Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Love is a Battle Field

Funny how I can be so sappy and lovey/dovey one day and then change my tune the next.   Isn't that the way it goes in life?  Well, maybe not for everyone but that's the way it goes for me.

I've been lying in bed trying to think of a good metaphor to describe my expectations for yesterday.  Nothing quite fit so I'll just say that it was a let-down.  After writing my sappy post about our engagement, I tried to sit David down to read it only to be interrupted about halfway through with "who wants pancakes?" to which I replied, "YOU NEVER LISTEN TO ME," did the delicate stomp of the foot and stormed out of the room.   Remember how I said my daughter was a diva?  She comes by it naturally.  David then suffered through about about three hours of the silent treatment.  Truthfully, suffered probably isn't the right word because it was undoubtedly relieving not to listen to my gibberish about kissing under the fireworks.

And that was only the beginning of his fail.  Poor kid.  Once it starts, it seems like he can't win for the day.  At some point, I dragged myself out of my bedroom where I had given myself a time-out to make mac and cheese.  From the box.  No one will ever confuse me for Betty Crocker, I assure you.  At one point in our marriage, and I'm sure it was early on, Dave made the mistake of observing, "Your grandmother can cook, your mother can cook, your sister can cook....why can't you cook?"  I quickly retorted, "my grandmother can cook, my mother can cook, my sister can cook, why should I cook?"  Winner....Leslie.  He had no answer.  This is what happens when you marry a 19-year old college student who was still living at home at the time.  You get mac and cheese from the box, buddy.  I have no sympathy since he knew what he was getting.  My life was an open-book before we said our vows so he can't claim to be suckered in.

Anywho, seeing as how I've become distracted again, back to the mac and cheese.  I boiled the noodles, dumped the powdered cheese on top, reached into the fridge for milk and discovered he has used it all.  No containers in sight. Ok, we all really know this is my fault because I should have checked to make sure that I had all the ingredients first but, shhhhh, he can't know that he's actually not at fault when these things happen.  In the grand scheme of things, mac and cheese is a blip on the map of nothingness.  But, as I sat there with orange powdered noodles and my desire to make something out of them, my blood pressure sky-rocketed.

"Did you use all of the milk?"  I yelled to him.  This was again probably unnecessary seeing as how our house is set up so our kitchen is all of ten-feet from the couch. 

"Oh, yeah.  I was planning on getting some later," he responded. 

My temper flared.  If you're reading this, you have to understand, I have to be in the mood for mac and cheese.  I don't ever usually eat cheese.  It makes my gag reflex happy.  This milk fiasco was a tragedy. 

"Do you think you could have told me this BEFORE I started the mac and cheese?" I yell back. 

Poor guy. 

"I didn't know that's what you were doing," he replied.  "You just started banging pots and pans around in the kitchen and I figured you had this one under control."

"Well, it's too late now," I snapped.  "What am I supposed to do with this?  The noodles are cooked and I already poured in the powder."  I'm looking longingly in the pan, while simaltaneously trying to mentally make a gallon of milk appear in the fridge.

"You could use water," he suggested.  Bad idea.  Really? 

"Really?  Water?  Let me guess, you're going to suggest I add tuna next," I say, reminding him of this one "wonderful" dish he once made for me that was so incredibly awful that even the thought of it...well, let's just say it was bad.  It involved a whole bunch of different "Cream of (fill-in-the-blank)" soups, tuna, and pretty much all things related to fail. 

"I give up," I yell as I slink back down the hall to our bedroom.  "It obviously wasn't meant to be so I'm just going to take a nap."  Maturity is obviously not a trait I've acquired in my 30-year existence.

I crawl into bed, curl up in the fetal position, and after a few minutes, I actually doze off.  I don't know how long I'm asleep when I hear a soft knock on the door.  I turn over and there he is, standing in the doorway with mac and cheese in a bowl, balanced perfectly on a plate (we don't have trays) and a fork, ready to go.

"Hey, sweetie," he says.  "I ran to Kroger and got some milk.  Your mac and cheese is finished."  Yes, folks, the guy rounded up three kids and dragged them to the store, just to appease his crazy wife.  He's a trooper.

Only, now he's woken up the dragon.  Literally.  I had been sleeping.  "No thanks," I snap.  "I'm not in the mood."

Dejected.  That's the only word I can use to describe the look on his face as he stands there holding that golden bowl.  Truthfully, he's a keeper anyway, but when he does something like takes three young kids to the grocery store for milk when his crazy wife is having a pity party for herself after being stood up by Kraft, well, even I have a heart.

"Fine.  I'll at least try it."  I say.

He hands me the plate and I try to be enthusiastic about it all, but the truth is, the thrill is gone.  They're just noodles in a bowl.  I finish it though and he beams.

"I have a surprise for you," he says.  He runs down the hall and returns with a bag of Pretzel M&M's, which happen to be my new favorite candy.  Awww, the love.

The reality is that I'm pretty sure when my husband dies, Jesus himself will hoist him on his shoulder and say, "Well done, ol' chap.  I sent you a rough one and you pulled through," while hosts of angels cheer him on in the background.  At the very least The Big Man will give him a knuckle punch and say "ooooohhhh man.  Sorry, dude."

We DID see our fireworks last night.  We even kissed under a few.  But I have to give props to my husband for holding it together with the craziness he married.   

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