There, But for the Viewing of a Movie, Go I

I have a confession to make. I recently considered a life of crime.

Actually, it was more like an afternoon of crime. I'm not really one to rock the boat. I'm the one clinging to the sides, screaming at the others, "Stop rocking the freakin' boat already!" I fear consequences more than I enjoy living on the edge.

The whole crime spree thing is Genius's fault. That boy is having a guest spend the night this weekend. A fellow seventeen-year-old boy from a neighboring school district. See. That part is significant. I don't normally encourage sleepovers for my boys. A big part of that comes from being a teacher for their friends. It is weird to have your students in your house.

Genius used to have an annual sleepover with four or five of his closest buddies. When they were younger, The Pony and I would spend the night at Grandma's house while Hick supervised the extra young 'uns. As they grew older, Genius was allowed to have his party in the BARn loft. The kids loved it. They stayed up all night watching movies and playing video games and eating junk food and looking at Hick's posters of bikinied beer models on the wall. Now they are all tied up with sports or girlfriends or jobs, and can't coordinate a weekend for the gathering. Genius has been running around with like-minded nerd friends from nearby schools. Like the one whose dad shot bottles of gasoline for entertainment.

Stay with me. I'll eventually get to the crime spree.

For two weeks, we have been sprucing up our abode in anticipation of the sojourn of The Invited Guest. Genius has worked himself to the bone, cleaning his room, his shower and toilet and sink, plus the basement computer graveyard. We're not quite ready for a layout in Better Homes and Gardens, but The Invited Guest is less likely to be trapped under a stack of hoard and press the rescue squad to call for an intervention. A more thorough effort could not have been made to ready Great Britain for the Queen's Golden Jubilee. Genius has even decided that I should put my new fundraiser crockpot cookbook to use, and make Orange-Glazed Chicken for Saturday supper. Thank goodness I bought a 5-Ingredient Meals cookbook.

So here comes the grand larceny scheme. I told Genius that it would have been cheaper to buy them each a pizza than it was to obtain those five ingredients. Which is actually six, because apparently, the chicken doesn't count. I don't begrudge the growing boys their protein. But those ingredients added $21 to my Walmart tab. Granted, we'll all be enjoying the meal except for The Pony, who is a simple fellow with simple tastes. Genius allowed that he and The Invited Guest could have each had TWO pizzas from Little Caesar's for that amount. Indeed. But instead, they'll have boneless skinless chicken breasts, orange juice, chopped onion, crushed garlic, ground black pepper, and rosemary. Oh, and a side of rice, but that wasn't an ingredient, either. I already have a pepper grinder full of pepper beads or whatever they're called. And I'm making him settle for minced garlic, which I already have instead of fresh. It is the rosemary to which I object.

Have you seen the price of rosemary at the Walmart lately?

A small bottle of crushed rosemary is $4.97...DID YOU HEAR THAT? Four dollars and ninety-seven cents! For something that I'll only use a pinch of. Once. Unless we really like this recipe. I am by no means a gourmet crock pot cook. And I'm pretty sure that if I drove next door and asked to borrow a pinch of rosemary, the door would slam in my face. I'm not sure of the growing season for rosemary, but I'm also pretty sure that it's too late to start a window box garden.

CRIME SPREE ALERT! I told Genius that I felt like opening that bottle of rosemary and shaking some into a small privacy envelope that I had slipped out of a box in the office supply department. Except that there are almost as many cameras in that Walmart as there are in our school building. And somebody might mistake my purloined rosemary for a different herb. Then I would be schmoozing with petty thieves and prostitutes and check-kiters and meth-makers and political candidate solicitor pot-shot-takers in the county lockup. Because The Pony would not think to call home, I would be learning new trades and making new friends until it was time for some sandwiches, and Hick and Genius thought to track me down and bail me out. Have you ever seen Chained Heat?

I paid for the rosemary.