Every couple has their "thing". You know, the little thing about your Love Muffin that drives you to the brink of insanity. If you have been together long enough, it eventually fades out of the scope of importance.
If you were to ask Cheech, he would tell you that the way I wrap leftovers is grounds for divorce. I (unlike my Lovey Dovey) do NOT feel the need to double wrap with Press n Seal, (that shit is more sticky than the goop from the La Brea Tar Pits) because I want to get back in there at some point and eat what I've saved; hence LEFTOVER. I still want it, just not right now. It isn't (in my mind) meant to be looked at from a hermetically sealed NASA approved container. No matter HOW pretty it is. When he finds one of my masterpieces, he gives me that "Really? REALLY?" look down the top of his nose. He used to yell at the kids when the cheese had those little crispy dry corners or the noodles got skinny and hard as if they'd been through the dishwasher. I of course being the adult; giggled and pointed; free of blame and suspicion. He's on to me though and now he shakes my leftovers all the way to the trash and says "Why do you hate me?" slam dunking them into the can for emphasis.
I shrug tossing the equally pointless answer: "Because I can. Does that mean we're going out for supper?" It's trite but I like it.
Weeeelllllll, let's get to the flip side: Magazine cards. Those pesky little Publisher Clearing House notices, cutesy check ordering cards OR the ones that entice you to purchase a magazine. (usually the one you're holding....mmmmm Hello?) You know what I mean. They are stuck in various places and fall out all over. Cheech is completely consumed with an undying hatred for these little tiny "billboards" and will spend his initial perusal of a periodical ripping them out AND leaving them. Boom. There I said it. HE LEAVES THEM OUT. Now if you don't like them in the magazine, what in tarnation (I just wanted to use the word) would lead you to believe I want to see them on my coffee table, my end table, my secretary, my desk.....*pant pant* PICK THE DAMN THINGS UP! But I don't do that. I don't say that. I just sigh, roll my eyes and shake them viciously on my way to decorate my discarded leftovers in the trash bin.
"Why do you do this?" I am usually hissing.
He gets that look and pulls another, letting it drop to the floor, proudly sauntering off.
Ohhhhh no you DID-ent~! and the war began.
Six months. I waited six months. And what did I DO during those six months? I'll tell ya my friends. I collected magazine cards. All of them. I went to book stores and shook various copies so the loose ones fell out. I gathered them. When he left them on my tables or by his chair? I jovially scooped them up. And THEN I put all of them into ONE FRIGGIN MAGAZINE. I mean to tell you that March's Wood Worker Magazine resembled the Oxford unabridged dictionary. There had to have been a dozen every two or three pages. I simply laid it by his nightstand and if I got more, I slipped them in.
Like I said, six months went by. I even dusted that magazine to make it look more appealing. I would pat it and soothe it. "One day Little Buddy."
I usually head up to bed before Cheech. I'm writing or reading and just want my bed and a teeny snack. It's my me time. I love my bed. On THIS night. He followed me.
"What are you DOING?" I demanded licking a cracker from the plate.
"I'm tired. I'm coming to bed. I'll just read for a bit and be out cold." He was already yawning.
My heart soared. My pulse quickened. I bit my lip to stifle the squeal of joy. I fought not to run and JUMP into bed patting the blankets yelling "Here! Here! READ THIS!"
I milked it. I lazily put on my jammies and got ready for bed. I sighed and pretended to read a book. He slipped in next to me and picked up....the magazine.
He turned the page: a couple little cards fell out. He picked them up and set them on the nightstand. I felt my toes cramp from the giggles. He turned another page and a few more tumbled out. The corners of my mouth puckered and twisted. I faked a sniff to hide the laugh.
"What the..." and he began to scan the magazine.
The tears flowed down my cheeks as I lay there in a seizure of uncontrollable guffaws.
"Why?" he asked slapping the skinny book on the blankets. He tried not to laugh. The magazine was still snowing info cards.
I picked up a piece of cheese from my plate and examined it. There was a little dried up corner.
"Because I can." and I popped it in my mouth. I made a yummy noise and grinned.
I hope you enjoy your special one a little more today. Laugh at no wait ...with WITH them.
;)
