Tuesday, December 29, 2009

The Saint?

I was trying to cook dinner. I was attempting to place a hot meal on the table when the Boss arrived home from work. She arrived ten minutes before the meal was completed. That was the perfect amount of time, she decided, to make one of her favorite Christmas cookies. In my kitchen. As I was finishing dinner.

The cookie wasn’t that complicated. Place square pretzels on a cookie sheet. Place one unwrapped Hershey’s Kiss on each pretzel. Bake until they are soft but retain their form. Remove them from the oven and place one M & M on top of each Kiss, smushing down the tip. Allow to cool. Eat until satiated or your teeth feel fuzzy, whichever comes first.

Simple, right?

Yes, if you had twenty minutes with nothing better to do. But the Boss got it in her head that she needed to use the oven as soon as the garlic bread was removed so as to not waste the preheated oven and turn it back on later in the evening. That meant that while I was in need of my corner of the kitchen, the corner with the most counter space (next to the utensil drawer and the pots & pans cabinet and the stove and the sink), she decided to unwrap a bag of kisses and place them on the pretzels. This is my corner, you understand, where I get the majority of my cooking and meal prep completed. Honestly, if I wanted any chance of getting my meal on the table while the food was hot, I had to speed unwrap a bag of kisses for her while she placed them on the pretzels. I did. We finished that task in five minutes. It’s harder than you think when you’re in a rush. We baked them in a 425 degree oven for a minute or two and then placed the smaller candies on top.

The Boss wheedled her way into my corner with a charm offensive that needs to be seen to be appreciated. It was the same charm that my daughter uses against me when she wants something. It’s that charm that causes women to say, “Oh, she’s got daddy wrapped around her finger.” Guys, we do this to ourselves. We allow our daughters to perfect cute smiles and little giggles on us when they are young, and then we unleash them on the poor unsuspecting fool that they marry. These guys have no chance. They’re beaten before they start. What’s worse, they don’t even know it!

But, I digress.

This is the woman whom Crossview suggested I should call “the Saint” instead of “the Boss” in the comments section of yesterday’s blog, because she tolerates situations like the topic of yesterday’s blog and the fact that I share them here. Crossview may have a point, but the Boss is the leader of the Sock Commandos, an elite squad of four bandits who remove their socks the moment they enter our house and toss them…everywhere. You’d be shocked to learn where I’ve found dirty, balled-up socks. Their piggies really like their freedom. There are other sides to “the Saint.”

I could go on, but for the sake of a happy marriage, I will simply direct your attention to the poll on my sidebar. Each reader gets one vote. Should I change the Boss’ name to the Saint? I’ll leave the poll up for a week and share the results next Monday.


Oklahoma Granny said...

Before my husband and I married he said he had cooked enough in fast food restaurants and did not ever plan to cook again - except on a grill outside. No problem for me at all because I LOVE to cook. But for some unknown reason just about the time I'm getting ready to take all the hot food of the stove for whatever meal, guess who shows up and takes up the counter space I have prepared for the food. You guessed it! But he's my best friend and I love him and so it goes.

tsinclair said...

Our other half...we love them, but they need to keep out of our space if they expect us to work our miracles...lol
I have been on both sides of this episode, and I must admit I have been known to apply the charm when I feel necessary. :-)

Kathleen said...

I submitted my vote. You will probably know what my vote is when I voice my opinion on the fact that one of those names--Boss vs. Saint--does not really fit so well with your other family names: Captain, Major, General. On the flip side, I suppose one can't have all chiefs and no Indians in their family...

GingerB said...

At our house you'd have an aging dog and butt scootin' baby on the floor at your feet under the hot pans, just to make it more exciting.

I think you should perhaps call her the Saintly Boss, but don't try to demote her.

CrossView said...

I say you should call her whatever you'd like - keeping in mind that you have to live with her. ;o)