Recently, a Sprouts "Farmer's Market" opened up near us. I put "Farmer's Market" in quotes, as I sure as hell can't tell the difference between this place and a Whole Foods other than that this place seems to have very good prices. It certainly isn't a bunch of guys in a parking lot selling food out of the back of their pickups.
But, as happens with any new market of this sort that opens up, it has unleashed The Mrs.'s inner Bohemian self. The one she tries to hide when I'm around, lest I be moved to perform an exorcism or hand her a Dr. Laura book or some such. It's not so much that I mind that deep down inside she has these trite and entirely predictable white, upper-middle-class pretensions (she did go to music conservatory, after all), or even that I really object to her spending my money on them - one forfeits the right to object to one's spouses frivolities when one says, "I do." No, it's that I object to being inconvenienced by them.
Case in point, today I went to put the iced tea into the refrigerator, as I do every day when I come home from work. You see, I prefer my iced tea cold, and thus I keep it in the refrigerator. The Mrs. prefers her iced tea cold as well, and in addition, she doesn't like ice in it. Thus, she keeps it on the kitchen counter. Well, I suspect that the real reason is the same reason everything we own is piled on the kitchen counter - people just can't seem to make the time to put anything away around here.
However, today was different, as when I open the fridge it was full. Completely full. And right where I was going to put the iced tea there sat a bottle of kefir. "Kefir?" you ask, as no one who would have any kind of Bohemian traits would ever spend time around these parts. Well, other than the one who is prone to head injuries, perhaps.
Well, I didn't know WTF kefir was either, so I had to
look it up. I'll save you the trouble of hitting the link - kefir is an age-old drink invented in the Caucasus region (you know, the motherland where all white people came from) that consists of some vile concoction made from kefir grains soaked in fermented goat's blood. There is, however, no kefir plant from which kefir grains come. Why, they're not a "grain" at all in the classical starch-family sense. Noooo. It gets even better.
"Production of traditional kefir requires kefir grains which are a gelatinous community of bacteria and yeasts."
Bleaaaugh. But wait, there's more:
"Kefir grains contain a water soluble polysaccharide known as kefiran that imparts a rope-like texture and feeling in one's mouth."
Add "salty" to that description, and you are talking about something that The Mrs. won't allow anywhere near her mouth. At least not since we got married. But gulp this stuff down she does. And why? Well, because it has magical New Age healing properties and is all the rage amongst the Bohemian crowd right now.
So, as we're sitting down to dinner, right after I failed to secure cold storage for the iced tea, I was making fun of The Mrs. for buying kefir. This is what I do to let her know I disapprove of her antics. She gets quite angry if I outright ban her from such foolishness, much like a petulant teenager told not to date The Bad Boy. After a while of her defending the indefensible, she finally whined that I criticize her too much in front of The Childrens.
HannahC then yelled, "Deeeevorce!"
MaxieC inquired as to what this divorce was, as it's not something he had heard discussed prior. So, being the great father that I am, I 'splained it to him.
Me, CherkyB: "You see, son, divorce is when we sell the house, then you two kids and mommy move into a trailer, while I move into an apartment and get myself a hot young girlfriend. Then you'll come over every other weekend and Thursday nights, and I'll tell you that she's your new mommy."
MaxieC: "Why would you want a hot, young girlfriend?"
Me, CherkyB: "Ohhh. Because that's the best kind of girlfriend. ... Well, it helps if she's dumb, too. The dumber the better."
HannahC: "Momma's not dumb."
Me, CherkyB: "No. Not at all. That's a large part of the problem. She thinks I care what she thinks. That's why you want a dumb girlfriend."
HannahC: [holding up a bean from her side of mixed vegetables] "This bean is young and hot and dumb. This bean is your new girlfriend."
Me, CherkyB: "No. That bean could never be my girlfriend. It doesn't have big boobs."
MaxieC: [holding up broccoli] "This can be your girlfriend."
Me, CherkyB: "No. Again, no big boobs. Gotta have big boobs."
The Childrens then proceeded to fashion big boobs to attach to the vegetables out of other vegetables. MaxieC used two pieces of baby corn after I rejected his initial attempt at using only one piece of corn with, "No, she needs two symmetric big boobs. Not one giant boob in the middle."
The Mrs. then chimed in about how it would be preferable if they were both from the same surgeon, and much mirth ensued.
That, dear readers, is a veritable clinic in both parenting and husbanding. I invite you to read it again and again and bask in its wisdom.
