Most people aren't fully prepared for the turning points in their marriage. The times when they discover one-sixteenth of their relationship is a complete lie. Sure, that leaves fifteen sixteenths, but that also leaves a constant conversion to fractions, and how can romance bloom if two people are constantly worried about where to move the decimal point?
It can't. Because math kills... and is also responsible for extremely low test scores for individuals just looking to get their English degree and not find out how long it'll take for Ted to swim eight pounds of coconuts across the Ganges, if he leaves Chatanooga on Christmas. Damn it, Ted. Did you even check to see if anyone needed that much coconut?
...but, I digress.
My rude awakening came on Saturday night, after I'd popped a frozen pizza in the oven and sat back down on the couch.
"How long did you set the timer for?"
I looked over and found Husband staring at me. "Umm... twelve minutes. Now, hush. I've gotta see if this lady on House Hunters decides a seven bathroom house is good enough for her to take one poop in."
He sighed. "It's not enough."
"No one needs more than seven bathrooms."
We sat in the glow of the broken floor lamp and took in the smells of past dinners burning before I answered. "Listen, I always set it for twelve minutes. I make pizza six out of seven days of the week. I think I'd know."
"And it's always wrong." His voice wavered and then found its footing somewhere in a land of conviction and toasted cheese. "You always under cook it."
I shrugged. "Sorry I don't like it burned like you do."
"It's done. Not burned." He lowered his gaze and found another topic on the wood laminate. And, when his eyes again met mine, a slow fire had begun to burn there. A fire of conviction. A fire that had something to say. A fire that wasn't meant for making s'mores or use in Civil War reenactments. "And while we're on the subject... your noodles."
"My what? Crap, is that like my milkshake? Because the amount of boys that's still bringing to the yard is ridiculous, and I'm constantly having to yell at them to get off the lawn before you get home. So annoying, because it's not like I have time to do that and feed the children."
He looked away. "You can't cook noodles."
I gasped. "What are you trying to say?"
"That you can't cook noodles."
"Oh. That's what I thought you meant when you got all serious and said, "You can't cook noodles." How long have you felt this way?"
It was all too much. I tore at my hair and slammed my forehead into the coffee table. "I'm sorry you hate my cooking."
"I didn't say that."
"You might as well have. Do you not see my heaving bosom and taxed expression?"
"I'm not falling into that trap. That's not what I said."
It was time to wrap it up for the win. "Look, Honeycakes. You just said you don't like my frozen pizza or my noodles. Guess what, buddy? That's my whole arsenal. All I've got. You just insulted every recipe in my cookbook. Every last thing I came into this marriage with. So, yeah. You hate my cooking. So, unless you want a milkshake, which is highly inappropriate in one context and way too much work in another, I suggest we drop it."
The good news is we got over it, and tonight is Tuesday night...pizza night.
Until Next Time, Readers!