Depends, I think. Absolutely! I reply. Because (pick one):
- She has the pussy.
- I may look dumb, but I’m ugly.
- Happy wife means happy life.
- I’d rather sit in the sun all day than get a full-time job.
- All of the above and then some
“Put garlic powder on the shopping list,” she says. “We’re almost out.”
She’s at the sink, spreading broccoli and cauliflower around a baking pan, the polenta sliced and ready to drop in. Guido’s a wizard in the kitchen, even when she takes a short cut like using garlic powder instead of peeling and crushing fresh garlic. On this particular dish it doesn’t matter at all.
So I grab the container of garlic powder, march over to the side of the refrigerator where gravity-defying magnets hold her shopping lists, and prepare to apply liberally. After all, we like a lot of garlic.
Guido senses something amiss here and turns around.
“The ever loving fuck are you doing”? she wants to know.
I explain that she asked me to put garlic powder on the shopping list. I admit I don’t see how we can keep it on there without moistening the list with some water or maybe olive oil, but hell, she’s the one who knows what she’s doing when it comes to food prep and if she says “put garlic powder on the shopping list,” who am I to challenge……
At this point in the conversation — if we want to call it that — Guido delivers the kind of glare that Rafael Nadal aims at a line judge who calls him on a foot fault.
You see, rookies, the secret to everlasting happiness is to keep your spouse for life uncertain as to one of two possibilities: either (a) you don’t have a clue or (b) you do have a terrible sense of humor. Guido will be the second one to make the case for (a), complete with examples that include broken appliances, bloody wounds, and near-death experiences. (I would be the first one to make that case, and have scars to prove it.) If you spill a little blood, break a bone now and then, suffer a concussion, etc., you strengthen your case for cluelessness, and can get away with a lot of amusing bullshit. Even if you’re the only one amused.
The outcome here is I don’t actually pour garlic powder on the shopping list, but instead write the words “garlic powder” in the illegible chicken scratching that deteriorating vision and pis-poor eye-hand coordination have conspired to create. Guido turns back to the baking dish, but not before taking a sip of wine while keeping that death-ray look trained on my absolutely bland innocent face while I put down the product and pick up the pen.
Eventually, dinner is wonderful.