Friday, January 11, 2013

I Am An Expert**

(**At dealing with my husband.)

Michael has just returned home from the grocery store.

We do NOT do our grocery shopping together.  Because he always makes me cry. 

In the middle of Publix.

(I wish I was kidding.)

I will inevitably end up breaking down, and weeping quite uncontrollably, somewhere near the frozen food section.  And then he will get this very stern (and mildly confused) face that he gets sometimes, and proceed to look at me as if he has no idea what has just happened. 

It is just awful.  (For ME.  For him I imagine it is only slightly less fun than a trip to Six Flags.  Possibly MORE fun. . . at least the snacks are reasonably priced.)

And, as I am sometimes SHOCKINGLY intelligent, and also because I really like the guy, and would like to CONTINUE to like him for at least several more decades, I decided several years ago that I would never shop for groceries with him again.

As in EVER.

Sidenote:  In my life, I have several (very strict) policies in place, which serve to keep everything from collapsing into chaos all around me.  One of these policies regards the copying and pasting of statuses on facebook:  "Share this status if you hate cancer.  Ignore if you want to drink the blood of innocent puppies over brunch."  YOU know. . . 
But I will forever consider the policy about No Co-Ed Grocery Trips to be one of the most integral to the continuing permanence of my marriage.

Now. . . some of you may be thinking:  Why don't YOU just do the grocery shopping??

To which I would respond:  What, just because I'm the WOMAN??!?  How unbelievably backward of you!  I thought we, as a society, were past these sorts of gender expectations.

I would ALSO probably hazard a guess that you have NEVER actually met my husband.

I find that, in most all relationships, we relegate ourselves to certain roles.  Sometimes it is of our own choosing, and sometimes certain roles get thrust upon us, and we just kind of go along with it because it is infinitely less complicated. 

(I sort of pride myself on knowing what my role is in this relationship.  On just about all others. . . I'm completely lost.  So don't even ask.  I understand this one, and I'm holding on to it.  LET ME HAVE THIS.) 

I am the flighty, oft-pajama-clad, crazy one. 

NOT in the "Oh my god, she is SO much fun at parties!!!" kind of way.

Oh no.

. . . .Though that would really be nice.

(Insert wistful sigh here.)

But no.  If I'm being a realist, I can safely say that I have never been accused of being the life of ANY party.  It is simply not my way, and I have accepted that.

MY way is more of a "I get really nervous in social situations and frequently end up spending parties in the bathroom, telling my secrets to the resident feline and forging a lifelong bond."
(Seriously.  There are probably more than a few cats out there that still miss me.  =/)

Or, "I have the ability to clam up (once I feel that conversational expectations are being directed at me) and have NO idea what to say to you for approximately six years.  Then one day I discover that you like the same authors I do and I am just not going to leave you alone.  EVER."

I'm. . .  a little neurotic.

(It is news to exactly NO ONE.)

And I've made my peace with it.

But, whether FUELED by my neurosis, or in SPITE of it, I still manage to get quite a few things done, and even have a few favorable qualities, which are as follows:  =)

I make really great cookies.  And cakes.

And pies.

And I can paint.

And. . . ummmm. . .

I can remember all the words to practically every song that I've ever heard more than once.

(Is that a skill??  Because I can TOTALLY do that.)

Matter of fact, once in high school, I was in a car with some friends when American Pie came on the radio, and I said "I LOVE THIS SONG!!!  I KNOW ALL THE WORDS!!!" 
And I didn't really feel as though the people in the car BELIEVED me hard enough . . . so I proceeded to sing EVERY FUCKING WORD to that beautiful, long-ass song.

MUCH to the annoyance and dismay of the others in the car.

(Because THAT is how hardcore I am sometimes.)

All IN YOUR FACE with my useless knowledge.

I digress. 

What I'm getting at, in my REALLY roundabout way, is that grocery shopping is NOT one of the skills with which I am proficient.

I DID try it a couple of times. . . and found that I didn't care for it. 

It wasn't really the SHOPPING that I disliked. . . it was more the EXPLANATION of the shopping that I found to be tedious.  The questions of 'What the hell were you thinking when you bought THAT brand of ketchup?' and 'Why in the world do we need 5 jars of salsa??', and of course, the endless tirade about 'How can you come home with four boxes of marshmallow peeps, but NO toilet paper??!!??'

Seriously.  I love him, but he is IMPOSSIBLE to please sometimes.

So at the end of one of these Grocery Trip Interrogations, I threw my hands up, said to hell with it (and probably several other things that were slightly more profane), and told my dear one that he could do it himself.  From now on.

(Add LOTS of swears, and you'll have the general gist.)

But it works.

Partially because he is OCD enough to NEED to micro-manage every aspect of our lives.

And partiall because I KNOW, and have completely accepted, that grocery shopping is NOT my forte.

He LIKES to do it.  It is smack in the middle of his skill set.

. . .Whereas MY skill set is more in the "comic relief" arena.

For example, today:

Michael comes home from the store.  I help bring in the bags.  He presents items that I might find pleasing (bagels, strawberry cream cheese, ooh!  Wheat Thins!!), and I nod my approval, much like a gentle and benevolent Queen.  Or, if I am REALLY excited (he got a HUUUUUGE thing of ketchup!!!), then I will smile and clap. 

(Seriously.  I will do this.  Because I love him, I will clap for ketchup.  Stop judging.)

And then he will put everything away, while I make jokes about demanding burritos.

And how they're not going to cook themselves. . . .

And did you know that the burrito is basically a hand-held dinner??  Fascinating.

And isn't it weird how all this chit-chat is happening, and I have STILL yet to see a burrito in front of me.   Soooo. . . you know.

If you got time for talk-y, then you got time to make burritos.

. . . .

And he will laugh.

(Because he's weird like that.)

And I know this, and take advantage of it every chance I get.  =)

And that is the story of how I ended up getting homemade burritos for dinner tonight.

Take notes, folks.  But don't try this at home.

I'm an expert.


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