Do you like lobster?

 

 

I love it.

(But I live in Maine… I think it’s mandatory for citizenship.)

When we lived down south I missed lobster. So when we came home on vacation? I had lobster omelettes for breakfast, lobster rolls for lunch, lobster quesadillas for bar appetizers and lobster chowders with baked stuffed lobster for dinner.

 

 

Picnic? Lobster salad.

Day at the beach? Lobster bake.

We’re pretty lobster-centric in these parts.

 

 

Which made it hard for me when I came up allergic to the glorious crustacean about 7 years ago and could no longer eat it without becoming violently ill.

Yeah.

No more of this –

 

 

Or this –

 

 

Which makes me want to do this –

 

 

I’m teased by lobster at every turn living here.

There are festivals devoted to lobster.

 

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Lobster parades.

 

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And lobster boat races.

 

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My husband orders lobster for dinner and eats it in front of me.

 

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We go to  motorcycle rallies where they serve endless streams of lobster.

 

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Every friend who visits from out of state wants to don silly bibs and eat lobster.

 

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It kills me. Each and every time….

But now?

There’s a restaurant we pass on our way up the coast that’s really rubbing my nose in it.

 

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And that’s just….

 

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Wrong.

 

 

One of these things is not like the others….

 

I wish someone had told me kissing was a full contact sport.

I would have worn appropriate protection.

 

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You’d think after many happy years of marriage the husband and I would have perfected the technique, but alas…. accidents happen.

 

 

And this kiss was rather like a train wreck.

Yesterday when the other half came home from work, I went into the kitchen to give him a smooch.

I moved in, he moved in… and bam!

 

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He broke my toe.

 

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Talk about seeing stars.

And not in a good way…

 

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Sadly, my feet are my worst feature and I have troubles. The troubles of a woman 30 years older than she actually is.

Bunions? Check.

The beginning of hammer toes? Check.  (Thanks mom, it’s hereditary)

And I’m always barefoot in the summer so this isn’t my first rodeo with broken toes.

It is however, my first broken toe due to kissing.

Which makes me wonder if I need to wear this next time we get frisky in the bedroom…

 

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(Minus the cigar of course.)

Either that…

Or I need to learn  Taekwon-toe.

 

 

I know…

But I couldn’t resist!

 

 

 

Please don’t tell my husband.

 

At one time or another my husband has collected all of the following:

Bottles, playing cards, coins, rusty farm implements, stamps, egg coddlers, antique mitre saws, Life magazines, Coca Cola memorabilia, post cards, baseball bats, radios, toy cars, fishing lures, vintage board games, alabaster eggs, crackle glass, razors, old telephones, fire extinguishers, glass oil jugs, wooden hangers, milk crates, Fenton, mason jars, books, Tinker Toys, sleds, bean pots, grain scales, wooden skis, haying forks, lamp fixtures, cigar boxes, pencil sharpeners, apple peelers, grinding wheels, cast iron skillets, flour sifters, fishing rods, tennis rackets, flashlights and egg beaters.

 

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And no, I’m not exaggerating.

The sad part is, that’s probably not the entire list… but I’m cringing just thinking about it and had to stop. Or slaughter him in his sleep, and who needs that mess on a weeknight.

Kidding!

I think…

For the past 35 years if someone was selling it? He was buying it. And as soon as he had one? He wanted more. To which my response was always..

 

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We currently have an apple press, a wooden washing machine, a butter smoothing table, a potato planter and two 5 foot tall wagon wheel frames in our barn.

Why?

My answer is –

 

 

His answer is –

 

 

So when I read there’s now a market for old Kool Aid packets, and they’re selling for hundreds of dollars a piece?

 

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It’s true.

 

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It’s beyond ridiculous.

And if any of you tell my husband?

I will hunt you down and rip your tongue out through your nose.

 

 

 

P.S….

If the late 80’s and early 90’s are vintage…

What the hell am I?

 

 

So very disappointing.

 

I love it when I go grocery shopping and find a product that seems to be tailor made for me.

Witness River’s cookie heaven:

 

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Cookies…

That taste like cocktails!

 

 

I was a little disappointed to find there was a bag inside the bag and how very few cookies there actually were….

 

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But I figured that just meant they were extra special.

I was wrong.

So very, very wrong.

 

 

In fact…  these cookies were not only horrible, but probably one of the worst things I’ve ever tasted in my life.  And I’ve endured my MIL’s pot roast, so that’s saying something.

I mean Hell… it’s a cookie. By nature they’re flippin’ delightful!

How do you screw that up?

As I was bundling them up to throw away, I flipped over the package and noticed this:

 

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Fruitcake.

This company shipped 12,000 pounds of the most atrocious baked good ever invented to brave, battle weary soldiers.

 

 

I know!

Hadn’t those poor men suffered enough?

Of course it does explain the low quality cookie standard and my severe revulsion to their product.

 

 

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Maybe that’s the explanation.

The cookies were actually leftover fruitcake from 1943.

 

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Instructions on how to spend a very depressing day.

 

Step 1.   Hire an appliance repairman to diagnose why your ice maker died and the fridge isn’t cooling properly.

Step 2.   Pay said repairman $95 to walk through the door.

 

 

Step 3.  Cry a little when repairman tells you your  expensive AF   six year old refrigerator will be requiring burial rites in the very near future.

 

 

6 years old!

Too young to die… or so I thought.

According to the repairman, 6-8 years is now the average lifespan of new appliances.

 

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This makes me regret getting rid of the 1970’s almond Montgomery Ward fridge that came with our house when we moved in.

Ugly? Yes.

Fancy features? No.

But the damn thing still worked….. and now I miss it.

6 years.

 

 

For the love of God… she’s still shiny!

 

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She still looks new!

But apparently she’s rotten at the core.

 

 

Step 4.  Grab a girlfriend for consolation and proceed to the appliance stores to search for a suitable replacement.

Have you been to the appliance stores lately?

Even the clearance prices will make you faint.

 

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Mind you, that particular one had been returned, refurbished and was riddled with dents.

There’s lots to choose from, if you want to pay.

And pay. And pay…

 

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There are fancy French Door models.

Models with ridiculous features…

 

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And for the prices they’re charging?

I hope that one cooks, serves and cleans up the kitchen after marinating my meat.

 

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Herb storage?

 

 

One model even had a built in one of these –

 

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Yes.

An infuser pitcher, fitted right into the door. I paid $3.99 for mine… what do you want to bet this baby adds an extra $200 to the purchase price?

Step 5.  Go from store to store, avoiding salesmen and their high pressure “Oh, that sale ends today, better buy now!”  B.S….. never quite finding that perfect fridge that will fit in your crazy kitchen. ( We had to remove half a wall to fit my current one in. )

Step 6.  Have long booze filled lunch with girlfriend and curse refrigerator manufacturers.

 

 

Step 7.  Return home to melting ice and lukewarm milk.

Step 8.  Repeat steps 4 through 7 until replacement is found.

 

 

 

 

 

Things I like today…. chapter 3.

 

1.  Peonies!

 

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Great big colorful, heavily scented blooms.

 

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If you’ve never smelled one?

I’m sorry.

 

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They rival roses and lilacs for heavenly natural scent….

And I fill our house with them while I can.

 

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The husband’s little nephew used to call them Pee On Me’s.

 

 

But either way?

They’re glorious.

I like.

 

2.  The combination of wine and chocolate?

Always a winner.

 

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But actual wine flavored chocolate?

 

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Score!

Get yourself some immediately…. you won’t be sorry.

 

 

I like.

 

3.  A bean bag store that stacks their products like an ice cream cone?

 

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I like.

 

4.  Two for one jewelry.

 

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Buy a bracelet get a necklace…

 

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And they both look good.

 

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It’s true, I can.

Don’t hate me.

I like.

 

5.  A fox with attitude.

 

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This one stuck his tongue out at me.

Cheeky little bugger!

 

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I like.

 

Because when Rustoleum says red? They mean red.

 

Every few years it’s time to repaint the bulkhead doors.

 

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They’re metal and tend to see a lot of abuse.

Rain, snow, and baking sun all take their toll… and since the husband disappears every time the paint brushes come out?

 

 

The job falls to me.

I usually go out with some sandpaper to smooth and remove the flakes… but this spring the husband bought an old sander at a yard sale. Old.. with a capital O.

So he tossed it at me and said it would be much easier than my sandpaper.

 

 

From the look of the cord it was from the 1950’s…. and I think that was the poundage as well because just lifting it hurt my wrist. So when he came back to check my progress? I was using the sandpaper again.

Which… because he’s a man and can never be wrong… made him determined to prove his $5 purchase was worth while.

 

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He got no argument from me.

I stood back, nodded sagely and mumbled yes dear, that’s so much easier dear, at appropriate intervals.

Momma didn’t raise no fool.

 

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He sanded that baby from top to bottom.

 

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Inside and out… even though I rarely paint the interior.

BTW, if you search Google images for power sander memes?

 

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Anyway… when we moved into this house, the doors were painted a barn red so that’s what I’ve always repainted them.

Until this year, when I couldn’t find my usual brand of metal paint in barn red and went with Rustoleum’s Regal Red.

 

 

It was a bad idea.

Very bad.

Really, really bad.

Because when Rustoleum says red?

 

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They mean red!

Fire engine red.

Candy apple red.

Holy Crap that’s redRED!

It’s positively blinding.

 

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On the bright side, the doors do now match my hanging geranium.