Lucky You!

I am crazy about my husband. He is the kindest, most even-keel, genuinely pleasant person I have ever come across. Though he is generally extremely level-headed, he experienced, shall we say, a “massive moment of impulse” yesterday.

I admit it, I am extremely impressionable. Guaranteed, if I watch an infomercial all the way through, I am convinced by the end of the 30 minutes that my life would somehow be better if I owned the triple charged steamer iron or Kamara’s new body shaper. However, when people come to my door selling items, I am as cold as ice—I can even turn away cute little girls selling cookies!

On the other hand, if you knock on our door, and Scott’s home, your sales quota is met! One year he bought $160.00 worth of magazine subscriptions from a “supposed” former drug addict trying to better themselves. Other years, (very forgivable) he bought Christmas Wreaths’ from the Boy Scouts. I had to go an entire holiday season with an ugly, misshapen wreath, fastened by a tacky red felt bow. But, without question, this year’s purchase takes the cake.

I came home yesterday afternoon only to hear Scott in the kitchen, “I need your help right away, I bought something . . . “

Uh oh.

I thought perhaps he bought an improved air conditioning unit and needed my help to haul it into the spare room. But no . . . when I turned the corner into the kitchen, I found Scott with the freezer wide open. There on the ground was not one gigantic box of meat, but two. I am talking massive, gargantuan, need a fork-lift to transport, boxes of meat!

Evidently, a salesman stopped by with a “cannot pass this up” deal, and Scott bought it hook, line, and sinker. Does this come down to men being visual? I am sure if the salesman would have shown Scott cardboard images of the product, he may not have been so keen to take the plunge. But when he pulled out the beautiful, perfectly marbled slabs of steak and questioned Scott, “You do like meat, right?” all of his manly instincts kicked into high gear and had him clamoring for his checkbook.

Back to yesterday with the meat boxes strewn across the kitchen floor, I ask,
“So, where are we going to put all this?”

. . . 30 minutes later Scott returns from Home Depot with a deep freezer in the back of his truck.

So, there you have it--the retelling of my husband’s momentary lapse of reason, and how it put a large debit in our checking account.

What this means for you: you will be eating the cream de la cream of meat de la meat when we host summer BBQ in August. Lucky you, not so lucky me!