My mother-in-law had made jello. Orange Jell-o. Orange Jell-o permeated with those cute little mandarin oranges that were suspended gelatinously as part of an edibly successful science experiment. Brad and Savannah went NUTS. Embarrassingly so. It was JELL-O. Imagine their disappointment and despair when they learned it was off-limits because it was set aside given Chuckie's dietary restrictions. "So Chinese food isn't considered a restricted category?" Brad caustically complained. "Or a pork tenderloin sandwich?" bemoaned Savannah bitterly. I was shocked. All this for JELL-O? It was a wake-up call.
I tossed and turned all night, questioning this perplexing problem. When was the last time that I made Jell-o? I couldn't remember. And I'd long ago given up trying to add fruit. The Jell-o outwitted me every time. My additions ended up in one of two inevitable locations: Sunk to the bottom or perched on the precarious peak. These failures tormented me.
I awoke, renewed, inspired. The ghosts of unset Jell-o molds from the past had transformed me. I would live my life, from this point on, by the creed of "Happy spouse/Happy house. I would treat my husband like the king he is. I began immediately. Instead of my usual routine of jumping on Facebook or staring at the television screen as Brad sat in his van, ready to depart from our driveway, I intentionally turned in my seat to wave good-bye to him. Okay...he's typing something into his GPS. Adjusting the radio. Shifting his stuff around. How long is this going to take? I took a quick peak at Parks & Recreation. Oh. He's pulling up to the end of the driveway. Looks left...right...left again. Pause. Sip of coffee. Oh my stars and garters! DRIVE DAMMIT! Left...right...left....LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT ME! I'M WAVING AT YOU, YOU SON OF A B~~~~~!!!
Okay...that didn't work. Now what? Oh! I'd make Kool-Aid! Brad loves Kool-Aid (which further explains the success of our marriage because, obviously, his expectations are incredibly low). I then began the Herculean task of cleaning out our backroom. Within five minutes, I was completely worn out and overwhelmed. I decided to divide the labor into four quarters to be divvied up over the next few weeks. Brad called and would soon be home. I rushed into the kitchen and began to prepare one of his favorite snacks, smearing cream cheese into celery sticks. Ugh, I know. I intentionally left the stalks long as hamsters and gerbils seem to enjoy nibbling their way down their chew sticks. Beavers also seem to prefer whole trees rather than parts. Brad walked in, surprised by what was awaiting him. Thanking me profusely, he then retrieved a CLEAN knife from the drawer and proceeded to cut each carefully-thought-out celery stick in HALF. IN HALF! I stood there, shocked. I picked up the TWO dirty knives littering my kitchen counter and tossed them in the sink in utter disgust. B@$T@{D!
No-no. We're okay. Take a breath. We can do this. "Would you like a drink?" I asked courteously as Brad logged onto his computer to complete his daily time sheet. "Just a little one," he confirmed, intent on the screen. I decided to bring a bit of playfulness to the situation. Filling up a small shot glass with purple Kool-Aid (We weren't there yet, folks...but it was getting close), I set it on his desk with a regular-sized one at the ready so we could share a little laugh. He typed a bit. Squinted at the screen. Fumbled for his glasses. Take a drink, my king! I silently implored. He scribbled something down on a piece of paper. Punched numbers into his calculator. The drink! Take a drink! Cracked his neck. Oh...I'll do more than crack your neck...He finally took a drink and didn't say anything. Just kept working. D@#^ him! I slammed his regularly-sized glass of grape Kool-Aid in front of him, shouted, "You're no fun!" and stormed out of the room.
Bewildered, he followed me through the house to the backroom and exclaimed in delight over the work I had begun. "Should I get some more bags or boxes?" he asked. I stopped dead. "For what?" I snarled. This was obviously a colossal mistake. Happy guy, my eye. How about happy guy, stab him in the thigh? Or A happy fellow makes his own d@*n jell-o!
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