Did you know you have to teach people how to treat you? I was under the juvenile assumption that people should know how to treat each other. In the "good old days" basic courtesy was a given. Not as universal now. But really, beyond impeccable manners, and there is a beyond, a lot of educating needs to take place. And I can understand that because we are all different and have assorted needs and expectations that even the people closest to us are not going to automatically comprehendo (always loving to show off my Spanish). And I would be the first to admit that I am not always aware of other people's feelings either.

So, I am the world's worst communicator about this kind of stuff. By the by, I really had something far more interesting to blog about tonight, like how whenever I drop a pencil it rolls under the upright piano . . . just out of reach of my long fingers. Oh yes, every time. I have the droppsies all the time. Happened tonight. OOOOORRRR, how the minute you clean your kitchen grout, remember that?, I cleaned 1/3 of my kitchen grout last week?, then the next day you make chicken tetrazzini and the buttery cracker crumbs jump right off your spoon and make a basket . . . meaning they land squarely in your clean grout line. How is this? Those crumbs know full well they have any number of 13 inch square ceramic tiles to crash on. They can even tease and fall on the edge of the tile, merely flirting with the grout. So, why is it that they, without fail, hit the sliver of grout? Sassy. You just look and go, Is this some kind of a joke? And the corners of my mouth droop.

It never pays to only partially clean a floor or half the kitchen cupboards. You wanna know why? Like you don't know why. Because you never get around to finishing. Or when you do, the clean part is all messed up again and you have to do it all over. Well, when I get back to the grout I will have to go reclean the greasy buttery crumb spots. This is the price we pay for good cookin'!

Speaking of which, Mike was in serious trouble the other day. When he said he would eat Pioneer Woman's pancakes if I made bacon, too, I made bacon. But before I made bacon he had opened up the piano to plunk out some music he was practicing. That ended abruptly when I got down to EGGS in the pancake recipe. I had just emergency hard boiled all my eggs because they were fixing to expire. So he went to the store for me. Meanwhile, I close up the piano and start frying the bacon. See, we have this modern good-for-nothing open floor plan and the piano is about four feet from the kitchen. I'm telling you, it's right there, wide open spaces. And it's right there because there is nowhere else to put it, just this little odd nook that calls, Piano, come thither. Now, I've read Don Aslett and all the other friendly housecleaning authorities and they say, Kitchen grease floats in the air (instead of going up the exhaust vent), then it expertly lands on your furniture, and if you don't clean up after it regularly then you have a dull greasy smeary sticky film covering every square inch of your house, upholstery and everything. Cheery thought.

Then Mike comes home, he done good with the eggs, and I'm sitting at the computer burning the bacon. He sits down to practice the piano again, but I'm too engrossed in reading The Ways of Her Household, or something, to register this. In a couple of minutes I get up to tend to the bacon and then it hits me, Mike has opened up the piano and all the microscopic floating bacon grease bubbles are taking direct aim for the spaces in-between the piano keys. And you know they don't miss, even though the cracks are slim. Very slim. And no match for floating grease bubbles.

This is a cardinal rule in the house, IF YOU ARE COOKING, CLOSE THE PIANO (meaning, close the cover over the keys and push in the music rack). Since I am the only one who cooks, I guess I am the only one who follows this rule. I'll tell you, I pitched a little hissy fit, but the migraine was coming on, so everything seemed exaggerated (still have the migraine, three fun days later). Mike says, Your piano is fine (invalidating my true feelings). I said, Didn't you see that I had closed up the piano while you were running for eggs?? He said, Yes, but I wanted to see if you would notice. WELL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOTTTTTTT FUUUUUUNNNNY!!! He kept arguing that no damage was done (just admit you're wrong). I said, I taught piano for 7 years to pay for this thing and I don't need its insides coated with bacon grease!!! He said, Not really, I paid for it (now we are crossing a line of no return).

He said he was sorry, but I knew he didn't mean it. I said, Your ignoring me on something that means so much to me would be like my throwing out your STEELER Terrible Towel or maybe I'd just throw out your whole box of Steeler stuff!!! WELL! That, my friends, got his attention. Then he really was sorry, maybe more out of genuine fear than genuine sorrow he was so naughty.

Now, this story is getting long. But remember a few weeks ago when I said it looked haunted under my stove, when I took the bottom drawer out to look for a pencil or something (no, the pencil would be under the piano, but it was something)? Well, it's still haunted. The drawer is in place, but all the cookie sheets and junk that belong in the drawer have been vacationing on the counter for, lo, these many weeks. This is because I was going to pull out the stove and wash back there and vanquish the cobwebs . . . right away. Hardee, ha, ha. Well, after frying the bacon, I noticed that the silvery cookie sheets looked really strange, like the dishwasher had failed. There were spots all over, kinda like what rain looks like. I touched it. It smeared. Hmmm. I really thought at first it was the dishwasher. But then I noticed the other things were greasy, too. SOOOO, vindication! It was all floating bacon grease bubbles that had parachuted down. And you know what, I only noticed because these cookie sheets are shiny stainless steel and showcase grease rained down real good (okay, really well). What about all my piano music piled (stacked would falsely give the illusion of orderliness) on the counter, also? What about every square inch in the house? There's my light beige sofa, over there a few more feet, soaking up the grease. What about in-between my piano keys? And sometimes when I mop the floor in the living room I'm thinking, It can't POSSIBLY be this dirty. But, oh yes, it can be and is. And it's all bacon grease, because you know how I love my Sunday bacon. Exept this all happened on Saturday.

So I had to show Mike the proof of what I was saying to him. And he had to agree. Now, the funny part of this is that I was so pooped tonight I just didn't know what to blog about, so I threw that out about teaching people how to treat you, because that's what first floated out of my brain. Sometimes I think bacon grease floats out of my brain. And this is how it happens, I just started in about wanting to blog about greasy things, just to take up space, and I really did want to, just not tonight. BUT, it all fit together because it turns out that I communicated with Mike and taught him how he had not better mess with my piano and how he better show respect for my feelings on the subject of grease. And truly, I didn't design it like this, that my grease story would support my theory of education in personal relationships. Things like that just have a way of working out, like buttery cracker crumbs smacking the grout.

Life SO all comes out in the wash. Mike is going to have to start his own blog to rebut my stories. But it won't do any good, because I am telling it like it is. And, just so you know, except for this incident, he is a very satisfactory husband. And, just so you know, he thinks I'm a loon.

I do have more stories on grease, but I better go lay down my achy little head on the pillow. Because tomorrow night I am going to see Little House on the Prairie, The Musical. Is that a hoot, or what? Someone invited me. And Melissa Gilbert, who of course played Laura on the TV show, is starring as Ma. For some reason, this is striking me as hysterical. I simply can't imagine, a musical for Little House on the Prairie.

Thank you for listening to my grease stories. It felt good to get that off my chest.

Murphy's Law, truer than taxes,
KEM