My husband is a sick man. He has a sick sense of humor, and thinks it’s totally cute when I’m fire-spitting mad. Do you know how totally annoying it is when you are mad and the one you are mad at is grinning and smiling and totally absorbing all of your vitriol and nastiness?
I hate sharing food. Hate hate hate it. All day, every day, I share everything I have with my kids. At night, when I sit down with a meal everyone else turns their nose up at, but I have prepared especially for me, the last thing I want is DH begging for a bite.
Thus the stage is set…
Tonight, the kids had leftovers, and DH had an EQ meeting (a committee he is on at church). When he got home, I offered to make him some dinner (he is a holy horror in the kitchen; it’s better if he doesn’t even try), but he said not to worry about it. OK, fine. Eat whatever you want, then. He did. He ate the rest of two pies leftover from Thanksgiving- I know, I told him I would make him something! Again I offered, but he said now he was full of pie. Okie dokey.
So I putter around the fridge, and find some sun-dried tomatoes and some basil and some good cheese, and decide to make me some pasta- I put the noodles on to boil, and start to cut up the fixin’s for my dinner. The kids won’t touch anything green, so this was a treat just for me- and I only boiled enough noodles just for me- I asked him if he wanted any, and he said NO. Some garlic, some olive oil, some parsley, a little sea salt, a sprinkle of sheep’s milk feta- yummmmm!
Like a ghoulish phantom, just as I am pulling my hot, steaming pasta from the water and tossing it with my tomato butter, he appears over my shoulder…
“Mmmmm- that looks good, babe” he sniffs the air.
He leans over one shoulder, “Whatcha got there, babe? A little butter?”
“GO AWAY! I offered to make you something!”
Leaning over the other shoulder now, “That smells great- I just wanna look…”.
Guarding my bowl of pasta with my elbows, I attempt to move the large water buffalo that is my husband, while protecting my tender victuals at the same time. “It’s MINE! You ate pie. Go Away!”
He starts to laugh, now pretending he has a movie camera and is narrating a food show…”This is my girlfriend’s butter snack…”
“Girlfriend?!” I elbow him in the gut “Shut up! Girlfriend… you wish!”
Grabbing my bowl, napkin and fork, I head to the playroom to hide, followed by his laughter. He knows exactly how to totally annoy me and push all my buttons.
Under my breath but loud enough for his ears I grumble “I hate you!” to which he bursts out in mirthful belly laughter, and continues to laugh for a good five minutes.
I huddle over my food two rooms away, and secretly smile. I love him.
(He just came into my office and read this over my shoulder, and as he was sauntering away, chuckling, he says, “Go ahead, make up lies about me…”. Buttons, buttons, buttons. I hate him!)