It has taken me some time to write about this. Partly out of humiliation and partly because I gag every time I think about it.
There were a lot of changes in my household this spring. I realized I was coming up to a rather large number on the birthday scale next year and had better do something to get into better shape before I completely fell apart. I started walking every day in March and by the end of April had worked my way up to 5 miles a day. Along with actually moving physically I started back on my healthier eating plan. That means lots of veggies, fruit and chicken.
He-Who made some changes as well. Not exercise or eating healthy…don’t be ridiculous! That won’t happen until we find a diet that is developed around the consumption of Fresh Cut French Fries. For some reason…it may have had something to do with my Banjo Boy post, or the comments that resulted…he decided to find a new banjo teacher and start lessons again. He went faithfully for several weeks and practised every day. That is until the banjo injuries surfaced. He sounded like Ringo Starr at the end of Helter Skelter, “I’ve got blisters on my fingers!” Ok, maybe it was more like this…
Then came the bruising of his arm because he didn’t have an arm rest on the banjo. Professionals were consulted and arrangements were made to have an armrest installed by the only person qualified in the GTA. That would be Grant MacNeil at the Twelfth Fret Guitar Shop in downtown Toronto. Unfortunately, Grant was only available on Saturday, when He-Who was not. That left me, always the encouraging spouse, to make the trek into Toronto with He-Who’s prized possession. I’m not a fan of tackling the “Big City” at the best of times, but to be responsible for a musical instrument that was worth more than I am, seemed to be a tranquillizer-worthy-task. Promises were made. He-Who was to put it in the case and Grant was to take it out and put it back in so that I never had to actually touch the banjo. All I had to do was pick out the arm rest that matched. I did not want that added responsibility but eventually agreed. On my way home I planned to run some errands and pick up a few groceries. There was a sale at the place where I purchase my frozen chicken breasts — M & Ms — and it was a good opportunity to stock up.
I was one hot mess by the time I got to the Twelfth Fret. There is no air in my car and as you know we have had some bitchin’ hot weather this year. My anxiety over having custody of the banjo just added to my level of sweat. Grant made the whole procedure relatively painless. It took very little time and it wasn’t long before the banjo was in its case and laying across my back seat, headed homeward. I stopped only to purchase three boxes of frozen chicken breasts on my way home. I made sure I locked up my car like a vault while I ran inside the M & M store. I threw the chicken in the trunk and drove the final couple of kilometres without incident. When I got home I carefully got the banjo inside, up the stairs, and laid it on one of the love seats in the living room. I collapsed on the couch watching the banjo like it was going to make a run for it. I swear at least one tear of relief slid down my cheek.
That was Saturday. On Thursday I went for my walk and came home to jump in the shower. I was feeling pretty good when I wrapped myself in a towel and walked out to the kitchen to prepare some chicken. I like to cook several pieces at a time to make it worth while turning on the oven and so I have a supply on hand already cooked. It helps me to not be tempted to have something less healthy. There I stood wrapped in a towel, with another on my head, searching in the freezer for my chicken. I couldn’t find it. It wasn’t there! What the hell!? I just bought some…the light bulb went on.
“Oh My God! Oh My God! Oh My God!” was all I could get out for the first several seconds. He-Who sauntered up to see if he could be of assistance. I just screamed at him, “Oh My God! O My God! Go out to my car right now and see if the chicken is still in the trunk!” Poor He-Who. He ran like that few seconds was going to save everything. He ran right back in carrying the bag with three boxes of not frozen chicken through the house and into the kitchen. I had smelled it as soon as he opened the door. It dripped all through the house and ended up in the sink. Do I have to explain to any one of you how gross three boxes of rotten chicken is? There are 8-12 pieces in each box, which means 24-36 pieces of dead chicken flesh were stinking up my house and dripping in my sink. By the time I was finished disinfecting the floors and the kitchen and the sink I know my face looked much the same as those rotting pieces of chicken. I gagged through the whole thing and was in a panic about what to do with the evidence. There is no way it was staying at the same address I was at. I wrapped it in plastic bag after plastic bag until I ran out of plastic bags. He-Who drove, I was in the passenger seat and the smell was in the trunk. I was sure I was going to pass out. We had to get rid of it. Someplace that would have collection the next morning, someplace that would not scare patrons from going inside to eat, SOME PLACE WE NEVER GO. We finally found a spot and like thieves in the night, He-Who stopped right in front of it. It wasn’t looking good for me getting out of the car so he gallantly got out and grabbed the offending package from the trunk. As he approached the garbage can a man in shorts, no shirt, riding a bicycle pulled up to him and started talking. There he stood, literally holding the bag, talking to this strange man for what seemed like a lengthy period of time. I was about to have a stroke and probably puke all over the car. The man finally moved on and my He-Who dropped the bag in the bin and got back in the car. I stared at him and asked what the hell was all the socializing all about. I kid you not, this is what he said, “He asked me where the Aren’t We Naughty store was. I didn’t know so we were taking about where it might be.” I looked him in the eye and pointed to where the local sex toy shop is. It might have been the ashen colour of my skin or the gagging but he didn’t asked me how I knew where it was.
Needless to say, I haven’t been able to even look at chicken since. When ever our paths cross all I see is this. Oh My God, The Horror!