Yesterday there was a unanimous vote that I make my world famous deviled chicken for supper. John had finally come staggering in the door after a harry carry day at the store. His attitude is “I will do anything to be able to leave and I DO NOT WANT TO SHOP FOR ANY LAST MINUTE ITEMS OR I WILL NEVER GET OUT.” So he came home and he went in to change clothes out of his suit pants, dress shirt and tie while I got H squared away and told the teenager that we were going to be back in a min to listen for Mimi’s bell. He met up with me somewhere in the house and we finally escaped and drove the 1/2 mile to Target to pick up chicken breasts and a few other necessities. He parked and we got out of the car. I glanced over at him, obviously for the first time since he changed clothes, and noticed that he was sporting a navy blue shirt with some oil stain spots on the front, black mesh track pants and brown suede slip on shoes. I stopped dead in my tracks in the parking lot and said, “Honey? You look like shit.” To which he looked innocent and bewildered. Looking down, “What…?” I listed his offenses and he just looked incredulous and said, “Oh. You really think I care. I don’t.” And he then turned and walked into Target with me trailing about 10 feet behind. And planning on staying there.