How many times do I have to tell you, we do NOT leave our machetes on the kitchen floor!

Tanner got knives.

Four knives, to be exact. Well, two knives, two machetes. They came in the most RIDICULOUSLY long, thin package I have ever seen. It's monster sized.

And...well, frankly, as I watched my dear husband open his knives at my parents' house, I realized that I didn't just marry a country boy. Oh, no. I married a redneck.

I should have realized it when he was watching the videos about the knives from the company he bought them from.

I felt a little wary of Tanner once he'd opened all these knives back at home. If I didn't know that my husband loves me, I'd be afraid of ending up like the Salesman's wife in Rear Window.

Chopped up.

So he was flipping through the knife magazine while in the meantime, the machetes were sitting on the kitchen floor in various states of sheathedness. I was trying to tidy up, so I came up behind him, poked him in the butt with the tip of a sheathed machete, and said, "we do NOT leave our machetes on the kitchen floor."

I thought it was funny. But Tanner had had very little sleep, and it didn't strike him as particularly funny, especially when, a few seconds before, I had been trying to get him to fold a pair of his pants that had been on the floor. Looking at the knife magazine was all he wanted to do at that point.

So I left off trying to be funny and went to bed with the hopes that everyone would wake up the next morning in one piece. And any burglars who want to steal the $2 we have saved up in the piggy bank, watch out. We're armed to the teeth, out here.

& That's elementary.