Tuesday, September 25, 2012

Secret Secrets, Confessed Confessions

Morning Readers,

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."

"Not that."

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?"

"Forever."

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!





37 comments:

  1. You need to send your husband to Naive Hubby Bootcamp (NHB for short) where he can learn to shut up and put up (with it). Although I think they also teach honesty there, which your hubby seems to already have his phd in.

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    1. To his credit, I happen to make pizza a lot, and he doesn't complain about that. The poor guy just doesn't understand that cheese should be melty, not caramelized. And the debate rages on...;)

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  2. I hate when all of sudden the get OPINIONS. And they want to share those OPINIONS with you. No! Do not share your newly acquired OPINIONS, thankyouverymuch!

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    1. Ha! "OPINIONS" ...I like that. Yes, those opinions seem to crop up at the oddest times.

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  3. I had to pull this one on my husband a while ago about his rice being underdone...maybe I should make him feel better with a good milkshake ;)

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    1. I hear milkshakes can be substituted for undercooked rice, so I think you should go for it... again, though, I can't cook.

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  4. Oh dear, oh no. This is the point when I tell my husband I don't care for the way he pushes our babies out of his uterus without medication. That usually shuts him up.

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    1. I didn't think to play the old "I just had major surgery to remove our child" card. Where were you to run interference, Robyn?

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  5. If it's undercooked, just send it back! Oops, you're not at a restaurant, are you? Never mind.

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    1. He's tried to send it back, and that's where we get in trouble. "Golden brown"? Try... "Totally Charcoaled".

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  6. It's obvious that your husband should take over the cooking. Problem solved!

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    1. I think he's gunning for Head Pizza Cooker...and right in front of me. The nerve...

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  7. I don't want to brag but I'm pretty good with a microwave. And if there's heating directions on the packaging, I typically knock it out of the park.

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    1. I'll be the first to say he's a master with the microwave. It's a source of awe and respect on my part. I usually explode things unintentionally.

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  8. Oh my gosh, you are so, so funny. Your milkshake brings me back here over and over again.

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    1. Yes! The milkshake strikes again..LOL Thanks, Jessica!

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  9. Classic! Any comment about my cooking brings out his inability to load the TP roll, hang up wet towels and not throw them to mildew the rest of the laundry, put dishes into the dishwasher instead of just the sink, etc for hours.

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    1. My retorts have taken a hit with this post-pregnancy brain I've been left with. I'm sure there's something about something I could've thrown out, but staring and blowing things out of proportion seemed likethe best option.

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  10. I confess I have under cooked and overcooked noodles this week on separate days.

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    1. I can't ever seem to find a happy medium when it comes to cooking noodles for both of us. I cook them how I like them, but he seems to think they need to not stick to his teeth, and I think they should have a better consistency than mush.

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  11. This falls under the "If you don't like it, do it yourself.....asshole" category.

    On a side note, did she buy the 7 bathroom house???

    Teri
    Snarkfest

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    1. They always go for the seven bedroom house, ya know, with the millions they all seem to have...lol. I love him, but the pizza debate may go on for many many many years.

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  12. Husbands are famous for being underwhelmed with dinner while being equally unmotivated to make it. A very serious illness called, Beggars CAN be choosers! Side effects are varied, but, typically include sleeping on the couch, hunger and crying spouses.

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    1. Yes, yes...I believe a study needs to be done and research compiled on the subject. Perhaps then husbands and wives can eat pizza in peace.

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  13. The best line: "Do you not see my heaving bosom and taxed expression?" You're a great writer! Too funny...

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    1. I don't get to use the word "taxed" very often, so this post makes me happy. Thanks, Katy!

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  14. I don't cook for my husband.
    Put THAT in your oven and undercook it.
    IT IS DELICIOUS.

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    1. "Put THAT in your oven and undercook it."

      Yep, that's now been added to my handy list of comebacks. Thanks, Kim!

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  15. My husband was extremely chagrined to discover that I am not Martha Stewart. In fact, he is very underwhelmed when I make a delicious recipe with quinoa because (in his words) he does not eat "whale sperm." So, he has learned that if he does not want what I toss together for dinner - he can either cook or starve.
    Tracy @ Momaical

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    1. Ha! We don't cook much with quinoa...or ever...just because I have no idea what to do with it. Husband's pretty great with, at least, eating everything I make, once. If I ever make anything with quinoa, I'm reporting back on the results. Thanks so much for stopping by, Tracy!

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  16. Mine is a much better cook than me, probably because he cares and I don't. The problem being that he never gets home from work until 8pm and that's too damn late to be starting to cook. So I have to endure doing something I hate, then listening to the sighs and high-pitched liar voice when he says, "It's pretty good. It's okay."
    I need to put more effort into this by calling up and ordering food from a restaurant every night. At least then, he could complain about how someone else's cooking just isn't up to snuff.

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