She Did It. Again.
There are, in every marriage, unwritten rules and quiet social contracts. They form over years of waltzing, fighting, making up, learning and unlearning, and every inward and outward experience and eventuality.
They’re threaded together with pet names, coded glances from across crowded rooms, a tilt of the head undetectable to all except your Other; they’re knitted fiber by cord by strand into what, over the years, becomes your Us. Warts and all.
There are two Eternal Promises which Cute Redhead and I hold close to our everlasting hearts.
Here’s mine:
“I love you forever and a day. You have my heart. You are my soul and everything I know and love. When I am with you I am Home. But if we were being chase by zombies, I’d so trip your ass and keep running.”
—and before you storm the castle and light me on fire, ladies…here’s hers:
“I know you told me you have to use the Minnie Beasley’s Almond Lace cookies for a product shoot today and not to eat them…but…dude. They’re Minnie Beasley’s and…um….yeah, well I ate them all.”
And she did.
AGAIN.
I am going to lose my mind and I’m not kidding.
They were brought over yesterday by my friend Harmon, the creator of the best damn cookie in the world (and I’m not kidding about that. In fact, if you don’t believe me, just ask the judges who awarded them THE. BEST. COOKIE. AT. THE. NEW. YORK. FANCY. FOOD. SHOW *snap*)
He walked right into my studio with an arm full of these things so I could take new product shots. Cute Redhead walked into the house right after that having wrapped up her High Powered Day. At which point I went like this:
“Honey?”
“Yes?”
“Honey, please come here.”
“What is it, my love?”
“Honey, Harmon was good enough to come by and drop off these coo—honey: eyes up here.”
[Honey drools]
“…are those Minnie Beas—”
“Harmon, get the kids out of the house.”
*sigh* “Listen, Wife: DO. NOT. TOUCH. THESE. COOKIES. I mean it. I need them for a product shot.”
And do you know what she did? Right then? Guess what she did.
SHE. LIED.
She smiled and sort of giggled all Oh You Silly Man, You and goes, “Ha ha. Okay. I won’t.” And then she looked at Harmon all pointing back at me all, “Is he not crazy or what? Ha ha.”
And then she left. And then Harmon left. And then I left onto something else.
And when I came back…
ONE. HOUR. LATER.
My desk (I promise I am not making this up) was covered in crumbs.
SHE DIDN’T EVEN TRY TO HIDE THE EVIDENCE.
Worse, it didn’t even enter my mind that she’d openly defy High Powered Man’s Primary Directive and scarf down the cookies, until halfway through wiping them off the desk (certain one of The Spawn was to blame for yet another little mess left for ME to clean up), it occurred to me to—
“—wait a second. I recognize those crumbs!”
*glances over to stack of COOKIES. FOR. PRODUCT. SHOT.*
“JANE!!”
Okay. Now.
Married men…(heck, even you single guys probably get this one too): we all know that The Man Is Never Right, right? I mean, never.
EVER.
I don’t care WHAT you think you know, who told you what, or what daytime talk show host is selling you about partnership in marriage:
THE. MAN. IS. NEVER. RIGHT.
Except in something like what I just described. I mean, there is not a jury in the land that wouldn’t convict her and send her crumb-covered butt right up the river.
[Wife walks into my office]
“What?”
“YOU. ATE. THE. COOKIES?!?!”
“Oh. Ha ha. Well. Yeah. I didn’t know you mea—”
“—okay the next words out of your mouth better be something like: ‘I didn’t know you meant unless I was held at gunpoint.’”
“Ha ha. Well I only ate one bag. You didn’t need them, did you?”
And right here I feel billions of brain cells completely dissolve inside my head. I have no category for this. I mean NONE.
We go back and forth in (me) incredulous indignation and (her) caught-red-handed laughter. I THANK her for totally ruining the product photo shoot I had to complete and start scratching my head trying to figure out how to redo what I already had planned. “Thanks a lot you, Schizoid Cookie Monster.”
And get this.
While chalking it all up to *Rolls Eyes* Women, she’s on her way out of the room (still laughing) and then stops, turns, and goes: “Oh, by the way. All that tile I got for the master bathroom the other night?”
“The tile it took you three hours to pick out?”
“Yes. That tile.”
“Let me guess.”
“I hate it.”
“We’re shocked and amazed.”
“Yes. Well. I hate it now.”
“Wow. That took you almost 12 hours to decide? I’m impressed at your restraint.”
“No. I hated it at soon as I got home. I just didn’t want to say anything then.”
“Don’t like talking with your mouth full, huh?”
“Shut up. Will you take it all back to the store for me?”
“Why not. It’s not like I had a photo shoot to knock out or anything.”
“Good. Now…here’s what I need you to do. I need you to—honey: eyes up here. I need you to look in my eyes. I want to make sure you’re hearing me.”
(as God is my witness she said this)
“…it must be fun living inside your head with unicorns and Lucky Charms, you know that? Are you really giving me directions to make sure I’m HEARING you?!?”
“…Yes. Why?”
I just walked out of the room.
What part don’t you understand? It’s all so PERFECTLY LOGICAL.
Honestly, men can be so obtuse sometimes!
And the tile? I soooo get that! I have a red dining room – about 37 coats of red (yes – a shade that I picked afer hours and hours of deliberation) – that I hate. Hated it before the paint even dried. Hated it after coats 2, 3, 4 and 10. Still hate it.
Mark is at Lowe’s right now buying some super high-powered primer to cover the ugly red so that he can paint it another color I love… because he loves me. Or wants to live another day. Or can’t win? I don’t know. I think it’s because he loves me…
But he did roll his eyes at me. WTH?
Please tell your husband I’ll meet him at the bar…
Forwarded this to my husband. He forwarded back “That sounds like the cookies!”. He “hid” Girls Scout Thin Mints in the freezer, thinking I would never find it. Umm…..I cook all the food in the house. I am the one that goes in and out of the fridge, freezer, big freezer. So yes, I found the Thin Mints. Just didn’t tell him. I allowed because, I am built that way, for him to blame the kids. You hide Thin Mints in MY freezer, they are fair game.