Master Baster

My husband is a complete and total master baster. He's pretty much master basted every night this week. One of the nights he actually was master basting and then realized his meat wasn't done, so he went to master baste it some more.

It's kind of driven a wedge between us. He's spending too much of his free time master basting, talking about master basting, learning how to be a better master baster. I'm just not sure what to do.

Get this, though. He's been doing all this master basting in our backyard. The nerve. He spends all of his time with Barbie. Barbie Q. She's all shiny and perty and she's hot. REALLY hot. He even bought extra long tongs to handle his meat when he's with her. I just don't know what to do.

Seriously now...

The construction of our yard is, GASP, done. I still expect someone to always be outside my window. Even when I'm showering. They were there for more than six months. You get used to it. Sorta. It's like living in a fish bowl. I'm doing that fish face lip pucker thing right now. Swear.

Here are some pics of the whole progression. I sort of slacked in the end, but you get the picture. I have more to add but I'll have to do it later. It's almost dinner time and my husband needs help tossing the salad.