Jennifer Ammoscato

Aspiring author. Successful chocoholic. Debut novel "Dear Internet: It's Me, Avery." May 2014

Knives have no legs

My husband and I have the same favourite expression —“You knew who I was when you married me.”

This catch-all comes in particularly handy at those moments when we know that we’ve (he’s) slid back into the selves that we were (he was) before we got married.

You know, the self that leaves shoes next to the shoe closet but not inside the shoe closet.

The self that abandons a peanut butter-covered knife on the counter after the sandwich is made. (The knife does not have legs. If it had wits, it would be at the end of them trying to figure out how on earth it was going to cross the great divide between the counter and the dishwasher. With no legs!)

The reality is, I know that I married someone who could not care less if the clean laundry sits in the basket in the laundry room all week rather than in drawers and on hangers. (He is surprisingly adept at folding, though. Okay, he crushes it.)

And the love of my life is married to someone who can no more stand a drawer not shut all the way than she could… well just imagine the very worst thing you can think of and multiply it by a billion.

(Note: Seriously, I mean, why not just shut it all the way? It’s just a horrible accident waiting to happen. Someone could hit it with a hip and be maimed for life. Does he want to be responsible for that? And, more importantly, it doesn’t line up with all the nice, obedient closed drawers, and that drives me crazy.)

My husband knows perfectly well that, while I sometimes bitch about cleaning up after him, there’s a part of me that wants to. A sick part that takes joy in making glass table tops shiny, putting things back in their rightful place, and jumping up off the couch—apropos of nothing—to straighten a picture on the wall.

So, he can say things like, “I’d vacuum but I know you’d rather do it,” and he’s telling the truth.

Once in a while though…

This was an actual conversation on lovely Saturday evening after I returned from an afternoon out with a friend. (Well, it was kind of like this).

My husband: “Look, I cooked a wonderful dinner for you because I love you.”

Me: “Why didn’t you do the load of laundry that I left for you after I did the first three?”

My husband: “I didn’t know you wanted me too. But look, I slaved over a hot stove and created a life-changing meal for you because I love you.”

Me: “I thought it’d be obvious. The laundry room door was open. The clothes were left on the floor. In front of the washing machine.”

My husband: “Darling, I don’t always know what you expect. But look, people would pay big money for this meal that I cooked for you. Because I love you.” (Through gritted teeth).

Me: “What did I have to do? Put a sign on it? I mean, Jeez, what else could it have possibly meant?”

You can only push OCD girl so far.


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