There are lots of things a Mormon gal could do to give her very Mormon husband a heart attack.
She could drink a cup of coffee.
She could come home from book club with a Marlboro hanging from her lips and a tattoo on her bicep.
She could decide to supplement the family income by turning tricks down by the auto body/shoe repair shop.
She could sit at home smoking crack and blogging all day.
She could declare that she hates children, wouldn’t be caught dead driving a minivan, and refuses to grow a vegetable garden, all while throwing the canning jars that somebody gave them as a wedding gift at his head.
I have done none of those things. I haven’t even had a cup of coffee (though we shan’t speak of my ever growing consumption of diet Dr. Pepper). But alas, my new town does have (and I am not making this up) an auto body/shoe repair shop. I really want to take a picture of the sign to prove it to you, but there are less than 300 people in this town, and we are the new people, so I’m sure I’d be rather conspicuous standing across Main Street taking a picture of the auto body/shoe repair shop. They would have to know that the only reason anyone would take a picture of such a sign would be to mock it on their blog, right?
Anyway, as I was saying, I have done none of those things.
What I did do, however, was come home from the grocery store (aka mom’s night out) with this:
The disappointment, the disapproval, the utter bewilderment and shock in his eyes! There was no anger, but grave concern for my very soul? I. think. so.
Never mind that it is non-alcoholic (look closely at the photo, folks); never mind that the only reason I bought it was because I’ve had two of these sitting around the house forever and wanted to use them already; never mind that even if I used real beer to make the bread the alcohol would cook out anyway; never mind the fact that he himself actually has two real tattoos, and the only reason I even know O’Doul’s exists is because I dated a guy in college who’s last name is H1nckley (not to be a name dropper or anything) and he drank the stuff. Harumph!
I was so taken aback by McH’s very unexpected reaction (two tattoos people! and one is of an XMan!) that, I kid you not, I left my O’Doul’s hidden in the garage. When I actually made the bread, I surreptitiously brought one bottle, yes ONE bottle, into the house, making sure to conceal it as much as possible behind the box of bread mix as I popped the top and poured it into the bowl.
I am making the second box of bread mix right now, while he is at work.
I don’t know what I’ll do with the other four bottles. Anyone want to “party”?
And George, if you’re out there, Tewt the Newt says hello, and he can walk a straight line with no problems, thankyouverymuch.