I probably should have clued in this morning when I saw Kenny wearing his favorite, lucky fishing t-shirt with “Heeeere, fishy, fishy, fishy” emblazoned across the chest (20 years old, tattered to within an inch of its life, but the one time I tried to throw it out, he screamed like a girl and frantically upended our garbage can until he found it…coffee grounds be damned…), but it didn’t register in my pre-coffee morning state. He shouted out a cheery “See you later!” on his way out the door to work, but when I came down the hall, I noticed he’d forgotten his lunch. Feeling all June Cleaver-ish, and seeing his truck still in the driveway, I ran out to hand him his lunch bag. Just as my feet hit the porch and I was calling out, “Yoo hoo, sweetie! You forgot your…”, I saw him pulling out of the driveway on his Harley with a fishing pole, tackle vest, and large beer cooler strapped to the sissy bar. Am I the only one who thinks he’s not going painting??