Are You Hiding Something?

Are You Hiding Something?

The last few days my wife and I have been both under the weather.  We have miserable colds; runny nose, scratchy throat, fevery, colds.  If that is not bad enough we each have a tooth problem and are on antibiotics while waiting to have a bad tooth removed.

Tonight I had to go down stairs for some more medication and I asked Mrs. C if she wanted anything.

“You may have trouble finding it, but I’d like a Creamsicle.”

“We have Creamsicles?”

“In the fridge; remove the pint of vanilla, lift up the frozen hamburgers, behind the frozen artichoke hearts you should find some Creamsicles.”

“How long have we had Creamsicles?”

“I don’t know.”

Once again, Mrs. C is hiding food from me.  I am not a pig, I would never take more than my fair share of Creamsicles, but she hides them so she can have them all to herself.

I go downstairs, take all my medications and pull out the Jenga Puzzle hiding the Creamsicles.  What the heck.  I thought there would be maybe one or two bars left over from the summer…there was a whole box, with one missing!

I took out two bars because I love me some Creamsicles and put the box back.  While I was shoving the box in its place I noticed that behind it was another box.

Ice Cream Sandwiches!!

I went back upstairs with the Creamsicles.

“I can’t believe you hid a whole box of Creamsicles from me!”

“I forgot.”

“What else are you hiding from me?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes I’m sure.”

“How can you lie like that?”

“Lie?”

“Yes, I saw the ice cream sandwiches behind the Creamsicles.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot!”

“You forgot!  You never forget anything.”

“Well maybe I just sort of forgot.”

“Now who’s a JERK?”

“Still you.”

“Me why?”

“Because you’re making such a big deal out of a stupid Creamsicle.”

“But…”

“And don’t throw the stick away, you know I save them.”

Tomorrow, when Mrs. C is at work, I’m going to have a Creamsicle and an ice cream sandwich for dessert.

I’ll Have a Hot Dog Sandwich Please

I’ll Have a Hot Dog Sandwich Please

 “Is a hot dog a sandwich?”  This is the text I got the other night from old friend Frog.  I sensed trouble.

Some many years ago Frog called me late at night (before texting) to settle an argument he was having with his wife.

“When Superman changes in a phone booth, what does he do with his clothes?”

“You woke me up for that?  Everyone knows he puts his clothes in a pocket in his cape.”

(In the back ground)

“See, I told you so!”

“I still disagree, there is never a lump in his cape”

By my call, Frog won the argument, though Mrs. Frog still disputes this.

Now I was faced with another final judgement.

I called Frog immediately.

“What’s with this hotdog thing, are you having another fight with Mrs. Frog?”

“Yes, what is your decision?”

“I rule that a sandwich must be any food between two pieces of bread, since a hot dog always comes in a roll, a hot dog is not a sandwich…good night!”

(in the back ground)

“I told you, it is not a sandwich.”

“I disagree!”

Apparently I am no longer the judge of final resort in the Frog household.  Ten minutes later I saw Mrs. Frog pose the question on Facebook, “Is a hot dog a sandwich?”

So far the internet says no…by a slight margin.

I now expect to see a Facebook survey asking, “When Superman changes in a phone booth, where does he put his clothes?”  

The Creepy Old Man

The Creepy Old Man

On the way to the hotel for this years fraternity reunion, Mrs. C wanted to stop at Kohl’s for something.  First she dropped me off at the cigar store about a block away, there may be some scotch and cigars involved at the reunion.  I made my purchase and was off to meet Mrs. C at Kohl’s.

I walked in the store and immediately saw Mrs. C in the check-out line.   I walked over to her, past several people who gave me that “you better not be cutting” fuzzy eyeball.  She did not see me; her back was turned.  As I leaned over to show my face she turned away to look at some merchandise.  At this point I started to reach out and grab her backside on the sly like I sometimes do…hey, I like her backside.

Just before I made contact something seemed wrong.  There were no red stripe highlights in Mrs. Cranky’s jet black hair.  The pants she was wearing did not look familiar.  I was about to say something when Mrs. C turned my way, and it was not Mrs. C!

I have a feeling I may have looked just a little creepy as I mumbled “excuse me” turned on my heels and got out of line.  Now I was looking for Mrs. C and wandering around like someone who does not belong and was only looking for trouble…you know, looking creepy. 

(I’m surprised I didn’t get drawn in magnet like to a certain ex-school teacher named Val who attracts creepy people.)

At this point I realized the store did not look familiar.   I was in T.J. Max not Kohl’s.

I quickly skulked out and I swear I saw several people on their cell phones, no doubt dialing 911.

I moved up one store to Kohl’s and quickly met up with Mrs. C. 

“We need to get out of here right now.”

“OK, I’m done, what’s wrong?”

“A really creepy guy almost grabbed your ass at T.J. Max just a minute ago.”

“What?  I was never in T.J. Max.”

“I was, and I almost grabbed your ass.”

“How could you almost grab my ass if I was not in T.J. Max…oh wait, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?”

“Almost did; I was the creepy guy.”

“Let’s go, you can explain in the car, but I’m pretty sure it is going to end with you being a Jerk!”

And also a creep!