Eating Crow
“…I got three hundred and fifty-seven ways, / to simmer, sautee, I'm the winner all day…”
Tonight, I was really hungry because I had nothing but half a bowl of cereal and a bean burrito all day. “Wifey” was making Lemon Chicken, which I lobbied her to serve at 4:30, so I would not have to be starving for the whole night. I would have made it myself, except for the fact that a) I don’t know this particular recipe, and b) for reasons I will explain in a second, she attempted to restrain me. She complained that she could not do so because “[her] grandparents eat at 4:30.” Now, I know these grandparents, and you don’t, so I must say that normally I would agree to any statement of my wife’s that dissed her grand-folks, just because of the sheer importance of “setting the precedent” that I don’t want to live like them when we get older. Unfortunately, though, my hunger made me fight against the illogic of her statement, as I continued to lobby for an earlier dinner, with the un-enviable position of defending my grandfather-in-law, who is about as hospitable a guy as one who offers a bed of nails to a hemophiliac.
To make a long story short, I offered a compromise, which was begrudgingly accepted by the wife. I would wait until 4:30 for her to start making dinner, with the condition that it would be done within 15 minutes. If it was done within 15 minutes, then I would bring the food to the table and we would eat around 4:50, which was much closer to the time she wanted to eat than the time I wanted to eat. If it was not done within 15 minutes, I would not complain, but she would have to -- how shall I phrase this – “perform a physical act of the will consonant with the essential elements of marriage” -- before 11:59 p.m. that night.
How did it turn out? Well, “Wifey” cooked with a speed and swiftness I had never seen before. She balanced two skillets at two different temperatures masterfully, turning the chicken while stirring the rice, adding capers while melting butter, acting like she had six arms and legs. All that was missing was the theme song from “The Six Million Dollar Man.” I didn’t have to re-build her. She had the technology. All along. After 15 minutes, she told me dinner was ready. I tried to call foul. I checked and re-checked the chicken for pink spots, signs of under or over-cooking, everything. But I was wrong. She won. Dinner was fantastic. I had to fight back tears when I thought of the implications of this shift of household momentum.
It required no deep thoughts to realize what had happened. The chance to avoid physical intimacy with me made transformed my wife, one who keep in mind is called on by God to share the physical act of love with me, from a happy-go-lucky, laid back, romance-novel-reading couch potato into Molto Mario on speed. Though I had what I though I’d wanted, a full stomach, my self-esteem plummeted like George Bush’s approval ratings after he raised taxes. Not only do the lady-folk not find me attractive, but apparently they will do most anything to avoid physical contact with me. The thought of being near me causes them to push their production-possibilities curve outward to levels of cooking efficiency previously unrealized by mankind.
Well, “if you can’t beat ‘em,” they say, “join ‘em.” I want to see how far I can push this thing. If my sexual prowess has petered out (pun intended) after not even seven years of adulthood, perhaps I can use this fact to better my quality of life. Perhaps I can use the prospect of the revoltingness of being next to me to ask all my female professors for deadline extensions, else they have to spend a few extra minutes with me. Maybe intercourse can be the new punishment if “Wifey” throws away one of my magazines or spends too long getting ready for a social engagement. Or maybe it can be the less-attractive alternative if she does not let me go to a Gentleman’s Club every once in a while. Perhaps I can use the threat of physical contact to yoink outlines from my female classmates. I don’t know, but one thing is abundantly clear – if my wife is an accurate measurement of my effect on the opposite sex, the possibilities are endless.
With my powers of nastiness, I’m pushing this thing to the hilt, baby!!! (Pun, again, intended).
Tonight, I was really hungry because I had nothing but half a bowl of cereal and a bean burrito all day. “Wifey” was making Lemon Chicken, which I lobbied her to serve at 4:30, so I would not have to be starving for the whole night. I would have made it myself, except for the fact that a) I don’t know this particular recipe, and b) for reasons I will explain in a second, she attempted to restrain me. She complained that she could not do so because “[her] grandparents eat at 4:30.” Now, I know these grandparents, and you don’t, so I must say that normally I would agree to any statement of my wife’s that dissed her grand-folks, just because of the sheer importance of “setting the precedent” that I don’t want to live like them when we get older. Unfortunately, though, my hunger made me fight against the illogic of her statement, as I continued to lobby for an earlier dinner, with the un-enviable position of defending my grandfather-in-law, who is about as hospitable a guy as one who offers a bed of nails to a hemophiliac.
To make a long story short, I offered a compromise, which was begrudgingly accepted by the wife. I would wait until 4:30 for her to start making dinner, with the condition that it would be done within 15 minutes. If it was done within 15 minutes, then I would bring the food to the table and we would eat around 4:50, which was much closer to the time she wanted to eat than the time I wanted to eat. If it was not done within 15 minutes, I would not complain, but she would have to -- how shall I phrase this – “perform a physical act of the will consonant with the essential elements of marriage” -- before 11:59 p.m. that night.
How did it turn out? Well, “Wifey” cooked with a speed and swiftness I had never seen before. She balanced two skillets at two different temperatures masterfully, turning the chicken while stirring the rice, adding capers while melting butter, acting like she had six arms and legs. All that was missing was the theme song from “The Six Million Dollar Man.” I didn’t have to re-build her. She had the technology. All along. After 15 minutes, she told me dinner was ready. I tried to call foul. I checked and re-checked the chicken for pink spots, signs of under or over-cooking, everything. But I was wrong. She won. Dinner was fantastic. I had to fight back tears when I thought of the implications of this shift of household momentum.
It required no deep thoughts to realize what had happened. The chance to avoid physical intimacy with me made transformed my wife, one who keep in mind is called on by God to share the physical act of love with me, from a happy-go-lucky, laid back, romance-novel-reading couch potato into Molto Mario on speed. Though I had what I though I’d wanted, a full stomach, my self-esteem plummeted like George Bush’s approval ratings after he raised taxes. Not only do the lady-folk not find me attractive, but apparently they will do most anything to avoid physical contact with me. The thought of being near me causes them to push their production-possibilities curve outward to levels of cooking efficiency previously unrealized by mankind.
Well, “if you can’t beat ‘em,” they say, “join ‘em.” I want to see how far I can push this thing. If my sexual prowess has petered out (pun intended) after not even seven years of adulthood, perhaps I can use this fact to better my quality of life. Perhaps I can use the prospect of the revoltingness of being next to me to ask all my female professors for deadline extensions, else they have to spend a few extra minutes with me. Maybe intercourse can be the new punishment if “Wifey” throws away one of my magazines or spends too long getting ready for a social engagement. Or maybe it can be the less-attractive alternative if she does not let me go to a Gentleman’s Club every once in a while. Perhaps I can use the threat of physical contact to yoink outlines from my female classmates. I don’t know, but one thing is abundantly clear – if my wife is an accurate measurement of my effect on the opposite sex, the possibilities are endless.
With my powers of nastiness, I’m pushing this thing to the hilt, baby!!! (Pun, again, intended).
posted by TheRealDookie | 7:01 PM
1 Comments:
I think all women would respond the same way - u should never take it personally. Just like if the tables were turned and she said "if you can't make dinner in 15 minutes you have to give me a back massage." I think you'd get pretty handy in the kitchen post haste!
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