Screw the house - SAVE THE CHICKEN!!!!

Maybe I'm a little bit naive. I've always been a "what you see, is what you get" kinda girl.
I am what I am; I make no excuses for my behavior.
I don't portray myself as a hyper-romanticized, souped up version of Jane.
I am always myself.
I figure it's all going to come out in the wash eventually anyway, so why delay the inevitable.

When I was dating my husband, I had no idea that the uber-polished, Ralph Lauren-wearing, confident, somewhat-slick, guy I'd come to know was really Clark Griswold in a tidy little package.
My first clue came the first year we were married. Christmas time. Christmas lights. I spent the better part of the day at the bottom of the extension ladder, playing happy little elf, feeding the strings of lights up to "Clark". At the end of the day, proud of his work, Clark was ready for The Lighting Ceremony. He piped in some ultra-hip Christmas music from an open window. He opened a bottle of his favorite wine, and ushered me out to the front lawn to the pre-scoped "perfect viewing zone" to watch The Lighting Ceremony.
Then, with great fanfare, standing beside the house with an orange extension cord in one hand, the green xmas light plug dangling down from the gutter, and an enormous shit-eating grin on his face, Clark began counting down from ten.
"10...9...8...7...6...5...4...3...2...1..."
Nothing.
"Maybe you've forgotten to plug in the extension cord," I helpfully suggest.
Yes. Yes, that must be it. He checks the connection on the extension cord and tries again.
Nothing.
The shit-eating grin begins to falter.
"You did test the lights, didn't you?" I ask.
The puzzled look on his face tells me that he clearly did not test the lights.
Happy "perfect Christmas moment" Clark has morphed. He becomes "ranting temper tantrum" Clark, complete with an impressive array of artfully strung together curse words (including a few that I'm positive were invented on the spot at that very moment).
3 hours later after testing every individual light on every strand with no luck, Clark stalks into the house, pours himself a glass of Jim Beam (straight up), looks at me with a slightly insane unbalanced wild eyed stare, and says, "Fuck the Christmas lights."
We did not have Christmas lights that year. Nor any other year since we've been married.

The moment that clenched his National Lampoons status for me, though, came a bit later. I call it "The Great Flaming Chicken Incident".
So we decide to have a few friends over to watch football. My husband (whose real name is Tom) loves Buffalo Wild Wings. He decides that he wants to make his own home made version of Buffalo Wild Wings for our friends - it will be cheaper that way.
Our friends arrive and Tom hauls in his ginormous turkey fryer from the garage.
I say, "You're not planning on doing that in the house, are you?"
Oh yes. He fully intends to fry the wings in the kitchen. I promptly point out the very conspicuous warning label on the side of the fryer which states "Do NOT use indoors. Fire hazard."
"It'll be fine," he tells me.
I'm not convinced, but I move on with my hostess duties - refilling drinks, etc.
A few minutes later, one of our friends looks at me in horror, pointing toward the kitchen, and shrieks, "OH MY GOD!!!"
I look over and Tom is standing frozen in the kitchen, his jaw dropped to the floor in horror, as a giant wall of flames is pouring from the fryer pot, climbing up the kitchen wall and up to the ceiling. The fire alarm begins to wail.
I run to the pantry, where I keep the fire extinguisher that my mother gave me as a housewarming gift (along with a completely stocked medicine cabinet - both of which I thought were incredibly strange at the time) and begin spraying down the flames, starting from the ceiling, and working my way down to the pot.
When I reach the pot and begin hosing down the chicken, Tom (who has been frozen in horror this entire time) finally leaps into action, grabbing my arm to stop me and yelling,"No! Not the chicken! Save the chicken!!"
I look at him incredulously and say, "Screw the chicken, I'm saving the house!"
Once the drama was over, he gives me the stink eye and says, "I can't believe you ruined my chicken!"
Seriously. Our house was on fire and he's worried about the freaking chicken!

One might think that your house being on fire might be the end of "The Great Flaming Chicken Incident", but no. There's more.
After the mess has been cleaned up, Tom decides to try frying the chicken again. In the kitchen. Seriously. After putting my foot down, he reluctantly takes it to the front yard.
By this point, our guests have settled back down and we're watching the game again. It's dark outside and Tom is out jacking with his chicken by flashlight. Suddenly, the night lights up with a flash. We look outside to see an enormous mushroom cloud of flame towering above the 100+ year old trees in our front yard, coming from the god damn turkey fryer. I look outside and Tom is nowhere to be found. I'm freaked. I'm sure he's managed to blow himself to kingdom come.
I send out one of the other husbands to look, I'm not sure that I can handle what I'm going to see. After a few minutes, they come inside laughing - Tom intact, save for his singed off eyebrows. He looks at me completely deadpan and says, "I've decided it's cheaper to order the wings from here on out."

Yes. I married Clark Griswold.

God save the chicken.

<3,
~Jane