Nov 7, 2013 - By Clair McFarlandIn my late-pregnancy days, it's not hard to get me worried
The other day I was cooking up some lasagna, fantasizing about a pair of boots my feet would never survive, and shuffling around on my iPod when The Husband decided to enlighten me on the contents of a doomsday article he'd read.
To him, the anonymous online bloggers who pop out articles about how the United States is headed for financial collapse of Book of Eli proportions are just providing fodder for the forgettable conversations that keep him and me talking over the sound of little feet. He dispenses the opinions of the author, has a little chuckle, then goes in search of something upon which to put Dijon mustard.
To me, such idle comments seem about as subtle as a wolf in the kitchen.
Sometimes I entertain dramatic moods over things beyond my control. I'd like to blame the fact that I'm the current capital of the hormonal state --in these late, pregnant days --but I cannot, because serious elements of the news have evoked from me the talk of an old grump since I was 11.
There are people in this world who do not care about the actions of government, society or Miley Cyrus. They can slough off the latest disasters; they don't feel a genuine need to stalk Miley, quarantine her, and give her some warm clothes and gentle guidance. How I envy these people.
Were The Husband married to someone who keeps her head over the stewing tomato sauce and out of current events, he could mention a speculative article about financial collapse without his wife spending the afternoon reading "The Illustrated Guide to Gardening" to mere toddlers and making plans to knit winter clothing once the big-box store gets ransacked by all-American zombies.
Because he's married to me, any doomsday conversation is bound to evoke real changes from me. Perhaps that's his silent agenda after all, and he's conspiring with the news providers around me to get them to print and record reports that will keep that $60 pair of boots on the store shelf and out of my closet.
Job well done, I'd say. Not only am I not making any frivolous moves, I'm stocking up on potatoes and working on my sewing.
The dear lady who taught me to sew once said that there never was a woman with a sewing machine who didn't know a string of profanities. This is true, but entertaining in my case because I curse like Thomas the Tank Engine. Every time I prick my finger or sew something inside out, loved ones get to hear "Well, bust my buffers! Cinders and ashes!"
I suppose it's OK to be infantile with your monologue when you're trying to be grown up with your responsibilities. That's yet another thing I'd like to share with Miley, if she wouldn't laugh at me for my sudden conversion to old-style prairie wifehood.
All of this has served to let me know just how behind I am in terms of basic survival skills. If a doomsday scenario like this occurred, I'd be the girl reading "The Hunger Games" for hunting tips while boiling a $60 pair of boots for dinner.
Clearly I'm under-equipped for the supposed consequences of that article without origin.
Fortunately for me, The Husband has a knack for hunting small game --and for repeating articles that inspire me to be resourceful, frugal, and significantly older and grumpier than Miley Cyrus.
In terms of survival --basic or not --this is a good thing.
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