Nailed Down

The American journalist Frank Reynolds once said, “Let’s nail it down, let’s get it right.”  My Daddy was just about the best at everything … but he was a horrible grocery shopper.  If Mama asked him for bread, he’d come home with milk.  God bless him, he just almost never got it right.  My husband, on the other hand, is an excellent grocery shopper.  He is incredibly specific and will call if he cannot find exactly what I have asked for.  However, on this fateful occasion, I asked him to please pick up some nails when he went to the store.  “Sure thing,” he said as he made his way to his favorite destination (the grocery) to eat unchecked.  He knows if I go I police the amount of sweets he consumes before he even checks out.  I cannot tell you how many times I have seen him hand over crumpled up wrappers for the cashiers to scan.  He gets home and says, “Your nails are on the bar.”  “Where?” I ask.  “On the kitchen bar” he replies.  All I can see is a box of French tip press ons and I yelled back upstairs, “The nails aren’t here!”  A few minutes later he comes trudging down the stairs.  Handing me the box of fake fingernails he says, as if I am simple, “Here you go.”  I felt my eyes widen in disbelief.  “I ASKED YOU TO GET NAILS SO I CAN HANG SOME PICTURES ON THE WALL!” I found myself shrieking as I shook my late father’s hammer at him.  “Oh,” he relied.  “And when have you ever known me to use press on nails?!” I exclaimed as he stood there looking genuinely perplexed.  I do in fact get a French manicure so I guess he must have paid attention to SOMEthing.  We both stood there looking at this box of nails and then started laughing.  This time Burk didn’t quite get it nailed down.

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