my princess.
Now, don’t get me wrong. After 43 years of marriage, two kids and six grand kids, Sharon, who is Jewish, is no stranger to dishes, pots, and pans. As a matter of fact, she cleans pots and pans better than any of her Sicilian famiglia and is the first to clear up the table at family holiday dinners. It’s just that all that sun broiling her brain makes her itching for a fight, and she always blames me for Sir Isaac’s gravity pranks.
Let me give you the quick recap in case you went off your meds and you can’t remember what I wrote last week: what happened was I just finished cooking all the macaroni, rice, and pasta, and the lentil soup. I then put them in the individual containers to cool off before putting them in the Frididaire, which, as I stated last week, is Italian for “refrigerator” (you have to say it with an accent!).
And I was trying to clean everything before my terror could nit-pick and find fault, when I spotted a single lentil on the breadbox. I reached and retrieved it quicker than a homeless person could pick up a quarter, but I knocked over my pasta dish in the process, and now 1,000 lentils went spewing across the kitchen faster than the eye could see.
Knowing that the bride could walk through the door at any time, my first instinct was to grab the kitchen knife to slash my wrists so I wouldn’t have to worry about anything ever again.
But then I thought about you, dear reader, and how upset you would be if you didn’t get to read this fine prose on Friday in print, Satrurday on BrooklynDaily.com, and Sunday on BrooklynPaper.com. You would think that would be enough to get my mind off suicide, but it was not. Then, I thought about all those haters out there that insist on writing nasty things about me in the comments sections. Keeping in mind that I like to do it to them before they do it to me, I decided I would choose to live to see another day and take the heat that was coming to me, just to make sure I could upset those people that hate to read my column, but read it anyway.
Like I always say, the best reason to do anything in life is spite, so here I am typing away!
Still, I knew I had to clean up.
Racing against time, I used three entire rolls of Brawny and every cleaning tool I could get my hands on, and just about had everything off the floor and into a double-bagged Hefty that was tough enough to over-stuff.
Now, folks, you don’t have to be a scientist to know that Newton also said every action causes an equal but opposite reaction, and that couldn’t be more true than when I was using my broom and shovel to carefully maneuver the bag into the hallway. That’s when I accidentally knocked over the potted pothos, causing a dirt tsunami that reached into the dining room and foyers from the kitchen. I tried triple-locking the front door and ran into the bedroom, locking it when I heard her screams, curses, and threats.
I won’t bother you with the grizzly ending of this tale, but I’ll let you know that I am now forbidden to ever cook again in Sharon’s kitchen.
Screech at you next week — if my wounds heal!
©2013 Community Newspaper Group
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