Handwritten page of a diary dated May 21, 2009

his horrifyingly-bad-smelling socks by the front door and he runs up to the computer room. I hear the printer and I know he’s been taking pictures. I keep telling him, it’s not like the old days of photographs — you don’t have to print every one, but of course he walks in with a colored picture, which he hands to me even though I’m trying to chop fresh onions to make the jar of spaghetti sauce taste better.

He smiles and says “This is how I want you to be when I come home at night.” And he’s talking about this picture he took of some plastic mannequins. I turned around, didn’t miss a beat, handed him a nearby cookbook called “Relaxed Cooking with Curtis Stone” (who happens to be a mighty-fine-looking Australian chef standing there on a book cover with plates of food) and I said “This is how I want YOU to be when you come home at night.” And he says “Ha, well, I’ll be him if you’ll be one of them.” And he sticks the mannequin picture to the refrigerator with the refrigerator magnet we got in Georgia on our honeymoon. Our honeymoon, yeah, when he used to be a little more romantic, like oh, I’d say about 100 percent more.

So while he rummages around seeing what kind of pop is in the refrigerator, I stick a fork in the boiling spaghetti water, and get a piece of half-cooked spaghetti and fling it right onto the back of his shirt. Bulls-eye. It clung to that shirt with all its might and he had no clue. It was small payback for him thinking I should be like a lingerie mannequin. But it was enough to give me a charge every time I saw it the rest of the night.


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Published in: on February 21, 2010 at 6:45 pm  Comments (1)