I hate to "break bad" on my sweet, loving, and beautiful wife of almost 43 years, but here of late she has been a virtual fount of old fart fodder.
For example, our morning routine (except for the days that I go to the office...aka the golf course for 18 holes with my buddies) consists of Jennifer (wife) reading the paper and doing the paper's daily puzzles, and me playing a mindless game on the computer and watching Fox News in my "Man Cave." At some point, normally after my second cup of coffee, I'll say, "Hey, I'm going to make some toast...want any?"
Usually Jennifer says she doesn't because I like my toast fixed in a toaster (go figure) and she likes hers prepared in the oven. You know...oven turned to high broil, bread lightly buttered on one side, then placed on a cookie sheet, and the cookie sheet slid onto the middle rack of the oven. Half way through the cooking portion of the preparation process, the cookie sheet is removed from the oven, the bread turned over, the cookie sheet placed back on the middle rack of the oven, and cooking continued until the toast just starts to turn brown. Next the oven is turned off and the toast allowed to dry out from the oven's residual heat. She claims this method renders perfect toast. (Feel free to add this to your recipe files.)
Well, just the other day, Jennifer decided she wanted toast made her way. She went to the kitchen, turned on the oven, opened the storage drawer directly below the oven, retrieved a cookie sheet, got bread from the pantry and began the preparation process.
A few minutes later she returned to the kitchen to check on the progress of her toast. She turned on the oven light and opened the oven door. You can imagine her surprise when all she saw was an empty hot oven. After a few minutes of intense freaking out, she opened the storage drawer below the oven and....yep, there it was, one cookie sheet with two slices of bread, lightly buttered on one side.
I laughingly told this story to our daughter Erin, who immediately asked, "Dad, do you need to be concerned about Mom misplacing things?" I told her no, that I wasn't concerned. I'm just attributing it to the company she's been keeping.
You see, our neighbor and good friend, Sue, spent hours one day looking for her purse. She finally decided to give up the search, convincing herself the purse would eventually turn up. After all, it couldn't have just walked off. A little while later, Sue went to the kitchen to start supper. She opened the refrigerator to get out some meat that had been marinating, and there it was, sitting right next to a half gallon of milk--one, no longer missing, purse.
I don't know if Jennifer and Sue would agree, but I'm pretty sure that both of these stories "Smack of Old Fart." Its either that or our subdivision was built on an old Indian Burial Ground and angry evil spirits are out for revenge. Naw...they just "Smack of Old Fart."