Archive for the ‘For better or worse’ Category

The world would be a better place without garnish. I’ve long believed it, and last night, I got proof…blood-gushing, “Oh my God!” proof.

Last night, we were at my neighbors’ house all of five minutes before we’d have to leave again, all because my husband continues to insist on sprinkling little bits of green leaves of various sorts — last night, basil — on whatever he cooks. He had made three salads – corn, macaroni and cole slaw– for our gathering, all gorgeous on their own, not to mention far more impressive than anything I can create in the kitchen.

“Wait,” he implored me, “They need basil.”

“No they don’t,” I insisted, and then he gave me that look, the one that says, “Why couldn’t I have married someone who shares my love for all things Food Network, instead of someone who shouts at English soccer players who can’t hear her through the TV?” (more…)

I can only assume that the placement of this empty bottle of celery seed (whatever the hell that’s for) by my husband the “cookerman” means that he needs me to purchase some more. It has been sitting atop the shopping list since he used the last of it to cook dinner on Saturday night.

I consider this part of the spousal unspoken language that couples use and perfect over time. As we approach our 19th wedding anniversary, I can safely assume that I am translating this correctly.

When we were first married, however, my translation skills weren’t quite as good. For example, it took me a full year to understand that when he left the newspaper open on the kitchen table, he was not, in fact, trying to alert me to an interesting, pertinent or relevant article. It simply meant that it was time to go to work.

Now, however, I understand that. Also, that medical bills stuffed into his wallet mean that he is going to check them against our insurance company’s Explanation of Benefits and I should therefore not pay them until he does so. And that his running sneakers left for people to trip over them near the door means they are airing out after a long run. (more…)

Thank you, Rachael Ray, for your Messy Guiseppe recipe and your apparent understanding of women like me.

The five most romantic words my husband has ever said to me are: “Get out of my kitchen.” It’s not that I don’t like cooking, really. It’s that I like it less now that he loves it so much.

For the first few years of our marriage, Pete rarely set foot in our kitchen except to pour himself a bowl of cereal or grab some tongs for the grill on our patio. But a few years ago, he took up cooking shortly after he took up marathon-running.  Perhaps he was hungry. I dunno.

Nowadays, he cooks elaborate meals on Sunday afternoons, and he’s even taken on Thanksgiving dinner for nine for the past few years. He brings home kitchen tools that I didn’t think we needed (I thought a mandolin was part of the lute family), and he treats the pans he got for Christmas like other men covet their cars: he cleans and buffs them, and he cringes when I touch them. (more…)

I picked this shot from our night at a fundraiser because we looked hot that day, didn't we?

To My Valentine,

On this day, 19 years since you proposed marriage, I suppose it’s entirely predictable that tonight, I will once again pull the blankets off of you.

I don’t do it on purpose. I simple pull the blankets with me as I turn away from you in my sleep, effectively rolling myself up like a giant, double thick roll of Bounty paper towels. I don’t think about how this leaves you with nothing but a corner of the sheets and, likely, seething anger. I am asleep and way too busy trying to save the universe from invading Goldfish crackers on mo-peds, or whatever the dream of the night is. (more…)

I have, once again, disappointed my husband. This time I didn’t attend a Major League Soccer final in the pouring rain while pregnant, nor did I lose the owner’s manual to my mini-van. (That’s long gone). This time, I used too much gas. And it’s yet another example of how, though we live in the same house and have the same children, my husband and I live different lives. (more…)

He couldn’t just stand by and watch me attempt to kill another washing machine. So, my husband Pete took the sheets and blankets out of my hands and redistributed them in the washer before pouring in the detergent and pushing the start button.

“Happy anniversary,” Pete said and kissed me on the cheek. (more…)

I didn’t have to answer the phone when I saw my husband’s name pop up on the caller ID.

I didn’t have to check the end of the driveway.

I didn’t even have to pop my head into the garage.

I just knew. (more…)