For some time now, my sweet better half has been relentlessly sniping at me about making better dietary choices. Yesterday evening she pointedly offered me a choice of either baked salmon or stewed chicken with broccoli and water cress for supper. I pondered these arbitrarily stated options for a moment and informed her that I would need a few minutes to consider her proposals. She agreed, and went back to the master bedroom to clean the master bath. I quietly and surreptitiously exited the back door, got into my car and drove away - - returning fifteen minutes later with a sackful of tacos, a 2 liter Pepsi and a carton of Brahms Cherry Chocolate Chip Ice Cream. I offered to share the plentiful sack of tacos with the love of my life, - - and was treated to utter, indignant silence. I ensconced myself in my LaZboy rocker-recliner and pigged out while watching an SEC Network rebroadcast of last season’s Arkansas-Ole Miss thrilling overtime Hogs victory without the usual attendant aggravation of conversational distraction.
This morning, I was presented with no choices for my breakfast menu. - - - I was also presented with no breakfast.
Football season is fast approaching
. i need to formulate a better defensive strategy to counter my sweet wife’s offensive culinary disposition. I’m already trailing on the scoreboard at my place.
No scorekeeping at my place-its take and bake pizza with chilled milk and then later in the second half some home brewed black tea served over purified water icecubes. Now that’s HOGGING. 20 days to go? HOGS YA’LL.
I like your subtle thought process. It 's certainly more promising than my all or nothing approach.
The love of my life took all of the ice cream out and put it in the freezer, locked it, and hid the key. My box of chocolate covered cherries has vanished into thin air, - - -and in it’s place is a Granola Nutrition Bar.
I had Take-n-Bake 4 meat pizza with chilled milk just WATCHING espn talk about football.Can’t wait for the season to begin. I might go and get chocolate covered cherries and eat/watch/ and then let you know I’m doing all that nutritional squalor requires! HOGS YA’LL.
I find myself in dire need of adopting some of the stylistic tactical maneuvers employed by you refreshingly inventive gentlemen.
While disdainfully staring at my breakfast burrito this morning, my adoring spouse informed me that her friend “Lucy” (whom I positively detest, and passionately refer to as “Ms. Lucifer”) was on her way over to visit, and that I needed to go shave, shower and dress more appropriately. Upon completion of my bathroom activities, while loading my pants pockets with my personal items I discovered that my car keys were not available to me. My escape plan had been short circuited.
Well…there is escape planB also known as the man cave/garage where the essential equipment is a small ref/frz with only ONE key and ESPN on the one of the walls with a 50" flatscreen mounted out of reach. I am trying to save your football life! HOGS YA’LL.
I DID indeed have a man cave plan. It failed to come to fruition due to the unfortunate consequence of my better half commandeering it while I was visiting my brother in Fayetteville - - and turning it, instead, into a hothouse for her extensive gardening interests. One might think, “Well, that’s not such a bad deal; at least, he gets home grown tomatoes, sweet corn, green beans, berries and melons”. Wrong; instead, it’s broccoli, Brussels sprouts, kumquats, eggplant and rutabaga. I was somewhat leaning toward settling for refurbishing my old derelict 1982 Dodge Van in the back yard; but upon inspection, I discovered it to be chock full of neatly-arranged, compartmentalized gardening tools.
Well, - - - I truly hope that my queen doesn’t mistakenly plant Dandelion roots; dandelions are plentiful here already; they don’t need encouragement.
I wouldn’t mind her cultivating a small plot of ginger; I like gingerbread cookies.
I’ve got a wart, - - but I didn’t contract it at St. Johns; I’m not Catholic.
I was contemplating refurnishing the kids’ old tree house and adding a few basic mature male stylistic touches; but the kids informed me that it is currently in usage as a repository for Mama’s seed, roots, mulch, fertilizer, extra bird feeders, etc., etc. They further advised me that - should I somehow wheedle Mama into allowing me to remove her supplies and take over the tree house - then they might have to charge me rent due to the reclassification of the structure as a domicile. My budget couldn’t withstand such a hit.
AND,----frankly, you’re right about this situation getting my goat.
