Kettle Corn Damnit

So I have this adorable Husband who really likes to have everything “buttoned up.”  He’s for better and sometimes worse a details man.  He often eschews an article of clothing because of too many loose strings.  He notices every missed hair when I give him a hair cut.  He also notices every time I put on mascara, paint my toenails a different color, or move something in the house.

So when we decided I would stop working when Mac arrived, someone had to get practical about our budget.  Let’s face it, it wasn’t going to be the one of us that hadn’t balanced her checkbook since her Sophomore year at college.

Poor Husband drew the short straw.

So now, on top of bringing home all the bacon, he also has the unappetizing task of dissecting it into these categories we established:  gifts, entertainment, car, mortgage, booze. . .

Certainly for him, it’s most miserable when I bring home a receipt from a place like Target or Walmart.  That receipt is a land mine of “food,” “gift,” “entertainment,” “pets.”  Not to mention it’s often difficult to know what the receipt is actually saying in its small inky retail code.

Sometimes, if it’s a sizeable haul, I will actually highlight each item and offer a color-coded legend to help him decipher it all.  If I purchase shit I don’t want him to see cigarettes, gifts for him, I often tell him I was stupid and shredded the receipt before we could categorize it.

I ran all my errands yesterday muffler and nay-sayer neighbor be damned and left the receipts for Chris on his desk.  Tonight, while I was cooking dinner, he sat at the table evaluating this month’s budget.

He was hunched over the computer – his eyes all squinty.  I held my breath hoping I had managed the food and drink budget responsibly.  He’s doing a nearly forensic fucking accounting of my previous day’s Walmart receipt.

“Kettle Corn!” he exclaims.  “I didn’t see any kettle corn.”

I have my back towards him fiddling around with some dishes.  I freeze.  “Kettle corn?”  I nervously laugh barely able to find my breath.

“Yes, kettle corn”, he says “I didn’t see any kettle corn in the house.”

So busted.

“Well, if you MUST know, the kettle corn is sitting in the living room in that gift bag for your Valentine’s Day gift!” I blurt out in frustration.  “I guess if you are that interested, it must be a good gift, huh?”

He laughs somewhat sheepishly.

Later while we are having dinner:

Me:  “You thought I ate that kettle corn in the car didn’t you?”

Chris:  “I thought maybe there was a half-eaten bag getting stale there.”

And this is exactly why I need a slush fund, and to stop being such a notorious fucking in-car eating hog.