social cue(less)
Do you know someone who is clueless when it comes to picking up on social cues? I do. His name is Ali Din.
It was Friday morning and I was patting myself on the back for being so organized – I was packing Maya’s lunch box, testing her on her spelling words, and loading the dishwasher with my third arm when I decided, stupidly, to cook up a batch of calzones for dinner as well.
And that’s when it happened: A glass jar of turmeric fell out of my hands, onto the kitchen floor, and shattered EVERYWHERE.
Have you ever worked with turmeric? No? Well it makes every single thing it comes in contact with yellow. I wanted to cry because not only was there a mountain of yellow all over my pristine granite floor, but there was also a piece of glass in my foot AND my once pretty gray sweater was now a work of unintentional color blocking.
Do you think my clever husband picked up on all that? Nope. Do you think he offered to give me a hand, aside from taking this lovely photo of me scrubbing the floor?
No again. Do you think I was happy about it? Absolutely not. But then again you would know this because you pick up on social cues.
I will say this about Ali: he knows enough to pick up on when he’s no longer welcome. So thanks to Ali’s sudden “business trip” I now have 72 hours to let my anger dissipate and to scrub the kitchen floor.
Let’s hope it’s enough time.
who would’ve thought?
Often, in an effort to be a good wife, I will ask Ali about his day.
Yesterday was one of those days. So I rattled off the usual questions: How was work? How was your commute? What did you do for lunch? Where did you go for your dinner meeting?
You ready? To hear what he ate yesterday? Well here’s the abbreviated version:
“For lunch I had a Big Mac and some Chicken Nuggets. I was hungry a little later so I went to Starbucks and had a latte. And then some trail mix. And a banana. My dinner meeting was at Fleming’s. I had a filet, lobster mashed potatoes, creamed spinach, and a chocolate lava cake with vanilla ice cream.”
This was taken in Paris...how does one have a lava cake and ice cream mere hours after indulging in coffee ice cream and macaroons at Laduree?
I shudder as I replay this conversation in my head. I can almost feel Ali’s arteries clogging up.
I swear I’m not jealous that Ali can eat anything he wants and not gain an ounce – truly, I’m over that. If anything, I’m kind of amazed that my husband can eat 5,000 calories and go straight to bed without a second thought about how he should have at least walked more than the 5 feet from Fleming’s valet parking to the front door of the restaurant.
I never thought I’d say this, but I think we can all learn a little something from my husband here. Who would’ve thought?
wife = dishwasher?
This morning, minutes after Ali mowed through the time-consuming breakfast I so generously made him, I noticed this:
My future may be unclear but at least my new iPhone takes fabulously clear photos...
I tried to look at the bright side. I tried really hard.
I mean, at least he now rinses his plate and brings it closer to the dishwasher. That’s progress, right? But all progress aside, my big mouth refused to stay shut.
Me: “Why couldn’t you just put it IN the dishwasher?”
Ali: “I thought about it but then I thought I might eat something else later.”
Me: “What does that have to do with anything?”
Ali: “I didn’t want to waste another plate.”
We have at least 40 plates in our kitchen. At least. From the Crate and Barrel set that has seen better days to the beautiful but utterly useless Wedgewood India set we stupidly registered for – I think it’s safe to say we have enough plates for a flipping army. And yet my husband wants to keep his used plate on the counter indefinitely “just in case.”
For our 11th anniversary next month I don’t want diamonds or a fancy dinner or a trip somewhere (okay maybe I want a trip)…I just want my husband to put his dish INTO the dishwasher.
Is that too much to ask for?
While I'm not going to win Mother/Wife of the Year Award anytime soon, I haven't killed anyone yet or shot myself in the head. And that, my friends, is how I calculate success these days. 
FANCY THAT FANCY THIS 