Raw Chicken

I don’t cook. Well I do cook, I just don’t enjoy it. I’m really not fond of cleaning either so how it came to be that I’m a stay-at-home mom confuses some people, mostly my own mother (who knows that I consider the shower to be clean because we use body wash in it) and my husband. He asks me “what did you do all day?” and I distract him with the fact that I bought Taquitos.

My husband is an airhead.

It can be infuriating at times, like when he double-paid our cable bill because he skipped the part that states “click once” and then spent the whole day blaming the internet when he didn’t have money to go golfing and then there was the time he couldn’t quite keep up when a conversation transitioned from seeing Tom Petty in concert to discussing a friends’ job resignation and he said “so wait, Tom Petty quit his job?”

Then he will say “decompose” when he really means “decompress” and his absentmindedness is suddenly a riot. Anyway, it was when I picked up some individually wrapped chicken cordon bleu’s that I hesitated for a moment; the instructions were to cook in a traditional oven considering the chicken inside was raw, but would my husband really adhere to these directions or would I find myself making a late night trip to the ER somewhere in the near future.

I should be in the business of fortune telling because wouldn’t you know it, he confused one with some sort of Hot Pocket and in the microwave it went. Not only is he an airhead but now I’m quite convinced he can’t read. He would spend the whole night and a better part of the next day convinced he was dying and asking if death by raw chicken was a painful way to go. I don’t know for sure, but I bet it’s less agonizing than listening to your husband whine about it.

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