ladycaviar (ladycaviar) wrote,

I swear to God officer, it's oregano

While I was stuck for a week in St. Louis recently, I made a pilgrimage (oh! twist my arm! the peril) to the shrine of St. Penzey's of the Spices.

Today, I finally got around to filling the decorative cabinet spice jars from my assorted bulk bags and cartons in an attempt to organize the crazy of my kitchen. I've got all the junk mail accumulated from when I've been gone, the seed catalogs and the idea that I need to plant my own basil and oregano looming, with those seed packets on the table and the dirt and the pots, my scrap silver in a coffee can because I can't decide if it's enough to send to the refiner, broken electronics strewn about, ziploc bags, Qtips for cleaning some gunk off the cat, etc etc etc it's a craphole. I have so many projects crapping up the coffee table in the living room in front of the TV I had to just pick one or the Man was going to pick one for me, and as we all know, men have the super talent of picking just the one project that's gonna piss you off.

But whatever, he's not here so I'll do the one I want. It's my lazy Sunday, so looking like blind people dressed me and I did my hair in the blender, I plunk my jars and myself in front of the tv to knock this one thing off the list. I simply cannot find the [expletive deleted] funnel, so I make little paper ones out of the junk mail envelopes -- totally patting myself on the back for my mad skillz, thar -- and undaunted, organize away.

Lost in my personal aromatic heaven, and enjoying cable shows I taped whilst I was gone, this is when the Man returns. And he stops, keys frozen in hand, staring at me, saying nothing. Stunned, like a Batman villain had zotted him with a bad egg freeze ray. Like forever. Huh.

And I realize that what I am doing with my hands at that very moment -- which happens to be squeezing the air out of a ziploc bag of basil -- looks exactly like the hand motions of someone rolling a particularly large blunt. And what I have on the table in front of me -- tiny little squares of paper, resembling not so much the junk mail forms of their birth but more say, any other little white squares of paper like post-its, or rolling papers -- do not dissuade this illusion, no not at all, not in the least, not in the very tiniest iota, but enhance it like I'm producing a stage play for Bad Reefer Theatah. Please add to your mental image baggies filled with dried leaves that laughingly do not cost a "dime" today either, no matter what they are filled with, and strange little cat medicine bottles, other unidentifiable powders/substances, and jars with implements sticking out of them to boot. Not to mention a pot (ahem, flowerpot) of dirt with seeds on top. Like I've just gone into business full scale for myself since the Man left this morning.

And for the love of all things holy, I have a gram scale on the table, a gram scale I have had since I was in graduate school for weighing pennyweights of silver.

I know why the Man had no words. There are no words. What could you possibly say?
"You know, honey, most home-based businesses fail in the first year?"
"I'm glad to see you're gardening again?"
"Do we need an insurance rider for the house or will you not actually be building a meth lab?"
"WHAT show are you watching on TV? I think I need the parental controls, honey..."

He looked very carefully at his dinner and sniffed it before he at it tonight.
Tags: hilarity

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