Dear relatives:

Seasons’s greetings!  Happy Holidays!   And Merry Christmas!  Paul made me throw that last one in there.   He tells me there’s a war on Christmas going on.   That’s terrible!  Why would anyone want to declare war on Christmas?   If there was no Christmas, then there’d be no day after Thanksgiving – what do they call that now? – Black Friday, that’s right.  And there’d be no sales events, there’d be no commercials for all those cars, like the December to remember.  I keep telling Paul that that’s what I’d like for Christmas one year, one of them new cars with the fancy red ribbon tied on it, and he says, ha, we can’t afford the ribbon, let alone the car, but if we could, I’d get one and put it on our 1986 Ford Escort, that’d look pretty funny.  A war on Christmas just seems so wrong.

So Merry Christmas, 2013!    It’s hard to believe that the year is almost over already.  It seems like just yesterday I was sitting down and writing the 2012 update, now it’s already time to look back at 2013.  It turns out that 2013 was a doozy for the Jacobs family.   So for those of you who we don’t get to see very often, I hope you are well and here is what is new with our family in 2013.

The year got off to a bad start when I had that Laz-tek surgery on my eyes.   I’m sure you all remember my eyes problems, some of you even probably called me “Cross-Eyed Mary” all those years growing up.   Jimmy Preston used to tease me about a song by Jeff Rowtull,  I think that was his name, that was called Cross Eyed Mary, and he used to tell me the song was about me.   Who knows, if Jeff Rowtull ever lived in Deer Falls he might of heard of me, so Jimmy might be right.  I don’t know.   All I know is that Uncle Leon had the surgery, and it worked for him, he said it was so simple that a monkey could do it.  You know how smart Uncle Leon always was.  When he was a teenager, he learned all about electricity, just on his own, and he wired the electricity up to that new house his ma and pa had built down there on Highway P.  And no one ever taught him nothing, he learned it all on his own, and if that house had never burned down, it’d probably still be working today, that’s how smart old Leon was.   So Leon says how easy and simple the Laz-tek surgery was, and how much better his eyes are now than before, and how he can read the year on a penny now, and that I ought to have it done, and I says I don’t have no insurance, not since the Possum plant closed down and Paul lost his job.  That’s another thing that happened this year you might not know about – the plant in Janesville where Paul used to work that made toy stuffed possums closed down.  And here Paul had worked there for three years, and worked his way up to lead possum stuffer, and now he was thrown out of work.   He went down to the unemployment office and they said they ain’t got no jobs stuffing possums, so there Paul sits, with all that training for nothing.

Anyways, I says to Leon that we ain’t got no insurance, to which Leon says, hell, there ain’t nothing to the procedure, all they do is cut your eyeball and then shoot a laser beam into it.  Hell, he says, I reckon I could do it, seems simple enough.  And I says, but Leon, where are you going to get a laser beam and he says, shoot, they got them little pen flashlights that shoot laser beams, you can get one down at the dollar store.   And then he says, look at me, I can see just fine, in fact I can see so much better than before, and it were all a piece of cake.   So we talk it over, then Paul and me talk it over, then Paul and Leon talk it over, and Paul and Leon both agree that Leon could do the operation on me with no trouble, and so I was outvoted, fair and square, two to one, so the next day Paul drove me over to Leon’s trailer park.  Leon told Paul to bring me, cause afterwards I might not be able to drive.

We walk in and Leon tells me to sit in the kitchen chair, and Paul goes over to the kitchen counter, where Leon’s got everything laid out.  He’s got a utility knife, a bottle of Yukon Jack whiskey, he’s got a little laser pointing flashlight, he’s got a couple of toothpicks, he’s got some band aids, two shot glasses  and he’s got  a little hand mirror.  Paul asks him what’s the whiskey for and Leon says to disinfect the utility knife, and he pours some of it over the knife in the sink, and Paul says, that seems like an awful waste of some high priced whiskey, and Leon says, I thought of that, too, that’s what the shot glasses are for.   And Paul says, you gonna  give Mary some, and he says, no, she can’t have any, she’s the patient, it’s for you and me, you cause I know you like your Yukon Jack and me cause it calms me down and stops my shakes before I operate.  And it ought to calm you down, too, Paul, since you ain’t got nothin’ to do except drive Mary home when we’re done.

Well, that Yukon Jack did a world of good, cause Leon were just as steady and even as he ever were.  He had me open my eyes as wide as I could and then he took them toothpicks he had laid out and used em to prop my eyelids open.   But for some reason, I dunno why, I started getting the jitters and I started shaking, and Leon told me to sit still but I couldn’t, and just as he was ready to do the first cut I stood up and he cut my nose instead of my eye.  He cut it clear off of my face!   I was bleeding everywhere and old Leon, you know how he could never stand the sight of blood, he just fainted right there on the kitchen floor.  Paul called 911 and told em that his uncle had passed out and to get someone over there right away.  An ambulance came while I were in the bathroom, trying to stop the bleeding from my nose, and I came out just as them ambulance fellers were getting ready to drive Leon away.  And they seen me and took me to the hospital, too, and I’m kind of glad they did.

But enough about me!   You’re probably wondering what’s new with the rest of the family.

First, our oldest, Jimmer, you know, the smart one, he turned 15 this summer!  He’s getting so big, too; he’s already taller than Paul and me.  He just passed the 8^th grade, so he started high school in the fall.  High school!  Can you imagine, a Jacobs going to high school?  Me and Paul were so proud, we were going to throw Jimmer a congraduation party but the night before Jimmer ended up in the hospital with the worms after he and the neighbor girl was drinking puddle water, pretending it were beer.  They pumped his stomach but I still had to collect samples of his “stool” for a few weeks, that’s what they call it, a “stool”, they said bring in a stool sample, so I bought in one of the chairs from our breakfast nook, and they said no, that’s not the kind of stool they meant, and they gave me these little plastic bags.  And Jimmer had a hell of a time pooping in them little baggies, but he’s all better now.  Jimmer is in the middle of his first year in high school, and he’s learning all about numbers and fractions and social studies and gravity and stuff, it makes my head spin just thinking about it all, but he’s so smart, he’s passing all but three of his classes.

Our second son, Arthur, well, to be honest, he’s a different little feller, he turned eleven this October, and he’s, well, he’s just different, he ain’t smart like Jimmer, he’s different, but we love him almost as much as we do Jimmer anyways.  He talks funny, like he’s making up words as he goes.  He’s always talking silly stuff, like the other day he comes up to me and says, “Ma, did you know that elementary particles behave both like particles and like waves?”  Well, I didn’t know what to say, what can you say when a boy talks gibberish like that?  I said you better off not worrying about that stuff, the world don’t care none about that, and he says “but the atomic world is nothing like the world we live in!”   So I says fine, if you want to live in your atomic world you go ahead, just don’t expect any carrots in your stew.   Arthur loves carrots, you see, he eats em all the time, so alls I got to do when he gets too weird is bring it back to carrots.

Well, Jimmer and Arthur both had to take part in the school’s science fair this year.   For some reason they put Arthur in with the eighth graders, I dunno why.  Paul helped Jimmer with his project for a couple of months, it were really clever, too.   They took a bar of soap and whittled it down till it looked just like a beaver!  It looked just like one, if you looked at it from behind, and if you imagined a beaver having bigger ears than they really did.   A beaver made out of soap!   Who would’ve thought.

Arthur meanwhile worked in private on his project, spending nights and days out in the shed behind the house.   Hell, that weren’t too unusual, as he normally spends a lot of time in the shed.  Alls I gotta do is buy a couple bags of carrots and leave em out there and Arthur is fine.  Anyway he was working on his science project all secret like out there in the shed.

The night before the science fair, at supper, Arthur asks Jimmer, what did you make for the science fair?   And Jimmer goes and gets his soap beaver and shows it to us.  He were grinning from ear to ear (Jimmer, that is, not the soap beaver) as you can imagine he would, proud of his beaver and all.  Jimmer then asks Arthur what he made, and Arthur takes us out to the shed where he’s got a bed sheet draped over something.  He lifts the sheet off and there is some weird contraption with bicycle tires, levers, pulleys and saw blades.  “What is it?” Paul asked, and Arthur says, all excited like, “It’s a Perpetual Motion machine!”  Then he poured some water in a tank that was hooked up to the contraption and it started moving, the saw blades turning.  Arthur said “Look!  It violates both the first and second laws of thermodynamics.”  Paul got mad and said, “What are you trying to do, get us arrested?  There will be no violating any thermo dynamite laws in this house!” and he took an axe off the wall and smashed Arthur’s invention.   Thank goodness we have Paul’s quick thinking to rely upon.

A couple of nights later, I went out to the shed, I’d just bought a couple new bags of carrots, and I went out to give em to Arthur but Arthur were gone.  Turns out the boy had run away.  I went in and told Paul and Jimmer that Arthur were gone, and Jimmer said we ought to go and look for him, and Paul said, “don’t worry, he’ll turn up.”   Then Jimmer started crying and I says “What’s wrong, Jimmer?” and Jimmer says, “I don’t want my brother to turn into some damn turnip.”  So Paul and Jimmer, they hop in the Escort and takes off looking for Jimmer.   They looks in the bowling alley, they looks out in the marsh, they even looks in the Laundromat, but no sign of Arthur.   That’s when on the T.V. they says there’s a tornado warning, and that a fun old cloud had been spotted just west of Deer Falls.   I don’t know what anybody thinks is fun about a cloud like that, cause it brought a twister with it.   The twister hit our house smack dab in the middle and blew it up real good like.  I were down in the cellar and when I come up everything were gone.   I was by myself, Paul and Jimmer were still out looking for Arthur.

So I go upstairs and everything is gone, and there’s all kind of crap laying all over the place.  I look down at my feet and there was a highway sign laying there, that said, “St. Paul, 54.”  I took that sign as a sign, and sure enough, who pulls up in our driveway but Paul and Jimmer in that Ford Escort.   And Jimmer says, we found Arthur, and he opens up his hand and he’s holding a turnip .  “Pa were right,” Jimmer says, “Arthur did turn into a turnip.  But it ain’t so bad, is it Arthur?”  He was talking to the turnip, and then he says, “It ain’t so bad, Arthur being a turnip and all.  He don’t say much, but I never understood anything he’d say anyways.”

Paul says what happened to our house, and I tells him, the twister blew it up, but it’s okay, cause it blew this here sign.   And Paul says so what it blew a sign and I says don’t you see, Paul, it’s a sign, and he says I know it’s a sign, I ain’t blind, and I says but it says  St. Paul, 54 and he says so what and I says well, you’re Paul and you’re 54 years old, it means something, like when those folks over in Earlstown found the face of Jesus in their hash brown taters, this is just like that, it’s a sign.   And Jimmer says it’s kind of funny you can’t see Arthur’s face on this here turnip, seeing as it’s Arthur and all.

About a week later, early in the morning, Paul and me and Jimmer and the Arthur turnip were all sleeping in the yard, where our house used to be, when a big long car pull up in the driveway.  I says to Paul, what’s that, and he says it’s one of them lime-o-seens that rich people ride around in.  Well it stops and the driver’s door opens and some feller in a uniform gets out and walks to the other side and opens the back door and damned if Arhtur don’t step out.  “Mother,Father,” he says, and I turn to Paul and says, “Arthur ain’t a turnip after all!   See!  I told you that sign was a sign!”

Well, turns out that after Paul wrecked Arthur’s science project, he took his blue prints and sold his perpetual motion machine to GM for one hundred twenty six million dollars.  With the money Arthur brought us a big piece of land and had a big mansion built.  Out in back he built a replica of our old shed, and that’s where he lives, out there in the shed, while me and Paul and Jimmer and his turnip all live in the mansion.  We dress and eat funny now.   For breakfast we have creeps instead of pancakes.   I have a woman who does the cooking and cleaning for me.   She goes to the market for me and buys bags of carrots for Arthur.

So that’s our little old family story for 2013.   Happy Holidays, and stay safe.   I’d sure hate to read about one of you getting shot or blown up in the war on Christmas.

Your relatives,

The Jacobs (Paul and Mary and Jimmers and Arthur and a turnip)

(Excerpts from the notebooks and journals of famous authors are frequently published and studied by noted scholars.  Although I am not famous, I have been studied by various health care professionals in white coats who frequently appear to me late at night, especially after I’ve eaten fried food.  So it is that I have compiled the following excerpts from my personal journals – some have been shared on Facebook, others have not.   My hope is that these selections help lead to a wider understanding and appreciation of who I am, and maybe eventually help me understand why I am afraid of cardboard.)

October 4:  Today my would-be financial advisor asked me what’s my net worth.  I told him, maybe six dollars and 99 cents.  It’s only for a ping pong table, after all.

October 1:  For dinner tomorrow night, I will be capturing and incarcerating poultry.  I want to try this “cagin’ chicken” I’ve been hearing so much about.

September 23:  Tonight I wrestled with my conscience and won two of three falls.  In the third round, as I scored on a brutal take-down, my conscience suffered a bilateral TMV (torn moral value).  Although responsible, I feel no remorse.

September 1:  Somebody up there likes me – either that, or squirrels have nested in my attic again

July 19:  Today I decided to stop and count my blessings.  It turns out I have six and a half.

June 4:  Being self-absorbed is a good thing if you spill your guts.

May 3:  Tried out my brand new belt sander today with mixed results.  Next time I think I’ll remove my belt before I start.

April 17:  If it rains all day tomorrow, then it will be a sadder day.  If the clouds go away, the next day should be a sun day.

Jan 9:  I’m thinking I’ll insert an escalator clause into my elevator speech.

Dec 14:  Lucille Ball used to measure how angry her husband was by how loudly he’d yell at her.   The unit of measurement was “Desi-bels”

Nov 8:  ”Torte reform?”  As long as it has multiple layers and a crème filling of some sort, I’m okay with tortes as they are.  If they’re serious about improving desserts, they should start with pudding reform.

Jan 1:  If I eat a hamburger on an airplane, am I actually eating air-beef?

Nov 19:  Idea for a new product:  Colgate with sodium pentothal added to it – I’d call it “Truthpaste”

June 23, 1887:  An existential sweet potato might say, “I think, therefore I yam.”

July 4, 1776:  Next Tuesday I have a semicolonoscopy scheduled, a procedure where the doctor inserts a scope in my novel and searches for two complete sentences where the conjunction has been left out. The worst part is the prep, as I have to go twelve hours without using any punctuation.

37 B.C.:  Somebody stop me – I have an overwhelming urge to go to the refrigerator and put all of my eggs into one basket

9 billion years ago:  Little known fact: Dracula loves to eat baby chicks. So, don’t hatch your chickens before the Count.

7 zillion eons before the Big Bang:  Today’s forecast: Showers will occur this morning, most likely right before shaving. Relative humidity will be in the Uncle Leon and Aunt Martha levels. Barometric pressure will rise when grizzlies learn about centimeters. A cold front will occur after standing with your back to the shower for too long. Temperatures will be normal, 98.6 degrees. A tropical depression will take hold amongst sad people who live near the equator. Tonight, expect extended periods of darkness.

Last Tuesday:  Phobiphobia: The irrational fear of developing irrational fears of things

I’m no biblical scholar, but I’ve been thinking about those commandments lately.  As I recall, god appeared as a burning bush and spoke to Charleton Heston and gave him the stone tablets on which were written the Ten Commandments, and then there was a chariot race that ended with Moses discovering that Soylent Green is people.

But about those commandments:   I have to say, when reading them, that as divine laws, most of them leave a little bit to desire.  Oh, sure, there are the obvious ones, like you shall not murder, or steal, or commit adultery.  Then there are the ones that seem like pretty good ideas, like not bearing false witness against your neighbor, or not coveting your neighbor’s stuff.  Honor your mother and father; I can go along with that, that’s a nice thought.  Then there are the ones that deal with that “jealous” god.   We can’t have any other god before him, or create any likeness of him, or speak his name in vain.  Apparently, in the middle of establishing a moral code that we would all be judged against, god wanted to slip in a couple of commandments that addressed personal pet peeves.  These seem so petty that either god has some serious self esteem issues or he was having a bad day when he created the tablets.

It seems to me that these commandments may have been appropriate all those years ago, but they’ve lost some of their relevance in these modern times we live in.  I think it’s time we get a new ten commandments that fit in with the world today, that would give people a clearer moral compass to guide them and make the world a better place.  So I thought I’d take a shot at creating my recommendations for a new ten commandments.  I’m no god, and this ain’t no stone tablet, but what the Hell, as recommendations go, well, you be the judge:

1)      Thou shalt refrain from saying “My bad”

2)      Thou shalt not put only eight hot dog buns in a package when hot dogs come ten to a package.

3)      Thou shalt not wear socks with sandals

4)      When the wedding band so commandeth, thou shall obey, and put thy left foot in, take thy left foot out, put thy left foot in and shake it all about

5)      Thou shalt not speak the name David Hasselhoff in vain

6)      Thou shalt keep off of the Lord’s front yard

7)      Thou shalt not put raisins in cookies with chocolate chips

8)      The toaster shall be used only for creating toast; bread that is warmed but not toasted shall not be considered toast.

9)      The lord is a jealous lord so therefore be careful  to let him win at Yahtzee

10)    In the morning, though shalt not photograph the lord until after he’s had his coffee.

 

 

I think I’m ready.  I think I’ve lived long enough, and that I’m smart enough.  I know enough about how the world operates.  I think I’m ready to become one of them, or, more accurately, one of they.

We’ve all heard about they, even if we have no idea who they are.  They make the rules, and they’re not shy about telling us.  How many times have we heard, “They say you’ve got to crawl before you walk.”  Whoever the Hell they are, we seem to put a lot of stock into what they say.

I imagine that they is a group of smart people who get together once a month at the local KFC and make new rules.  There are two groups of they; the regular group that makes general rules, and the advanced group of elders who get to decide what it is going to do.  Never mind that none of us knows any more about it than we do they;  we still hear ourselves repeating things like, “They say it’s supposed to rain today.”   The words “supposed to” speak to the authority that this elder group of they have.  If it doesn’t rain today after they said it’s supposed to, then it could be punished.  You might say that it is in for it.

So anyway, now that I’m old enough and smart enough, I’m going to apply for membership to they.  Once accepted, here are some additions I’ll be making:

                “They say that he who hesitates is lost or is just taking his break”

                “They say that a camel without humps has likely been to a plastic surgeon.”

                “They say that when the crows fly away, you’ll over sleep, because there will be no caws for alarm.”

               “They say that money is the root of all evil, and that twenty seven cents is the root of seven dollars and twenty nine cents.”

              “They say not only to each his own, but that each should also get a decent pension when he retires.”

            “They say it’s supposed to keep at least twenty five feet away from me at all times, and it’s not supposed to remove its ankle bracelet.”

(Enjoy these short short stories for what they are – evidence that I have completely run out of ideas for posts)

A Ripping Good Time

Shortly after the table saw accident, Rip wrapped his ripped fingers around the sandwich wrap that had been wrapped in Reynolds wrap.  Rap played on Rip’s radio.  Rip gripped the wrap with his ripped fingers tight in the night and thought about the cruise he was scheduled to take.  Rip had never been on a trip on a ship, and it frightened him.   Rip was out to prove that he wasn’t lazy like people thought he was – Rip’s bum rep was a bum rap.   Others were hip to Rip’s trip on a ship, and through loose lips helped Rip come to grips with his fear of trips on ships.

 A Ham on Turkey

Experts determined that the antique cushioned footstool was Turkish in origin, from the 1300s, making it an Ottoman ottoman. Its owner was a man named Otto who was a direct descendent of Osman and was therefore an Ottoman man named Otto. The incident with the Ottoman man named Otto and his Ottoman ottoman and the axe was an accident, and while the axe may have left an indent in the Ottoman ottoman, the Ottoman man named Otto was cleared of any wrongdoing when it was determined that not only was the axe incident accidental, in the grand scheme of things the axe accident was incidental and thus not that important. Incidentally, this is the first known accidental use of an axe by an Ottoman man named Otto against an Ottoman ottoman on record, either accidental or intentional.

March Madness

Indiana was preparing to play Oklahoma in the NCAA tourney.  The two teams were so equal in talent that Victor had trouble predicting the victor. He grew impatient in his anticipation and called his aunt Faye, a lactose intolerant patient who the staff at Victory Memorial had lost patience with.  “Aunt Faye, it’s you’re nephew, Victor.  Who’s your pick for the victor between the Hoosiers and the Sooners?”  Faye said, “Do I understand, Victor, that you can’t pick a victor without knowing what your aunt Faye may say?  I and my fellow patients advise patience, you’ll know who your victor, Hoosiers or Sooners, is sooner than you realize.”   Victor replied, “I need to pick a victor sooner than Faye may say.  Though my aunt is a patient, the anticipation of who will be the victor is more than Victor’s patience can bear.”  At that point the nurses had become intolerant of Faye’s lactose intolerance.  It wasn’t just Faye, they’d lost patience with two other patients, too, dismissing their symptoms before dismissing them from the hospital.  Victory Memorial then developed a bad reputation as an institution with no patience for patients, and became known as an inhospitable hospital.

You Go Your Way, I’ll Go Norway

It was autumn. The Vikings were preparing to depart for America.  “Leif has to leave before the fall leaves fall,” Eric’s son said of Leif Erickson.

“If Eric’s son wants to leave with Leif Erickson,” an elderly elder replied, “then Eric’s Son and Leif Erickson will both have to wait until when Sven intends to leave.” Sven was the project planner in charge of planning the project.  All that had been provided so far was projections of when Sven projected the project to start.

“The ships need to be repaired first,” Sven replied.  “We have to wait for the parts before we can depart.  Not only is the date we depart dependent upon the parts, but we can’t forecast the date we arrive until we know the date the parts arrive.”

“Have the parts suppliers supplied us with the part of the plan when the parts are supplied to us?”  In other words, do we know when the parts suppliers will supply us with the parts?”  The elderly elder asked.

“I don’t know when the parts suppliers will depart with our parts,” Sven replied, “so I don’t know when we’ll install the parts the parts suppliers will supply us with, so I don’t know when we’ll depart.  Once the suppliers arrive with the parts, not only will we be able to determine when we depart, but the arrival of the supplies will supply us with what we need for an arrival date.”

“I just want to know,” Eric’s son said, “will Leif Erickson be able to leave in the fall, before the leaves fall?”

“Leave that to Leif Erickson, Eric’s son,” the elderly elder replied.

Friday night is take-out night.  It’s a tradition we’ve been observing in our house for years, since our kids were small, and still continues, now that my wife and I are empty nesters.

A few months ago, tired of the usual pizza from our favorite take out place, we turned our attention to the rest of the menu.   We decided to try the ribs and a couple of side dishes.  We were pleased to find they were delicious, the sauce tangy and sweet and better than a couple of those famous chain restaurants that supposedly specialize in ribs.

This was a pleasant surprise, but the real surprise was the baked potato that came with it.  Upon opening the Styrofoam container, my wife said, “oh, wow.”

“What?” I asked.

“Look at that baked potato,” she said.

I looked.  It sat there, next to the ribs.  At first glance, I noticed nothing unusual about it.  “What about it?” I asked.

“It’s enormous!”

I looked a little closer and she was right, it was huge.  It was about twice the size of a normal baked potato.  “Huh,” I said, “you’re right.  It is big.”

We ate, and the ribs and the potato and the appetizers were all very good, and we were both full and content.  There was enough that we’d have leftovers to reheat.  We went about the rest of our evening.

About 9:00, I was watching television and my wife was reading, when she turned to me and said, “Tomorrow you can have what’s left of the ribs for lunch.”

“Okay,” I said.

“And I think I’ll take what’s left of that potato.   Maybe I’ll add some bacon bits and cheese and things and make one of those stuffed baked potatoes.”

“That sounds good,” I said.

“There should be enough left over.  That potato was so huge.”

“I’m sure there’s plenty enough for your lunch.”

“I still can’t get over how big that potato was,” she added.  “I mean, seriously, have you ever seen such a big potato before?”

“I don’t know, I don’t normally pay that close of attention to potatoes.”

“I mean, come on, you couldn’t help but notice it.  It was gigantic.”

A few nights later, we were grocery shopping at Woodman’s.  We were in the produce department when she said, “I wonder if they have any of those giant potatoes?”

“Giant potatoes?” I asked.

“Yeah, like we had with the ribs the other night.”

We arrived at the stand that held individual potatoes.   I took one of the larger ones off of the stand and showed it to her.

“This one’s pretty big,” I said.

“Are you kidding?  That’s nowhere near as big as the one we had with the ribs.”

“I don’t know, it’s pretty big.”

“You’re out of your mind,” she said.  “It’s not even close.”

We looked some more and there were no giant potatoes.  Finally, I said, “Maybe that potato we got the other night was just a freak of nature.”

“Maybe,” my wife dejectedly agreed.

About a week later, we decided on take out again,

“Pizza?” I suggested.

“No, I’m not in the mood for pizza.  How about those ribs again?”

Soon I was home with another Styrofoam container of food.  I hung up my coat as my wife opened up the container.

“Wow,” she said.

“What is it?” I asked.

“The potato.   It’s gigantic.”

I looked and there was no denying, it was enormous.  For some reason, I didn’t feel like hearing her go on and on about the size of the potato again.

“Look at it,” she said.  “It’s huge!  I think it’s even bigger than last week’s!”

“Yeah, so what?”

“I’m just saying, they have such big potatoes.  It’s really a value for the price you pay.  I wonder where they find them?”

“Did you ever think,” I asked, “that it’s not natural for a potato to be that big?   Did you ever think that maybe they’re selling us genetically modified and mutated potatoes?”

“No,” she said, “they’re real.  They’re natural.”

“How do you know? “

“I doubt that our local pizza place is genetically engineering giant potatoes.”

“Well, they don’t taste any better than normal potatoes, so I don’t know why it’s such a big deal that they’re so big.”

“Are you kidding?  Even you said last week that the potato was delicious.”

“What about those little russet potatoes, or red potatoes?  They’re some of the best potatoes ever, and they’re small.”

“What are you talking about?   Why are you getting so defensive?’

“I’m just saying, the size of a potato isn’t all that important.”

A couple of nights later, I came out of my office and stepped into our living room.  My wife was in her chair, on the phone with somebody, when I heard her say, “It was gigantic.  I’ve never seen one that big.”

Then there was silence as whoever was on the other end was talking.  Then my wife said, “Really?  You know where I can get a big one?”

I’d heard just about enough, when she said,  “Well, first thing I’d do is take a paring knife and remove all the skin.  Then I’d put it in a pot of boiling water, you know, to soften it up.”

Then I could hear her saying something about soup and carrots and vegetables, but I wasn’t listening, I felt sick to my stomach, and left, looking for a bucket, feeling like I was going to throw up.

The following Friday night, I was downstairs and my wife upstairs.  I had the television on, watching a commercial for some natural male enhancement product when I heard my wife come down the steps.  I quickly turned the channel.

“Are we getting carry out?” she asked.

“Yeah, “ I said, “I’ll run and get it.”  I was having difficulty hiding my depression.  “I suppose you want ribs.”

“Nah,” she said, “I’m more in mood for a burger and French fries.”

“French fries?”  I perked up.  “You’re in the mood for French fries?”

“Yeah, I don’t know why, but French fries sound really good to me.”

I smiled, and suddenly felt better.  “I’d be happy to get you some French fries.”

“As long as they stay crisp. I hate it when they get all cold and soggy.”

I drove into the dark night to pick up our order.   At the intersection before my destination, I got stopped at a red light behind a large diesel pickup truck, a Ford F-350.    It sat high on its frame, elevated by giant monster-truck like tires.  From behind the wheel of my Toyota Prius, I had to look up to read the license plate.

It was from Idaho.