Burn, Baby, Burn

There are apparently things that push Sam's buttons. He's such an easy-going man, just like my dad. It takes a lot to rile him and he puts up with me and all my buttons regularly. He deserves a medal for that. So what do I do? Find his buttons and push them.

It started innocently enough with a trip to visit his brother in Florida. We had 2 kids at the time and got the brilliant idea to buy an inverter so that they could watch TV on the drive there. It was a spendy little investment but well worth it's own weight in gold. We mail ordered it, the box came, we opened it, and declared it was good.

Fast forward a week or so. I was conducting one of those experiments where I wonder how long something will lay in one spot before it's picked up. That box the inverter came in obviously wasn't going to be picked up by anyone but myself, so I did. I had a lot of other large boxes and burnables, so I started a fire and tossed them in. There, no extra bags in the trash this week.

But then we couldn't find the inverter. We looked high and low. And because you're astute readers you all know exactly where it was. Oh yes. I burned the inverter in it's own box. Brand new, never used. And it was not a good day in our house.

It would take a lot to eclipse this memory in my husband's mind. And for good reason. But I was 8 months pregnant at the time and still claim I wasn't responsible for my actions. Sadly, I found a way to make this memory dim in comparison. I'm brilliant like that.

After we finished building the house I was cleaning up around the place. If you've ever been to a worksite you know that the chaos and mess are of immense proportions. I had permission from Sam to burn anything that I wanted, within reason. (Don't you love disclaimers like that?) But I was to do it while he was at work so that his pack-ratty ways wouldn't interfere with my obvious desire to see things go up in flames.

I made the largest fire known to mankind. In went the rolls of snow fence that were slowly rotting in the woods. In went the odds and ends of lumber leftover from building. In went trash collected from the yard and construction site. In went boxes and packing things. And in my desire to clean the place up, in went the 5 gallon buckets the drywall plaster came in.

Sam called as I was watching things slowly burn to nothing. He asked if I'd cleaned yet. He asked what went in the fire. I reminded him that he wasn't to ask, for his own sake. But he pushed. And I stupidly told him.

He was on his way to the doctor when he called. He was slightly detained as they needed to retake his blood pressure a few times. They were concerned at it's high level.

I burned his buckets. And I'm still alive to tell about it.

But you have to know the rest of the story. I know the full value of these little gems. I know that we use them to water the horses with, to grow tomatoes in, to carry and store things in. I also know that he has probably 100 or so (no exaggeration) in his dad's garage. I know he needs another several dozen like I need a hole in my pretty little head.

But, I burned his buckets.

This has been a few years ago now. I still cannot bring this up without his nose flaring, his eyes glaring and steam coming out his ears. He will probably never find this amusing.

Don't ever come between a man and his buckets.