Recommended wine for today’s entry: Here’s another of the recommendations from Tamara Ikenberg’s recent article in The Courier-Journal … Veglio Moscato d’Asti 2007, which Chris Zaborowski (owner of Westport Whiskey & Wine in Louisville) describes as “Apricot and pear flavor, plus a little bit of fizz make this tonic a perfect seasonal wine to drink solo or with a fresh fruit salad.”All that taste for about $9.99!
Well, if you’re making a fruit salad out of stuff in my fridge, here’s a little word to the wise: Don’t.
Apparently, according to my husband, I don’t clean out the refrigerator enough. After 26 years and 2 months of marriage, my husband and I are just not seeing eye to eye.
He has suddenly become a bit … um, we’ll call it persnickety, to use a cutting edge word. Last night – and I’ll take the blame here – I let him make dinner. Stupid me. Because after he went to the grocery, he was putting the items away and he turned into Refrigerator Ranger.
“There are two – no, three – oh, here’s another one – are you kidding me? There are five jars of olives open in here!” He looked at me for an explanation, like I’m the only one with access to the stupid appliance.
Honestly? That’s what you’re focusing on? What about the chicken carcass that has been chilling in there for almost a month, because I’m waiting to throw it out on trash day, but I always unearth it on the day after trash day? What about the little Chinese food box that once housed Kung Pao something but now only holds a few nuts and hard pieces of rice, because everything else has decomposed? Or the half bottle of tonic water left over from our Christmas party and its accompanying half of a lime? Really … the olives? They don’t even stink.
But I didn’t say any of those things. I took the high road. “Well, the only time we use olives is when you make me a dirty martini. So you must have done that.”
That is why I was a first-class debater in college. OK, I lost every single debate. But he knows I’m right and that he’s the guilty party.
The olive thing was an awakening, though. It got me to thinking: I should clean the fridge today. And then he should reward me with a dirty martini. Yum.
So as I was finishing my jigsaw puzzle for the first two hours of this morning, I started ruminating about just when my husband and I started to move in opposite directions. I mean, this is the man who, when our oldest child began to walk, mourned with me as he removed our “trash box” – the giant box that sat in front of our fireplace for … I don’t know, three years? We’d finish a beer and throw the cans in it. As long as you could make a basket, you weren’t too drunk yet. And he could Frisbee a pizza box into it like no one’s business! THAT was the man I married.
Now – Mr. Freewheeling is gone. Last night while we were watching TV, I was petting one of the swarm of cats and throwing the hair onto the floor. And he got all grossed out! I’m sorry, why is pet hair on the floor gross, but pet hair still attached to the pet not gross? He pets the animals. That’s not gross. I mean, yes, it’s detached, but geez, it’s not like a severed arm or something.
And we do have a cleaning lady. This one actually keeps coming back, not like the lady a friend recommended who showed up once. Three ladies were here for five hours. I was giddy. She forgot to come the next week, so I called her. And called her. But she never answered. So I waited about a month, so she wouldn’t recognize my number anymore and then I called her again.
Hah! Think you can pull one over on me, do ya, lady? She was really nice and said, yes, sure she remembered me. We scheduled a date the next week for her (with her entourage) to return. This time, I cleaned the house for them a little and made them some brownies. But they never showed. I think she might have had to leave town because her phone was disconnected, too.
So today I was going to spend the day (after I finished the puzzle) cleaning the refrigerator and maybe dusting the high places in the house, because my daughter’s really tall friend is returning from a month away and he’ll most certainly check the tops of the cabinets and all.
Except now there’s a wayward bird beating himself silly against the windows of the garage, unable to find his stupid way out, even though all the garage doors are wide open. So I’ve been standing outside and chirping like a bird for a couple hours, all to no avail.
And I suppose that my newly persnickety husband isn’t going to like the fact that scared birds poop at a rate of about 25 times an hour. (That’s just an estimate. I’ll tell you the final number when the hubbie cleans the garage when he gets home from work.)
I’ll also keep you posted on our newly disparate views on running the household. My personal first step toward reconciliation will be to eat all of the olives … one dirty martini at a time.