We’re not bugged by the same things

What bugs one person doesn’t bother the other.

A perfect example of that came to light when we stopped at the store the other day and bought a package of turkey breast.

Better Half was driving home. My job, I was reminded as the passenger holding an integral part of the club-sandwich-to-be, was to keep the container of turkey breast as cold as possible, even if it came at the sacrifice of human warmth.

My warmth.

Now let’s be clear here.

It’s not as if we were driving cross country and needed a cooler to keep things fresh. Or that we were journeying across the Sahara Desert, and his quart of chocolate peanut butter ice cream was destined for liquidity if we didn’t take some kind of heroic measures.

We’re talking a 20-minute trip from store to house, tops. That package of turkey breast hardly had a chance to even realize it was under new ownership, that it was leaving one refrigerator for another.

“It’s hot in here,” complained Better Half, fidgeting in his seat and fanning his face for emphasis, acting as if the car was some kind of a sweltering greenhouse on wheels.

I mentioned that the outdoor temperature was a balmy 37 — cue the shivering and turning the heater dial to the “on” position.

Better Half shot a worried look at the turkey breast, closed his vent — hoping to give it a fighting chance — then hit the gas.

We made it home OK, and the turkey breast survived just fine, nice and cool in its package, gobble, gobble, but before I could even think about fixing a club sandwich, hold up here just a minute.

First things first.

The kitchen curtains needed opened and tied back. All three windows.

As I mentioned, what bugs one person doesn’t bug the other.

Better Half could leave those curtains shut and untouched for months — years probably. Me? Get those babies open. Tie them back. Give me some daylight. That’s my ritual.

He accuses me of being window weird.

I suspect he’s part mole.

Isn’t love grand?

As the day progressed, so did the pile of dirty dishes, considering the craving for club sandwiches meant cooking bacon, and well, one bacon mess begets another.

I made an attempt to wash the dishes, starting the water in the sink, but I’m never quite able to make that drain catch actually do its job and keep the water in the sink.

That bugs Better Half to no end that I can’t seem to get the hang of that. He gives me tutorials in hopes that I’ll come around and be reformed.

The lesson goes something like this: Put the sink stopper in. Fill the sink with the water level to hit this little speck mark. Walk away from the sink and do something else (what on Earth I don’t know) and return. If the water’s still there, fill it up and get busy. If it’s drained out, repeat procedure. Pay attention.

I guess I’m a bad student.

I just figure if the water drains out of the sink, it’s an omen.

I have no business doing dishes. And that doesn’t bug me one bit.

(Kiaski, a resident of Richmond, is a staff columnist and community editor for the Herald-Star and The Weirton Daily Times. She can be contacted at jkiaski@heraldstaronline.com.)

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