Jeff and I had to take my car to the shop today for some scheduled maintenance, which meant I had to drive an alternate vehicle to work. Cue shower scene music from Psycho.
For those of you keeping score at home, our fleet now includes the following:
My newly acquired (gently used) BMW
Jeff's Honda
Our 1997 Nissan Pathfinder with 250K miles on it
Jeff's 70's era Ford Bronco and Ford F-100
A Ford truck frame
7 Ford truck tailgates
And a partridge in a pear tree
Now is probably a good time to note that none of the aforementioned vehicles are currently parked in the garage we built last year. And they look so nice parked in the back yard.
Generally, when my car is unavailable I drive the Pathfinder. Jeff tends to be "particular" about his car and it's not worth the hassle to drive it. And by "particular" I mean bat-shit crazy anal. I had to drive his previous car to work a couple of years ago and when I needed to pick up some sand for an office event, I was so terrified that I'd get a single grain of sand in his spotless trunk that I put the bag of sand in a giant garbage bag...then in a copy paper box...then in a larger box with the lid closed. Better safe than divorced. Those of you who have met Jeff are likely unsurprised by this.
Jeff needed the Pathfinder today (probably to buy more car crap), which meant I was going to have to drive one of his babies. Shit. He told me to take his Honda, but he clearly wasn't happy about it.
When I headed out the door to work, I told him good bye and he bid me farewell with these loving words: "Stay off the curbs, if you know what's good for you". Because nothing says "have a nice day" like an order followed by an implied threat.
Twelve years of marriage and the magic is still alive people.
...and they lived Happily Ever After.
Friday, May 3, 2013
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Overmedicators Anonymous
OK, people. I know you've read this story before, but in anticipation of Jeff's minor surgical procedure next week I give you a retelling of the epic saga of "Husband on Drugs". And don't worry - I'll have pen and paper in hand in the recovery room next week. I can't freaking wait!!!
Here ya go:
________________________________________________________
I know I'm going to get in Big Trouble for posting this, but it's totally worth it.
Jeff recently had to be sedated for a very minor outpatient medical procedure. We knew from his previous sports injury that anesthesia makes him sick. Really, really sick. So we told the nurses his history and they said they'd tell the anesthesiologist to take extra care with the anesthesia.
So off he went to surgery and I waited in the waiting room. When the surgery was finished, they called me into the recovery room to get him ready to go home. Apparently they were a little too generous with the "feel good juice" when they sedated him. He was flying high. Practically levitating over the bed. I had a notepad with me in case I needed to write down anything the doctor or nurses said after the procedure. Below is an honest-to-God, word-for-word exchange that took place between us in the recovery room.
Jeff: (groggy) We were playing Harrisburg or New York or some team from Out West.
LAB: (assuming he's talking about when he played basketball) How did you do?
Jeff: I don’t know, I was looking for the coach.
10 minutes of silence, and then this:
Jeff: …want a chicken biscuit.
LAB: Doctor says no chicken biscuits.
Jeff: 2 chicken biscuits.
LAB: No biscuits.
Jeff: Just go to Chick-fil-a and steal the recipe. Then we can make them at home all we want.
My pencil is poised now, because this is getting good.
Jeff: My son's birthday is the 27th.
LAB: Of December.
Jeff: His birthday is the 27th.
LAB: Yep.
Jeff: His birthday is the 27th.
LAB: Ummm. Yes, it is.
Jeff: His birthday is the 26th. Noooooooooo. His birthday is the 27th. Today is the 19th and the 16th.
Glad we cleared that up. 10 more minutes of silence. I'm figuring the show is over, when he starts up with this one:
Jeff: What are you doing here? I’m in surgery.
LAB: Surgery’s all over.
Jeff: You’re not supposed to be here.
LAB: Surgery’s all over.
Jeff: They haven’t started yet.
LAB: Surgery’s all over.
Jeff: Ohhhhh. Thanks for coming.
Jeff: (grabbing his crotch) Where’s my phone? I just put it down.
I'm laughing so hard I can't imagine how it's not waking him up completely. The nurse comes in to check on him:
Nurse: (to Jeff) Can I remove your IV?
Jeff: My wife has it.
Nurse: No, I need to remove your IV.
Jeff: I showed it to you when I got here.
Nurse: It will just take a second.
Jeff: I don’t have it.
LAB: (to nurse) He thinks you want to check his ID.
Then we have this intelligent exchange in front of the nurse:
Jeff: Can we stop for a chicken biscuit?
LAB: Doctor says no fast food until dinner time.
Jeff: What if I tell them to take their time bringing it to me?
His reasoning skills are actually pretty solid for being on drugs.
Nurse: (to me) Can you wake him up?
LAB: You wake him up, he doesn't like it.
Jeff: (saying the words out loud) Sleep, sleep, sleep.
Nurse: We should probably wake him up.
LAB: He’s not going to wake up.
Jeff: (still saying the words) Sleep, sleep, sleep....First go to sleep, then wake up.
Nurse: Well, just keep trying.
Forty-five minutes later he's slightly more alert. By this time, I can tell the hospital staff is anxious for us to get going. Several people have been in & out of recovery in the time we've been there. But it's not my fault they got him all hopped up on drugs like a crack whore.
Nurse: (to me) Why don't you try to walk him around a little.
LAB: Are you serious? He's 210 pounds of solid muscle and he's still basically asleep.
Nurse: Well, he needs to move around (walks away).
LAB: Super.
So I lugged him up and we did an unsteady lap around the recovery room. The whole time I was thinking that we're lucky to be in the hospital in case he falls on me.
We finished the lap.....and they had removed the damn bed from the room. Bastards tricked us! First they over medicated my man and now we were being evicted. So I dropped him into a chair (literally) and I started putting his shoes on. I noticed his head was lolling from side to side. I'm super pissed, but I just wanted to get out of there. I got him ready and finally a giant orderly showed up with a wheelchair. Thanks, Shamu, where were you for the walking around part? Shamu helped me load him into the car.
He was still passed out on the 30-minute drive home. While I was driving, I was thinking they kicked him out of the hospital because they realized they gave him an overdose of narcotics and they don't want to deal with it. I kept looking over at him in the car but he seemed to be perfectly content. No drool, no shallow breathing, his coloring looks good. I figured he might be OK, but I decided to take him to a different hospital if I saw any symptoms. The previous hospital wasn't getting another shot at him.
We finally got home and I spent 15 minutes getting him from the car to the house. How can someone so fit be so heavy? Note to self: drive SUV instead of tiny convertible for next hospital adventure. I tossed him on the couch, covered him up and checked to make sure he was breathing. I still wasn't sure about the whole OD angle yet (those nurses looked kind of shady to me). He seemed well enough, so after about 30 minutes I figured he was down for the count and I headed to the office for a few hours.
A few hours later he called me at work. He's perfectly alert, like nothing ever happened. He can't figure out why I'm laughing.
And I realized I'm gonna get mileage out of this story for years.
Here ya go:
________________________________________________________
I know I'm going to get in Big Trouble for posting this, but it's totally worth it.
Jeff recently had to be sedated for a very minor outpatient medical procedure. We knew from his previous sports injury that anesthesia makes him sick. Really, really sick. So we told the nurses his history and they said they'd tell the anesthesiologist to take extra care with the anesthesia.
So off he went to surgery and I waited in the waiting room. When the surgery was finished, they called me into the recovery room to get him ready to go home. Apparently they were a little too generous with the "feel good juice" when they sedated him. He was flying high. Practically levitating over the bed. I had a notepad with me in case I needed to write down anything the doctor or nurses said after the procedure. Below is an honest-to-God, word-for-word exchange that took place between us in the recovery room.
Jeff: (groggy) We were playing Harrisburg or New York or some team from Out West.
LAB: (assuming he's talking about when he played basketball) How did you do?
Jeff: I don’t know, I was looking for the coach.
10 minutes of silence, and then this:
Jeff: …want a chicken biscuit.
LAB: Doctor says no chicken biscuits.
Jeff: 2 chicken biscuits.
LAB: No biscuits.
Jeff: Just go to Chick-fil-a and steal the recipe. Then we can make them at home all we want.
My pencil is poised now, because this is getting good.
Jeff: My son's birthday is the 27th.
LAB: Of December.
Jeff: His birthday is the 27th.
LAB: Yep.
Jeff: His birthday is the 27th.
LAB: Ummm. Yes, it is.
Jeff: His birthday is the 26th. Noooooooooo. His birthday is the 27th. Today is the 19th and the 16th.
Glad we cleared that up. 10 more minutes of silence. I'm figuring the show is over, when he starts up with this one:
Jeff: What are you doing here? I’m in surgery.
LAB: Surgery’s all over.
Jeff: You’re not supposed to be here.
LAB: Surgery’s all over.
Jeff: They haven’t started yet.
LAB: Surgery’s all over.
Jeff: Ohhhhh. Thanks for coming.
Jeff: (grabbing his crotch) Where’s my phone? I just put it down.
I'm laughing so hard I can't imagine how it's not waking him up completely. The nurse comes in to check on him:
Nurse: (to Jeff) Can I remove your IV?
Jeff: My wife has it.
Nurse: No, I need to remove your IV.
Jeff: I showed it to you when I got here.
Nurse: It will just take a second.
Jeff: I don’t have it.
LAB: (to nurse) He thinks you want to check his ID.
Then we have this intelligent exchange in front of the nurse:
Jeff: Can we stop for a chicken biscuit?
LAB: Doctor says no fast food until dinner time.
Jeff: What if I tell them to take their time bringing it to me?
His reasoning skills are actually pretty solid for being on drugs.
Nurse: (to me) Can you wake him up?
LAB: You wake him up, he doesn't like it.
Jeff: (saying the words out loud) Sleep, sleep, sleep.
Nurse: We should probably wake him up.
LAB: He’s not going to wake up.
Jeff: (still saying the words) Sleep, sleep, sleep....First go to sleep, then wake up.
Nurse: Well, just keep trying.
Forty-five minutes later he's slightly more alert. By this time, I can tell the hospital staff is anxious for us to get going. Several people have been in & out of recovery in the time we've been there. But it's not my fault they got him all hopped up on drugs like a crack whore.
Nurse: (to me) Why don't you try to walk him around a little.
LAB: Are you serious? He's 210 pounds of solid muscle and he's still basically asleep.
Nurse: Well, he needs to move around (walks away).
LAB: Super.
So I lugged him up and we did an unsteady lap around the recovery room. The whole time I was thinking that we're lucky to be in the hospital in case he falls on me.
We finished the lap.....and they had removed the damn bed from the room. Bastards tricked us! First they over medicated my man and now we were being evicted. So I dropped him into a chair (literally) and I started putting his shoes on. I noticed his head was lolling from side to side. I'm super pissed, but I just wanted to get out of there. I got him ready and finally a giant orderly showed up with a wheelchair. Thanks, Shamu, where were you for the walking around part? Shamu helped me load him into the car.
He was still passed out on the 30-minute drive home. While I was driving, I was thinking they kicked him out of the hospital because they realized they gave him an overdose of narcotics and they don't want to deal with it. I kept looking over at him in the car but he seemed to be perfectly content. No drool, no shallow breathing, his coloring looks good. I figured he might be OK, but I decided to take him to a different hospital if I saw any symptoms. The previous hospital wasn't getting another shot at him.
We finally got home and I spent 15 minutes getting him from the car to the house. How can someone so fit be so heavy? Note to self: drive SUV instead of tiny convertible for next hospital adventure. I tossed him on the couch, covered him up and checked to make sure he was breathing. I still wasn't sure about the whole OD angle yet (those nurses looked kind of shady to me). He seemed well enough, so after about 30 minutes I figured he was down for the count and I headed to the office for a few hours.
A few hours later he called me at work. He's perfectly alert, like nothing ever happened. He can't figure out why I'm laughing.
And I realized I'm gonna get mileage out of this story for years.
Monday, April 29, 2013
Perfect storm of drinking
I didn't intend for last weekend to be a drunk fest. I really didn't! But Jeff was out of town (ingredient #1 for perfect storm of drinking) and I had a couple of early-in-the-day liquid lunches arranged (ingredient #2 for perfect storm of drinking), so last weekend was basically Booze-Mageddon. With extra lime.
I literally had 2 non-alcoholic drinks over the entire weekend. A Diet Coke when I woke up Saturday morning and a Diet Coke when I woke up Sunday morning. Every drop that I drank for the remainder of both days contained alcohol. "Paging LAB, your ride to Passages is now available".
I had to set my alarm both days to get up and meet people to drink. Kind of like the Spring Game of drinking, as a tune-up for football season.
I should point out that at no time over the weekend was I drunk. I've been drunk once this year (thanks to my brother and free rounds of drinks from the manager at Dos Copas) and once in 2012 (thanks to former high school classmates). Other than that? I've really enjoyed my adult beverages, but I'm not particularly concerned about it. May be it's denial. Jeff promises to let me know when he's concerned.
Anyway, I thought I'd share some very intelligent conversations from while I was with myenabler brother on Saturday:
LAB: "Stop referring to me as 'bitch'"
Scott: "It's OK. It's a term, not a phrase."
LAB: ??????
Scott: "It's getting cold out here. Let's go inside and drink and watch Archer."
LAB: "And you wonder why you're still single."
Scott: "Is that the same shirt you wore last weekend?"
LAB: "Yep. Apparently I have a drinking jersey."
Scott: "I see you failed to score us a hot waitress. Again."
Sunday with my pal Molly featured free drinks (thanks Gabriel the bartender!) and some of the worst jokes ever told. Here's a sample:
Bartender: So this mushroom walks into a bar, and the bartender says "Sorry, man, you can't come in". The mushroom replies "Why not? I'm a fungi.".
Get it? Fungi...fun guy? Oh, never mind.
Molly: What's the last thing that goes through a bug's mind before he hits the windshield of a car? His ass.
Bah dum dum.
LAB: So this string walks into a bar and the bartender says "Sorry, man, we don't serve your kind here." So the string goes outside, jumps up and down and twists himself around. Then he goes back into the bar. The bartender says "Aren't you that string that was just in here?" The string replies "Nope. I'm a frayed knot."
Oh, come on people. A frayed knot...Afraid not? I'm hearing crickets around here.
Before we left the bar (and after multiple rounds of drinks), I had to break out the big guns.
LAB: What's the plural of y'all??? ALL Y'ALL!!!
And that, my friends, is the point at which the bartender realized his error in giving us free drinks. Well that and when Molly ordered "A martini so dirty that it's a whore".
Good times.
I literally had 2 non-alcoholic drinks over the entire weekend. A Diet Coke when I woke up Saturday morning and a Diet Coke when I woke up Sunday morning. Every drop that I drank for the remainder of both days contained alcohol. "Paging LAB, your ride to Passages is now available".
I had to set my alarm both days to get up and meet people to drink. Kind of like the Spring Game of drinking, as a tune-up for football season.
I should point out that at no time over the weekend was I drunk. I've been drunk once this year (thanks to my brother and free rounds of drinks from the manager at Dos Copas) and once in 2012 (thanks to former high school classmates). Other than that? I've really enjoyed my adult beverages, but I'm not particularly concerned about it. May be it's denial. Jeff promises to let me know when he's concerned.
Anyway, I thought I'd share some very intelligent conversations from while I was with my
LAB: "Stop referring to me as 'bitch'"
Scott: "It's OK. It's a term, not a phrase."
LAB: ??????
Scott: "It's getting cold out here. Let's go inside and drink and watch Archer."
LAB: "And you wonder why you're still single."
Scott: "Is that the same shirt you wore last weekend?"
LAB: "Yep. Apparently I have a drinking jersey."
Scott: "I see you failed to score us a hot waitress. Again."
Sunday with my pal Molly featured free drinks (thanks Gabriel the bartender!) and some of the worst jokes ever told. Here's a sample:
Bartender: So this mushroom walks into a bar, and the bartender says "Sorry, man, you can't come in". The mushroom replies "Why not? I'm a fungi.".
Get it? Fungi...fun guy? Oh, never mind.
Molly: What's the last thing that goes through a bug's mind before he hits the windshield of a car? His ass.
Bah dum dum.
LAB: So this string walks into a bar and the bartender says "Sorry, man, we don't serve your kind here." So the string goes outside, jumps up and down and twists himself around. Then he goes back into the bar. The bartender says "Aren't you that string that was just in here?" The string replies "Nope. I'm a frayed knot."
Oh, come on people. A frayed knot...Afraid not? I'm hearing crickets around here.
Before we left the bar (and after multiple rounds of drinks), I had to break out the big guns.
LAB: What's the plural of y'all??? ALL Y'ALL!!!
And that, my friends, is the point at which the bartender realized his error in giving us free drinks. Well that and when Molly ordered "A martini so dirty that it's a whore".
Good times.
Monday, March 18, 2013
The One Where Jeff Accuses Me of Shooting My Brother
First, a Marley update. Surgery went well. She's fine...and we're hoping to stop crying over the $1,500 vet bill very soon. I still can't explain how she broke her ear by falling *up* the stairs.
In other news, I had one of the most bizarre Friday nights in recent memory last weekend. And I found out what Jeff really thinks of me.
My brother Scott stopped by to check on Marley early Friday evening, and when I walked him to his car as he was leaving there was a really loud *BANG* from a car driving down our street. A Mercedes had blown a tire directly in front of our house. In true Scott fashion, he acted like cars blowing tires in the street happen every day and he got in his car and left. Nothing flusters that man. Jeff came outside to investigate the noise.
Jeff: Did you just shoot Scott?
LAB: You hear a loud noise and your first thought is that I killed my brother in our driveway?
Jeff: Just answer the question.
LAB: Seriously, what the hell? He's my brother.
Jeff: OK, may be you wouldn't shoot Scott. But don't act like you shooting someone is outside the realm of possibilities.
LAB: *sigh* No, I didn't shoot Scott. Or anyone else. Yet. The Mercedes in the street blew a tire.
Jeff: Cool! Think he needs help?
LAB: I have no idea. Why don't you strap on your cape and your tool belt and go find out.
Jeff helped Mercedes dude change his tire and came back inside.
LAB: What took so long?
Jeff: I had to wait for him to quit peeing.
LAB: WHAT!?!? He was peeing in the neighbor's yard?
Jeff: Nope - in the street.
LAB: That doesn't make it any better. He was really peeing in the street? In broad daylight?
Jeff: Yep.
LAB: Was he drunk?
Jeff: Probably. I should have sent you out there. You speak his language.
LAB: I question the wisdom of calling the woman who prepares your food a murderous drunk.
Jeff : I'll take my chances. I figure if you were gonna kill me I'd be dead by now.
LAB: True. What did he say when you caught him peeing?
Jeff: He said "Sorry. I didn't know anyone was behind me."
LAB: That's it? Not "Sorry I'm peeing in your street?"
Jeff: Nope. I don't think he was sorry for that. When a man's gotta go, a man's gotta go.
LAB: Nice. What did he say after you helped him?
Jeff: He looked at my jack and tire iron, said "I've gotta get me some of those!", jumped in his car and took off.
LAB: Wow. That's a lot better than a plain old "thank you".
Jeff: I thought so too.
In summary: My dog is single-handedly wiping out our savings, my street is a urinal and my husband thinks I'm a drunk who is likely to shoot someone in the near future.
That sounds about right.
In other news, I had one of the most bizarre Friday nights in recent memory last weekend. And I found out what Jeff really thinks of me.
My brother Scott stopped by to check on Marley early Friday evening, and when I walked him to his car as he was leaving there was a really loud *BANG* from a car driving down our street. A Mercedes had blown a tire directly in front of our house. In true Scott fashion, he acted like cars blowing tires in the street happen every day and he got in his car and left. Nothing flusters that man. Jeff came outside to investigate the noise.
Jeff: Did you just shoot Scott?
LAB: You hear a loud noise and your first thought is that I killed my brother in our driveway?
Jeff: Just answer the question.
LAB: Seriously, what the hell? He's my brother.
Jeff: OK, may be you wouldn't shoot Scott. But don't act like you shooting someone is outside the realm of possibilities.
LAB: *sigh* No, I didn't shoot Scott. Or anyone else. Yet. The Mercedes in the street blew a tire.
Jeff: Cool! Think he needs help?
LAB: I have no idea. Why don't you strap on your cape and your tool belt and go find out.
Jeff helped Mercedes dude change his tire and came back inside.
LAB: What took so long?
Jeff: I had to wait for him to quit peeing.
LAB: WHAT!?!? He was peeing in the neighbor's yard?
Jeff: Nope - in the street.
LAB: That doesn't make it any better. He was really peeing in the street? In broad daylight?
Jeff: Yep.
LAB: Was he drunk?
Jeff: Probably. I should have sent you out there. You speak his language.
LAB: I question the wisdom of calling the woman who prepares your food a murderous drunk.
Jeff : I'll take my chances. I figure if you were gonna kill me I'd be dead by now.
LAB: True. What did he say when you caught him peeing?
Jeff: He said "Sorry. I didn't know anyone was behind me."
LAB: That's it? Not "Sorry I'm peeing in your street?"
Jeff: Nope. I don't think he was sorry for that. When a man's gotta go, a man's gotta go.
LAB: Nice. What did he say after you helped him?
Jeff: He looked at my jack and tire iron, said "I've gotta get me some of those!", jumped in his car and took off.
LAB: Wow. That's a lot better than a plain old "thank you".
Jeff: I thought so too.
In summary: My dog is single-handedly wiping out our savings, my street is a urinal and my husband thinks I'm a drunk who is likely to shoot someone in the near future.
That sounds about right.
Monday, March 11, 2013
LAB's Dubious Distinction (AKA: Turkey is a Vegetable)
Jeff's been asking me for months to attend meetings with his car club. And by "car club" I mean a group of men between 60-90 years old who meet at the Golden Corral one Thursday a month to talk about Fords for two hours. I've been successfully resisting attending these meetings for as long as he's been inviting me. For obvious reasons.
Last weekend, however, Jeff asked me to attend a car show / chili cook off with the club at a local state park. It sounded the least horrifying of the recent invitations and I figured I'd give it a try. It was his birthday weekend and the weather was supposed to be spectacular, so I really didn't have anything to lose. It certainly beat staying home and cleaning the house.
I decided I'd even enter a pot of chili in the cook off, since the invitation mentioned that there were 5 awards and I really liked my odds of winning. Surely there wouldn't be too many entries!
I should note that I'm not a fan of chili, and Jeff really hates it, so my entire chili-making experience can be summed up by the 2 times I made turkey chili using an online recipe on weekends when Jeff was out of town. Both times turned out OK. Not spectacular, but I'll try any recipe a couple of times just to see how it turns out. I figured I'd use the same recipe for my entry in the cook off. What did I have to lose?
Event day came, and before we left the house we decided to give the chili a quick taste to see if it needed anything.
Jeff: It tastes like nothing. Oh, wait. HOLY SHIT THAT'S HOT!
LAB: Good hot or bad hot?
Jeff: How can it taste like nothing and then burn my mouth?
LAB: Good burn or bad burn?
Jeff: Seriously? I'd be very interested to hear what you think constitutes a good burn.
LAB: I had to put in a lot of chili powder or else it would just be turkey soup.
Jeff: We're gonna be late. Just put in another can of tomato soup. And some corn. And some water. And whatever else you can think of and let's get on the road.
I added a few more ingredients and we headed out. I was a little concerned that it looked like someone had already eaten it once, but it was too late to back down.
We arrived at the event and I noticed four other crock pots of chili on the counter. W00T! Here comes lucky #5 people. Now give me my trophy, bitches!
As the day progressed, more chilis showed up. There were 6...then 7...then 8...and finally 9 chilis entered. CRAP! The other chilis all appeared to be beef-based, so at least mine was different. Then I noticed that the other crock pots looked like a tour through the history of slow cookers. I swear some of them must invented by Ben Franklin shortly after his lightning experiment. I had the sinking feeling that some of the entrants had been making chili for longer than I'd been alive. My odds of scoring a trophy were rapidly declining.
We did our part and ate some of my shitty chili. After covering it in cheese and a massive amount of sour cream and pretending like we weren't gagging. Chili duty handled, Jeff and I headed out to enjoy the car show. Here's a sample of the notable entries:
There were some awesome old Ford cars & trucks there and the club members, while considerably older than us, were really fun. Sorry, no pics of the cool cars. I only photograph the ridiculous. As the day progressed, I became more & more depressed that my shitty chili was going to be a loser. I seriously thought that there would be so few entries that I'd have to win something. And I freaking hate losing. Jeff tried to cheer me up by promising to buy me a Blizzard at Dairy Queen on the way home. What am I, 6 years old? I don't handle disappointment well and it certainly didn't help that Jeff was astonished that I had ever considered that I might get a trophy.
I kept a running text commentary of the event with my brother Scott all day, and eventually he decided it was too ridiculous to miss...so he showed up. I'm pretty sure he was looking forward to the sterling opportunity of watching me fail. Plus, he wanted to score some free lunch. Just not my chili.
Things started to wrap up and we headed into the picnic shelter for the awards. Hottest chili (not me), 3rd place (not me), 2nd place (not me), 1st place (obviously not me) and then there was one trophy left. Jeff and Scott were laughing their asses off at me at this point because I was genuinely sad that I got nada. And the crock pot was going to be a bitch to clean.
The judge announced the final award - Best Vegetarian Chili. Shit. Clearly not me, and I would have made a damn veggie chili had I known it was a category. Those odds would ROCK! Then the judge said something unexpected: "Since there were no vegetarian entries, I picked the chili that was the closest to vegetarian. The award goes to....LEIGH ANNE." I raised my arms in victory and jumped up to get my award, but not before I heard the following things from Jeff & Scott:
"Seriously?"
"Shit. They'll be no living with her now."
"That did not just happen."
"This was way more fun when she was depressed."
BOOM, people:
I'm only going to say this once: I don't give a damn if I won on a technicality, the only thing that matters is that I won. Do you have a chili cook off trophy? Because I do. Nobody is going to diminish my victory (by lack of qualified entrants). W00TY W00T W00T W00T!! I'm a winner! The ridiculous aspect of this non-victory is what makes it the most LAB-like win in the history of LAB victories. I may have Forrest Gumped my way into victory, but it's a victory nonetheless.
Trophy in hand and victory grin firmly in place, we headed to our cars. People were stopping me to say congratulations. Some of them almost seemed sincere. Scott was shouting "STOP ENABLING HER" at them. Apparently he was a little too invested in my history of loser-dom to fully appreciate the thrill of my victory. We decided that a victory tour of Dairy Queen was in order.
Jeff couldn't look at me without laughing for the rest of the day. When we got home, he said "At least I'll never get bored being married to you." I still didn't feel like he truly appreciated my accomplishment, so I waited until he went to bed to do to this:
Last weekend, however, Jeff asked me to attend a car show / chili cook off with the club at a local state park. It sounded the least horrifying of the recent invitations and I figured I'd give it a try. It was his birthday weekend and the weather was supposed to be spectacular, so I really didn't have anything to lose. It certainly beat staying home and cleaning the house.
I decided I'd even enter a pot of chili in the cook off, since the invitation mentioned that there were 5 awards and I really liked my odds of winning. Surely there wouldn't be too many entries!
I should note that I'm not a fan of chili, and Jeff really hates it, so my entire chili-making experience can be summed up by the 2 times I made turkey chili using an online recipe on weekends when Jeff was out of town. Both times turned out OK. Not spectacular, but I'll try any recipe a couple of times just to see how it turns out. I figured I'd use the same recipe for my entry in the cook off. What did I have to lose?
Event day came, and before we left the house we decided to give the chili a quick taste to see if it needed anything.
Jeff: It tastes like nothing. Oh, wait. HOLY SHIT THAT'S HOT!
LAB: Good hot or bad hot?
Jeff: How can it taste like nothing and then burn my mouth?
LAB: Good burn or bad burn?
Jeff: Seriously? I'd be very interested to hear what you think constitutes a good burn.
LAB: I had to put in a lot of chili powder or else it would just be turkey soup.
Jeff: We're gonna be late. Just put in another can of tomato soup. And some corn. And some water. And whatever else you can think of and let's get on the road.
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| This is what it looked like at the end of the day. I'm assuming no one wants the recipe. |
I added a few more ingredients and we headed out. I was a little concerned that it looked like someone had already eaten it once, but it was too late to back down.
We arrived at the event and I noticed four other crock pots of chili on the counter. W00T! Here comes lucky #5 people. Now give me my trophy, bitches!
As the day progressed, more chilis showed up. There were 6...then 7...then 8...and finally 9 chilis entered. CRAP! The other chilis all appeared to be beef-based, so at least mine was different. Then I noticed that the other crock pots looked like a tour through the history of slow cookers. I swear some of them must invented by Ben Franklin shortly after his lightning experiment. I had the sinking feeling that some of the entrants had been making chili for longer than I'd been alive. My odds of scoring a trophy were rapidly declining.
We did our part and ate some of my shitty chili. After covering it in cheese and a massive amount of sour cream and pretending like we weren't gagging. Chili duty handled, Jeff and I headed out to enjoy the car show. Here's a sample of the notable entries:
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| That's not a Ford. |
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| Also not a Ford. And seriously??? |
There were some awesome old Ford cars & trucks there and the club members, while considerably older than us, were really fun. Sorry, no pics of the cool cars. I only photograph the ridiculous. As the day progressed, I became more & more depressed that my shitty chili was going to be a loser. I seriously thought that there would be so few entries that I'd have to win something. And I freaking hate losing. Jeff tried to cheer me up by promising to buy me a Blizzard at Dairy Queen on the way home. What am I, 6 years old? I don't handle disappointment well and it certainly didn't help that Jeff was astonished that I had ever considered that I might get a trophy.
I kept a running text commentary of the event with my brother Scott all day, and eventually he decided it was too ridiculous to miss...so he showed up. I'm pretty sure he was looking forward to the sterling opportunity of watching me fail. Plus, he wanted to score some free lunch. Just not my chili.
Things started to wrap up and we headed into the picnic shelter for the awards. Hottest chili (not me), 3rd place (not me), 2nd place (not me), 1st place (obviously not me) and then there was one trophy left. Jeff and Scott were laughing their asses off at me at this point because I was genuinely sad that I got nada. And the crock pot was going to be a bitch to clean.
The judge announced the final award - Best Vegetarian Chili. Shit. Clearly not me, and I would have made a damn veggie chili had I known it was a category. Those odds would ROCK! Then the judge said something unexpected: "Since there were no vegetarian entries, I picked the chili that was the closest to vegetarian. The award goes to....LEIGH ANNE." I raised my arms in victory and jumped up to get my award, but not before I heard the following things from Jeff & Scott:
"Seriously?"
"Shit. They'll be no living with her now."
"That did not just happen."
"This was way more fun when she was depressed."
BOOM, people:
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| Screw you guys, turkey is a vegetable. |
Trophy in hand and victory grin firmly in place, we headed to our cars. People were stopping me to say congratulations. Some of them almost seemed sincere. Scott was shouting "STOP ENABLING HER" at them. Apparently he was a little too invested in my history of loser-dom to fully appreciate the thrill of my victory. We decided that a victory tour of Dairy Queen was in order.
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| Parking Lot Victory Dance. |
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| Nothing says VICTORY like hoisting your trophy in front of the Dairy Queen restrooms. |
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| Victory Blizzard! |
Jeff couldn't look at me without laughing for the rest of the day. When we got home, he said "At least I'll never get bored being married to you." I still didn't feel like he truly appreciated my accomplishment, so I waited until he went to bed to do to this:
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| It may not be the Stanley Cup, but it works if you use a straw |
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