A. Block my updates
B. Aren't my friend or
C. Never check Facebook.
But really, any of those reasons are kind of a cop-out. YOU SHOULD KNOW THIS ABOUT ME. Because it's making me a bit manic.
I mean, I rarely fantasize about chicken breasts on the grill. But when I've spent the entire day counting the calories in a freaking handful of wheat thins and doing aerobics in front of my SOOOper peppy aerobics dvd and even forcing myself to go on a long "power-walk" while my kids are at their lessons (Yes. I even did that whole butt-clench-tummy-clench thing that makes your butt imitate a 1950's housewife); well, after all of that? A chicken breast starts to sound like a gourmet meal.
After a long and painful ride home in the family truckster which involved whining AND threats AND moaning AND yelling, I threw open the front door of the house; fully irritated and positively starving.
The air was aromatic. Absolutely, deliciously full of the scent of perfectly spiced Italian-seasoning chicken. On the phone, Patrick had told me he'd made 12 breasts! How would I be able to eat just one?!?
The table was set for the last 3 of us to come home. There was a bowl of stuffing and forks and knives and... 2 chicken breasts.
Two. Chicken breasts.
I. Was. Livid.
I yelled up the stairs "How could you DO this?" and "You guys are PIGS!" and "There are THREE OF US!" and "Don't you know how freaking HUNGRY I AM!?!??"
Patrick yelled back down that "It wasn't my fault!" and "We didn't eat them all!" and that Penny, our sweet, sweet puppy, had gotten into the chicken.
I slowly turned to fixate on our 22 pound terrier mix pup.
I glared. She jauntily tilted her head.
I flung several pantry and refrigerator doors about in an attempt to make her feel guilty. She sat down crookedly and began to chew on a pair of sunglasses.
Patrick heard the ruckus* and (very bravely) crept downstairs. "Want me to make you something else?"
"NO!!. What I want is to have MY chicken breast!" The kids were devouring the remaining two. And damnit, they smelled soooo good! "How did she get them, anyway??"
"I kind of left the chicken on the table... and the chair was pulled out... and I went upstairs to watch the game..."
"Why didn't you just write her a freaking invitation?!? She is going to be SO sick!"
"Oh, she didn't EAT them. At least, not all of them. She hid one under the computer desk, one in the corner, one under the couch, and we found another one in her blankets in her crate. She was saving them for later."
I felt a lick on my kneecap. She was trying desperately to win me back. But it wasn't going to work. I was too angry...
Sigh... So I heated up leftover pasta AGAIN and snatched a few bites from the kids' chicken (and it WAS really REALLY good) and got over it. Though I feared what even that one or two chicken breasts would do to her stomach overnight.
Thankfully, her crate was free of any surprises today and we went about our morning routine as usual. I sat on the floor to fold the laundry that was dumped in the middle of the family room and began sorting out what we would need for our little weekend trip. Shorts for me, shirt for Evan, underwear for Patrick...
OH MY GOD WHAT IS THAT IN THE LAUNDRY???
It looked like a dead baby... something.
And it was.
It was a dead chicken.
Or just its breast, at least.
Nestled in a pair of Pat's underwear for safekeeping.
|Note: this is a random bone, not the chicken breast. Because that would be one freakishly large chicken breast. Maybe one from a bird that's had implants or something...|
*In 6 years of blogging, I daresay that I've never used that word before. I just thought that I should note this occasion.