This is something I never do. I never blog about my son, but today I have to as I’m not sure whether I should be proud or distraught over his comment about me when he called yesterday. You guys judge.
*Thinks about where to start* and then *sighs* because the beginning is so far from the end it’s depressing. Oh well here goes.
I have a haunted oven. It’s true. It works for a time and then it does crazy ass shite like broils when I want to bake or it gives me an F-10 error message. If you guys knew how many F bomberinoes I’ve dropped over this you’d—let’s just say it’s more than 10, k? Anyway, due to a number of extenuating circumstances (let’s call them company staying with us) I wound up having to put the whole chicken Honey was going to do on the BBQ rotisserie into the haunted fire-pit of hell. Otherwise known as my crappy stove. Now, I’m not holding anything back here when I tell you that I LOVE when Honey BBQs because it’s way less work for me and when I have visitors? Even better. So when I got the call that he wouldn’t be able to make it home in time to put the bird on the grill I was hm… how should I put this? Devastated. And when I get devastated by terrible news I have a tendency to want to turn my frown upside down. Do you know what I’m saying?
What do you mean you don’t? It’s really simple. I have to make me happy and there’s only one way to do that. I must make Honey miserable. Actually not so much miserable, but I have to do something. I just can’t let him off the hook when one moment he’s filled my heart with glee that I don’t have to cook – again — and the next he’s ripped yonder mirth out of my chest going a step further by stomping and trashing it to smithereens when I realize I have to go all Betty Crocker on the stupid bird. But then, anyone who knows me knows when I do something under duress there could be consequences. Which brings me to the poultry in question. It was while I was preparing the plucky little guy that my son called. Here’s the conversation.
“Hi mom. Do you have a minute?”
“Sure, what’s up?”
He proceeds to ask me about a gift idea for Honey. Once I steer the uninspired gift-giving procrastinator in the right direction I ask, “Anything else?”
“Nope, that was it. What are you doing?”
“I’m sculpting a chicken head out of tinfoil.”
“Oh. What time’s Dad going to be home? I’ll call back then.”
Me *crickets* I mean the kid didn’t even miss a beat. Maybe he hadn’t heard what I said, or maybe he did. So I asked him, “Aren’t you curious to know why I’m making a fowl face?”
“Not particularly. I’d be more curious if you told me you weren’t doing anything because let’s face it Mom, you’re always doing something.”
Eek, that smelled of predictable when that’s the last thing in the world I want to be. So I chose to ignore his comment and told him anyway.
“I’m sticking a lemonade can up the bird’s butt so he’s standing straight with wings flapping out at his sides. Then I’m going to shove the fowl face in the neck hole and when your dad gets home from work I’m going to have him open the oven door and check the chicken. Won’t he be surprised? I might even throw out a bawk, bawk.”
My son cracked up so I knew it was going to be a good one only????
The haunted oven struck again and there I was with my perpendicular bird and his finely fashioned fowl face and no Honey to see it. I wound up having to do a French country stew thing in a pot on the stove top. It turned out great, but you gotta know the bird wasn’t the only thing stewing when Honey came home. I hate it when my devious fun is thwarted.
Speaking of thwarting. Anyone out there know if they do exorcisms on kitchen appliances. Now I know what most of you are thinking. I’m nuts and yeah, you’d be right about that, but not about this. I swear. Here’s a picture of the demi-God that appeared on a pan one day. He’s the guy that’s haunting my heat box.
Yep, this is the way I have it figured? There’s the face of Christ on a grill cheese sandwich that sold for 34,000 on eBay a few years back. The bowed image of the Virgin Mary on a window that thousands flock to every year to pray in front of, and then there’s my naked Doo-Doo Devil on a pan. Maybe I can auction him off on eBay to pay for the exorcism. What, it’s a plan? It is. Not a good one, but a plan none-the-less. Any takers? >;)
Riley, who is going to dig up some rosary beads before she roasts her beef tonight