Porterhouse Lies

I have a confession to make.  For the first 2 year of my marriage, I was involved in a deceitful activity that involved multiple men, all under my husband's nose.  Ultimately it was one of those very men that unknowingly revealed the secret that brought down my house of cards.

It all started when I walked into my local, family owned, butcher shop.  Standing there before me was something I longed for, yet was too afraid to try. It's size intimidated me.  It's cost made me a little nervous.  But I knew that it's taste was calling me.  It's name was the Porterhouse.

Now here is where the elaborate web of lies began.  During one of my visits to this store I summoned up enough courage to ask the strapping butcher "What do you recommend today?" The manly man looked at me and with those deep chocolate eyes said, "You can't go wrong with a Porterhouse. Best of both worlds."  What could he possibly mean by 'best of both worlds.'  So I bit.  "What do you mean by 'best of both worlds'?"  And here is where the bond of trust was broken with my husband.  "A Porterhouse is a New York Strip steak and a Filet Mignon all in one steak."

'Is this true?' I wondered.  Could it really be?  A filet and a strip all in one steak?  So I instructed him to get me one of these steaks and to not bother writing anything on the wrapping.  I quickly grabbed my brown paper bag and stole away to my car.  Tonight I was going to eat filet right in front of my husband and he was never going to know.

At home I secretly removed the filet and the strip steak from the bone and tossed away the evidence in the trash.  I delicately seasoned (salt and pepper only please) the prize and precisely cooked the steaks to a perfect medium with gorgeous criss-crossed sear marks on both sides.  And then like any good grill master, I let them sit for 10 minutes before I executed my perfect plan.  I bring the platter to the dinner table and coyly announce to my spouse "I'm not very hungry today sweetie.  You go ahead and take the big steak and I'll just eat the little one."  He looks at me lovingly and says "Thank you very much."  All the while I'm thinking 'No. Thank YOU very much."

And so it went like that. Week after week.  Butcher after butcher.  I would hide my evidence.  Generously offer my husband the bigger steak and I would sit back and enjoy my butter knife tender filet.  I would constantly have to remind myself to keep my poker face in check and my sounds of enjoyment to a minimum in order to elude suspicion.

Until the day my husband sweetly stopped at the butcher shop to surprise me with a Porterhouse steak.  His demeanor coming in the door was different.  Standoff-ish.  His brow, furrowed.  His jaw, clenched.  And then the words "You've been holding out on me for the past two years!!" indicated that my secret had been betrayed.  I try to play it off 'What do you mean sweetie?'  And then it all comes out.  He says, "I'm at the butcher shop and order a Porterhouse when the butcher turns to me and asks. 'Which cut do you prefer the New York Strip or the Filet?'  Apparently the butcher noticed the confused look on my husband's face and offered "You know, a Porterhouse is a NY Strip (the big one) and a Filet Mignon (the small one)."

So I had been caught red-handed.  The trust I had been building for years with my husband had been shaken.  And now I'm eating NY Strip for the next 2 years.  Darn you butchers!!!!

George Carlin: Get Out Of My Head!!!

This voice haunts me in my sleep.  If you have a son, you will know exactly where it comes from.  If you have a daughter, I'm sorry for all of the Princess stuff you have to go through but it doesn't come close to the level of annoying this voice, and by association this show, has brought to my life.  I am of course talking about that cheeky little blue tank engine with the big yellow number one, Thomas and the voice that brings him to life, George Carlin.

I would love for the world to think that I'm hip, edgy and cool and have legendary comedic routines stuck in my head by Mr. Carlin.  But alas, I am no longer these things.  My toddler is obsessed with this blue train and his 500 or so friends.  Most days, the first thing he wants to see is Thomas and unfortunately the last thing of the day is typically an episode of Thomas as well.  And wedged in between is generally hours of play involving all things railroad.  As a by product of this obsession, I hear George's voice in my head almost all day long and unfortunately he also joins me in my dreams.

If you asked me when I was in my twenties (back when I was single and in the middle of running off on my world travels in Copenhagen, Barbados, Zurich, Cancun, Munich and Amsterdam) if I would be able to point Rusty, James, Edward, Kevin, Murdoch, Percy or Billy out of a line-up.  I would have probably turned to you and asked 'are those members of an up and coming British rock band?'  But now as a mom, I can point out the differences between Percy and Duck.  I can tell you that James has the number 5 on him.  And I know that Sir Handle was originally named Falcon.  Can I tell you today where Succinate fits into the Krebs Cycle?  Or who is the lead singer in Muse? The answer to both of those questions would be a resounding 'no!!"

While I'm on this Thomas vent, let's take a minute to talk about Sir Topham Hatt.  How has this man not been arrested or sued for every penny he owns in at least one episode?  Never in my life have I seen one railway with an accident rate as bad as his.  Has Sodor no department of transportation that regulates safety?  Nearly every episode of Thomas has at least one reportable accident that should have OSHA beating down his door and fining the top hat off this guy.  What message are we sending our children?  'Go ahead and enter the workforce and damage your employer's property and while you are at it feel free to endanger the public.  And when all is said and done, no one will care."  Seriously?!?!?

Could things be worse?  I guess my son could be obsessed with Barney.  Thankfully he is not.  And I'll take Thomas over Calliou any day of the week. 

Weesh.  Weesh.

[Caffeine consumed during the making of this blog:  One ice cold Coke Zero]