If only it worked that smoothly this past weekend. At about 5pm, I get a call from The Mister. It went something like this:
Him: "Hello. I can't find the pork chops I thawed out."
Me: "They were on the kitchen counter when I left this morning. What happened to them?"
Him: "I know I put them in the sink at one point, but now they're gone. I can't find them."
Me: "You can't FIND the pork chops? Have you asked The Boy? You know how he hates to see food he can't eat sitting on the counter."
Him: "No, I am not asking him. How much money do you have on you? I need you to go to the store and buy more pork chops. There's this recipe I want to try."
Me: "Can't you just find them? They have to be SOMEWHERE. (crickets) Ok, I'll go buy pork chops with my eight dollars. I guess we'll wait for the stench and find the thawed out ones."
Take your time now, and wrap your head around this conversation. HE MISPLACED RAW MEAT. Are you all saying "WTH?" with me? I thought so.
My co-workers thought this was pretty funny stuff. Donna, my manager, asked if I was going to blog about it.
So anywastedtrip, I went to the store and purchased replacement pork chops. Lucky for me, they had one pack that left me with fifty cents in change.
I bring home the prized meat and immediately go into "seek" mode. Did you know that my vagina is a location device for lost items?
I open up the refrigerator and gaze upon the contents. Suddenly, The Mister's brain kicks in, and he remembers THAT HE PUT THE ZIP LOC BAG OF PORK CHOPS ON THE SHELF IN THE DOOR OF THE REFRIGERATOR.
Dinner preparations begin, with the original pork chops as the main attraction.
Do you know how long this casserole needed to cook? Forty-five minutes. It's 6:30 pm by then, and I am starving (I had lunch before noon).
When too many hours pass between meals, I can be a bit grumpy. Consider yourself warned.
I'm not the only grumpy one. He was not at all pleased when I suggested that his nickname should be "Pork Chop".
I make myself a peanut butter and banana sandwich for dinner, as the pork chop casserole is cooking.
The Mister's second descent into forgetfulness happened Sunday.
He could not find his wallet. He asked me to use my "girl parts" to help him find it.
Being a logical creature, I suggested that he look either in his primary roosting place, The Man Cave, or in his jacket pocket.
He assured me it was NOT in the Man Cave. He looked in the bedroom and in his jacket, but no wallet could be found.
I have to admit that my "girly bits" were conflicted - do I locate the wallet, and be the hero? Or do I conveniently search for it later, and clean out its contents before admitting that I found it?
I decided that I'd take the high road and honestly look for the wallet.
Guess where I found it?
Yep, Man Cave. All I did was walk into the room and scan the floor. Plain as the sheepish grin on The Mister's face.
Oh, I think it may be important to tell you that The Mister is forever telling me that MY memory is bad.
Pot is calling the Kettle black again.
With these recent successful searches, I am thinking about freelancing...
If OJ wasn't in prison, maybe I could help him find the REAL killer.
Or maybe The Feds could use my help in finally locating Jimmy Hoffa.
I'm open to offers.