Little Does He Know

What’s in a man?

One who has little knowledge of the money spent on a gift for him.

One who has little knowledge how much I love him.

One who has little knowledge I just spent 15 minutes in an online epic battle with a stranger to purchase a gift that reminds me of him that I absolutely love and he may look at me like I’m crazy.

One who has little knowledge how much I appreciate him.

One who has little knowledge I would kill for him.

One who has little knowledge he is my soul mate.

One who has little knowledge every penny I spend on myself is to look good is for him.

One who makes me laugh after 27 years…laugh so hard it hurts.

One who makes me so mad I want to bounce him off every wall in the house.

One who has little knowledge if he should leave I would be utterly and literally heart broken. I would die and I wouldn’t even care.

One who has little knowledge if he was indeed gone, I would never take my ring off.

One who has little knowledge when he comes home, my heart still flutters and when he doesn’t, I worry.

One who has little knowledge when he doesn’t text me while at work, I think he’s forgotten me, or I’ve done something wrong.

One who has little knowledge I took this picture of him while napping and when he finds out, all hell will break loose.

One who has little knowledge…he is…my love. My only one.

Image by Robin Moreau

The Disappearing Plate

I made a roast for dinner. We sat down to the table together. He made a gravy I could eat, I made the roast moist enough to melt in the mouth. We haven’t made a dinner like this in awhile.

We discussed our day, the menu for the Thanksgiving holiday, and compared gravy and mashed potatoes to how our grandmothers’ used to prepare them. It will never be the same. Close, but not quite.

I headed to the stove for seconds. I put my plate down on the counter and turned to rinse off a spoon. When I turned back, my plate was gone. I was confused at first until I noticed my husband happily talking and piling his plate…MY plate with seconds. Looking over at the table his plate was sitting there. The man can’t keep his mouth shut for one second to realize he took my plate.

Before I could say anything he had sat down and with a mouth full of mashed potatoes, pauses. And there it was. The complex moment of confusion of an additional plate.

“Why do I have two plates? Ooooh I must have grabbed your plate!”

“Ya think?” I said….he laughs.

Then he said, “well the plates look the same.”

I gave a look, titled my head and sarcastically said, “Really? You think the plates look the same? Oh my gosh, imagine that!!!”

Realizing what he said, he looks down at his plate, turns it a little and matter-of-fact and child-like, states, “they do, my plate is exactly like yours! It has the same design, with the same red leaves!”

We laughed. This is what I love about him. In one month we will be married for 27 years. We rarely fight, but when we do, it’s sraight up War of the Roses. I am not kidding. And if you haven’t seen that movie, I suggest you see it.

27 years and he still makes me laugh.

You, Me and the Stench of Broccoli

“PHEW! WHAT THE HELL IS THAT SMELL?!?” This was the first question he had asked when he came home from work. The smell had lingered and I hadn’t noticed. “What’s it smell like?” I asked. I actually won’t repeat what he said. “I don’t know what the smell could be, it’s not the trash and the only thing I cooked today was roasted broccoli for breakfoooooohhhh”. Little did I know the stench of oven roasted broccoli was lingering. “Well turn on the fan, its smelling up the house”, he was annoyed. “What, you don’t like the smell of my breakfast?” He gave me a look and cursed a few words. “I take that as a no?” “You don’t like my stench?” He hates it when I get snarky right when he gets home from work.

A simple task, to turn on the fan when I roast broccoli. I hadn’t told him the fan over the oven was possessed and once it’s turned on it won’t turn off. I also hadn’t told him the stench of my broccoli rates right up there with the stench of his hard boiled or scrambled eggs bleh.

I never realized how bad the stench of roasted broccoli was until one day I ran to the store after breakfast and when I came home I thought I was going to gag. The instantaneously slap of previously roasted broccoli stench that hit my nostrils made me uncontrollably wretch and my eyes started to water. This is the stench he was talking about.

Oh I need to turn the fan on. Even I can’t tolerate the after stench of my own breakfast. It doesn’t even smell like broccoli. It smells like…like dirty socks or a locker room or something. It does not smell like broccoli. Even the bacon and sweet potatoes I cooked with it, doused in cinnamon don’t drown out the stench. The smell is far from pleasant one may experience during the holidays of vegetables, cinnamon and bacon grease. Nope this is straight raunchy, back street boys locker room. It’s raunchy enough to make the polish on my toenails curl.

The overhead fan must come on even though I may not be able to turn it off after. Then the drone of the fan will carry on throughout the night, driving me to insanity and sleep will be lost since the kitchen is next to our bedroom. Persistance will persevere with the pounding of the button, cursing under my breath the need for sleep and why this particular bedroom had to be near the kitchen and who’s dumb idea was it when the house was being built? It will eventually turn off if I hit it enough times and the quiet will overwhelm me into a deep slumber. Finally, it shuts off. Until the next time.

I am sure you’re asking, “who eats broccoli for breakfast?” I do. That’s who.

The Delivery

I come home from work the other day to find all of my dining room chairs in the garage lined in a row, between the cars like some soul train ready for take off. “OMG What the heck is he doing”? I say this out loud like I should expect some formal answer from thin air. There are four large boxes on the other side of the garage. When I get into the house my husband is taking his afternoon nap.

Image by Robin Moreau

I look in the dining room to find 4 new chairs in addition to the 4 boxes in the garage. 8 chairs. We had contemplated getting a new dining set. He wanted new chairs, I wanted a new table and chairs. I hate this table. Solid wood and the top made of uneven slate tiles. So uneven, there is no room for clumbsiness when sitting a drink down. And slate, let me remind you, is so heavy I can barely maneuver it on my own. This table has been with us for years. It has traveled over 800 miles with our move to the Pacific Northwest and I hate it.

The next day that’s all I heard, how great of a deal he got on these chairs. Okay, okay, they actually were really nice, and I admit to everyone else BUT my husband, they matched the table quite well. He did a really good job picking them out.

Today, I come home from work early due to a power outage. My husband and I are out back chatting about each others’ day and I hear the UPS driver pull up. 3 more boxes. Wait, what? I chat it up with the driver about drinking wine (I was having a glass) and He was wishing he could have a glass and ask him about this random delivery he was bringing us today, like the delivery of 8 he brought yesterday. My son brings the 3 boxes into the house and I ask my husband, what is this? “Chairs for the other dining table in the kitchen”. Really? “Where is the fourth chair”, I ask him. He acts surprised, “What do you mean fourth chair”? “There were only 3 delivered”. What?

By this time my daughter came home and asked about the boxes. I said to her that her dad was annoyed because we only received 3 boxes. She says, “3? There’s 4 sitting there”. He perks up and says, “There’s 4”? Confused, I said “no, there’s 3”. My daughter says, “pretty sure there’s 4”. She then leans around the corner and peers into the dining room. “Oh, I guess there is only 3”.

Poor baby girl can’t count, just like her father.