The Puzzling Curry Caper

The day before yesterday my husband, Alan, made Curry for dinner. Hot, golden curry from a box whose contents resembled a fragrant, exotic bouillon. When I am working on a given night, I typically eat a small amount for dinner and then have more later on. So, he served himself a large amount, gave me some, and then proceeded to give himself some more. I became a bit angry because I wanted to be able to have the rest of my portion, just not at that moment. I went to take a nap before work, and while I slept, he put the leftovers away...

Later, when I woke up, I nursed my son, Sam. I asked Alan to heat up the curry so I could eat it before work. He could not find it in the fridge; I figured it was just because he was tired. I decided to skip eating.

Which brings us to today; I cleaned the fridge out and there was NO sign of the curry at all. Among the treasures I discovered were rice, some extra food we made for Sam, and remnants of some bacon mess that, while not completely edible, I managed to survive eating when he originally concocted it. I called Alan at work to ask him about it again but he swore he put the curry away. He wished that he could say that he ate it, but he didn't so he couldn't. I looked everywhere- in the cupboards, in the sink. I checked in the freezer and the oven too. I opened the microwave and peeked in the trash. I even had a staring contest with my avocado tree sprout, daring it to tell the full tale from that fateful evening. The mystical, hot golden curry was nowhere to be found.

The facts: I did not eat the curry. Sam did not eat the curry. The cats did not eat the curry. Alan said he did not eat the curry. I want to believe my husband, I really do, but the curry was not in the fridge long enough to grow fuzzy legs and slink away. I can't imagine that some furtive soul skulked into my house to pilfer the remains of my supper, but leave my sweet potato smeared laptop unscathed. I suppose Aliens could have beamed my leftover curry into the heavens, but there are two reasons why I doubt this: one, there are much better currymakers out there, and two, there was no way they could anal probe curry made from cut-up grilled chicken breast.

I am at a loss; I know it's unimportant in the grand scheme of things, but it irks me that it has disappeared without a trace. I live in Maine, not Bermuda, after all!

My son, the Artist

My son has recently become an artist in his own right. He specializes in found/installation art, sculptural painting with temporary organic substances, and the occasional performance piece.

Translation: he makes a mess of our living room, smears his baby food all over our stuff, and tries to eat stuff he shouldn't.

My fingers remain crossed that he will never decide to experiment with the style of Piero Manzoni, although from what I understand, he may decide to combine Manzoni's material choice with Jackson Pollock's painting style. I duly assured my husband that if that fateful day should ever come to pass, HE will be cleaning it. This is non-negotiable. As a child, I drove my mother crazy with the stunts I pulled, but painting with my poop was never one of them. It doesn't help that my In-laws are waiting with bated breath for this particular masterpiece; I just hope he decides to install it in their house.

I don't suppose it's too much to ask that he be interested in digital photography instead?

Origins: Six Arms Short

Welcome to my blog, Six Arms Short!

I am many things: I am a Wife to a wonderful if somewhat nerdy husband who has a penchant for videogames, Invader Zim and B rated Zombie movies. I am a daytime Stay at Home Mom to a 10 month old boy who, since becoming mobile, has become my personal trainer. I am a CNA who works the night shift at a local nursing home specializing in the care of the Elderly afflicted with Alzheimer's; and if that wasn't enough, I am an entrepreneur for a hopefully soon-to-be burgeoning portrait photography business www.GossamerMemories.com and an Etsy shop GossamerScapes.Etsy.com specializing in Fine Art Photography from Maine.

Too often I feel like an Octopus although I have only two arms, and so the name "Six Arms Short" was born. Here I shall document my trials, discoveries, and rough gems of wisdom-or foolishness as the case may be- read at your own risk. My writing has not, as of yet, been discovered to cause cancer in the state of California; I attribute that more to the fact that I do not often write publicly rather than the result of rigorous scientific testing. If you happen to suffer a subcranial hemorrhage after reading one of my posts, please do not send me the bill. I have plenty of my own, thank you.

In short, I've never been busier in my life, but I've also never felt so fulfilled.