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I broke my beloved wife's beloved microwave kettle yesterday. I was standing in the kitchen, procuring a knife, when the kettle literally jumped onto the floor. It was obviously committing suicide--probably because she bombards it with microwaves nearly every single day. (I told you she was evil.)
Anyhow, the glass shattered. It splintered and cracked and broke into a million invisible--yet highly foot-hungry--shards. She gave me that look of woe that says "How could you? My mother gave me that little piece of glass and plastic when I was 16 and leaving home for the first time. I love that kettle to pieces--but not literally. Woe, woe, woe, alas, I shall never be the same."
I'm so glad she kept her mouth shut and just helped me collect those bloodthirsty little filaments of brittle liquid. I'm pretty sure she doesn't remember that I also broke her whistling teakettle back in college, which is the only reason she brought her glass microwave kettle out of storage. I won't remind her, I think I'll just have to sneak out and get her a new kettle.
Gravity.
Tonight, my beloved wife came home, picked up a thermos, and was welcomed with a hearty crash. She spilled the glass jar full of crushed red pepper. At least I didn't release tons of pepper oil into the air by vaccuuming it up. No, that was her idea. To give her credit, she does have a HEPA filter on her vaccuum, but she knows that those are no match for tiny bits of oil dispersed in the air. Ask her about the time she spilled chili caliente all over her room filter. I think her bedroom was declared a hazardous waste site for several years. It might still be sealed off. I'm sure her parents love that--the men in space suits wandering through, attractive plastic up the stairs and on the windows and roof. I told her that it's just typical Indiana "in transition" remodeling decor, but she still feels a bit chagrined.
So it goes. Gravity is evil. I'm pretty sure that the bug is responsible. There was a HUGE bug in the kitchen. I saw it after I finished vaccuuming the kettle shards. I was winding up the vaccuum and wheeling it away when I saw it. Wife ordered me to give her the vaccuum and she attempted to suck it up. I told her that the bug could eat its way out of the bag, but she didn't listen. It didn't matter--the bug was TOO big for the vaccuum hose. Then it jumped under the stove. I vowed to never enter the kitchen again.
Later, wife saw it over by my corner. She ran for a water glass (she had some large ones), grabbed a birthday card, and caught the bug. She took it outside and unleashed it upon the neighbors' hedges.
Beloved, brave, darling wife says it was a camel cricket. I was beset by them when I lived in the basement one fateful summer between college semesters. They were huge. One would take over a roach motel and stick out both ends and then walk away, carrying the motel with it. I slept in a hermetically sealed bedchamber with specially designed blankets that stayed over my head. I had a ten-foot pole for my all-too-numerous cricket encounters. I was so relieved to leave that swampy sector of DC.
I knew they'd find me again.
Anyhow, the glass shattered. It splintered and cracked and broke into a million invisible--yet highly foot-hungry--shards. She gave me that look of woe that says "How could you? My mother gave me that little piece of glass and plastic when I was 16 and leaving home for the first time. I love that kettle to pieces--but not literally. Woe, woe, woe, alas, I shall never be the same."
I'm so glad she kept her mouth shut and just helped me collect those bloodthirsty little filaments of brittle liquid. I'm pretty sure she doesn't remember that I also broke her whistling teakettle back in college, which is the only reason she brought her glass microwave kettle out of storage. I won't remind her, I think I'll just have to sneak out and get her a new kettle.
Gravity.
Tonight, my beloved wife came home, picked up a thermos, and was welcomed with a hearty crash. She spilled the glass jar full of crushed red pepper. At least I didn't release tons of pepper oil into the air by vaccuuming it up. No, that was her idea. To give her credit, she does have a HEPA filter on her vaccuum, but she knows that those are no match for tiny bits of oil dispersed in the air. Ask her about the time she spilled chili caliente all over her room filter. I think her bedroom was declared a hazardous waste site for several years. It might still be sealed off. I'm sure her parents love that--the men in space suits wandering through, attractive plastic up the stairs and on the windows and roof. I told her that it's just typical Indiana "in transition" remodeling decor, but she still feels a bit chagrined.
So it goes. Gravity is evil. I'm pretty sure that the bug is responsible. There was a HUGE bug in the kitchen. I saw it after I finished vaccuuming the kettle shards. I was winding up the vaccuum and wheeling it away when I saw it. Wife ordered me to give her the vaccuum and she attempted to suck it up. I told her that the bug could eat its way out of the bag, but she didn't listen. It didn't matter--the bug was TOO big for the vaccuum hose. Then it jumped under the stove. I vowed to never enter the kitchen again.
Later, wife saw it over by my corner. She ran for a water glass (she had some large ones), grabbed a birthday card, and caught the bug. She took it outside and unleashed it upon the neighbors' hedges.
Beloved, brave, darling wife says it was a camel cricket. I was beset by them when I lived in the basement one fateful summer between college semesters. They were huge. One would take over a roach motel and stick out both ends and then walk away, carrying the motel with it. I slept in a hermetically sealed bedchamber with specially designed blankets that stayed over my head. I had a ten-foot pole for my all-too-numerous cricket encounters. I was so relieved to leave that swampy sector of DC.
I knew they'd find me again.
