By Patti Parish-Kaminski, Publisher
Showering with a spider? Country living is hard, really hard.
Real life text between Mr. Kaminski and I Tuesday night.
Him: “On my way home. Do you need anything?”
This type of inquiry is critically important these days with our relocation to what Mr. Kaminski lovingly refers to as “Green Acres.” The closest grocery store is 10 miles away, and I’ve already bought all the good wine at the convenience store that’s only four miles away. Restocking is slow out in the boondocks.
Me: “We’re good! Taking a shower. I can explain everything.”
And yes, he still came home. Honestly, after 31 years, I remain shocked that he still walks through the door at night. I’m not for the weak. Life with moi can be – let’s go with keenly interesting – kinda like an E ticket ride at Disney.
On this particular Tuesday, Mr. Kaminski came home to a smoke-filled house, a charred dinner and me screaming in the shower.
“It’s okay, it’s all okay,” I stated when we met up in the kitchen, me dripping, him shaking his head.
“Listen, this country living is hard, really hard,” I explained. “You know that thing above the stove that sucks up all the smoke from the oven?”
“The exhaust fan?” he queried.
“Yea, that thing. Well, we don’t have one here, and to top it off, this is a gas stove. I am literally cooking over an open flame. I am not a pioneer. This is not okay.”
He just shook his head. I’ve always had electric ovens and stoves. It’s just safer that way for all involved. Not that I’m Martha Stewart to begin with. I’ve always been culinarily challenged. I’m not mad at it. I have other spiritual gifts.
“The flame just jumps out at you,” I further explained. “I don’t like it. It hurts my feelings. And it’s fast, really fast. Before you know it, there’s smoke everywhere and no fan thingy. And the kitchen window won’t open! It’s painted shut!”
“How did you get rid of the smoke?” he asked, coughing, sputtering and fanning.
“Well, I opened all the doors, and it’s a hundred and hell outside, so then I had to crank the AC down super low and turn on all the ceiling fans. The smoke got in my hair too, hence the emergency shower. Are you ready for dinner?”
Mr. Kaminski quietly made a plate without commentary. I’m not certain if I rendered him speechless or if it was inhaling the remanent smoke.
“It’s okay,” I assured him with a big smile. “I cut most of the burnt edges off for you.”
After dinner, he finally got the nerve to ask me about the screaming. “Why were you screaming in the shower?” he gingerly inquired.
“Well, you know those really big striped spiders we have out here? The ones I quizzed the exterminator about? Well, the exterminator assured me they do not attack without being provoked, but there was one living at the top of the shower, so I scalded him with hot water until he curled up and died. You know I suffer from arachnophobia. I am not taking a shower with a spider. That is not okay. And I kind of burned myself a little during the attack. I’m telling you. This country living is hard, really hard. I’m not good at it.”
He never said a word the rest of the night. We’ll see if he comes home tonight. I’ve already informed him I’m not cooking so there’s an incentive. I can’t go through a fiery frenzy and a spider showdown two nights in a row. See y’all next week – on the porch!
Patti Parish-Kaminski
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