I opened the door and said, “The first step is admitting you have a problem.”
Standing in the garage, guiltily holding three grocery sacks of freshly picked sweet corn in his arms, my husband immediately threw up his Dutch dander.
He lowered his shoulder and muscled his way past me, through the doorway and into the kitchen. He dropped the bags on the counter and snarked, “I do not have a problem.”
“Uh, I beg to differ,” I said, trying to mentally calculate how many ears of corn he’d brought home in just the last week.
Add 36. Carry the 2. Divide by 12....Oh, for the love of God. Math sucks.
I grabbed my cell phone, thinking there’s gotta be a sweet corn calculator app out there somewhere because a girl needs to save her brainpower for much more important endeavors like eating chocolate and shopping for shoes.
Meanwhile, my husband began unloading his bounty from the bags and presented his defense.
“You know once I freeze these, we can have fresh sweet corn all winter long,” he waxed poetic. “We can eat corn chowder, creamed corn, corn bread, corn salad, corn fritters ---.”
Annnnd that’s the point he noticed my hysterical laughter and stopped speaking. He shrugged his shoulders, frustratedly threw his hands in the air and yelled, “What?!”
I pointed and answered, “Listen to you. You’re like Bubba from ‘Forrest Gump.’ But instead of lecturing me on the wonders of shrimp, you’re doing it with corn.” I paused then added, “Come on. Do it again. But this time, stick out your bottom lip and use a Southern accent.”
And that’s when Mr. Sensitive put on his huffy hat and went to town.
“Who’s the one who bought three dozen ears last week?” he said, looking around the kitchen like a crazy man until finally settling on my blue eyes. He pointed and said, “YOU! That’s who.”
Crossing my arms, I defended, “Because YOU asked me too. You were out of town. Called me like six times to remind me about the Farmer’s Market and not to forget to pick up more corn for you. The house could have burned down and the dog run away but you didn’t even ask. It was all about the corn.” I paused. “Freak.”
He snorted and said, “But you bought it anyway. So that makes you an enabler. Hah!”
Dammit. He had me there. My shoulders slumped and I quietly said, “So tell me more about those fritters.”
That’s all it took.
Just five seconds to create mayhem and destruction.
But - surprisingly - the 6 year old behaved himself while I painted a set of bookcases in our family room.
Apparently the 47 year old had a problem, however.
“What did you do?!” I hollered at my husband while pointing to the unholy mess at his feet.
He grimaced and replied, “Just trying to help. You missed a spot.” He pointed to a place about halfway up the side of the bookcase. “Right there. And I was trying to cover it up.”
A spot, he said. On the bookshelf I’d just spent three hours covering with a coat of primer. I had moved over to its twin and was blissfully unaware my husband had tried to “help” while my back was turned.
He’d had the brush in his hand for five seconds.
FIVE seconds. Five SECONDS.
And then he dropped it.
Onto the brick fireplace, splattering flecks of white paint over the masonry, the carpet and - I looked over my shoulder - how in the hell did it get on the couch way over there?!
I quickly put down my own brush and hurried over to the sink. Grabbing a roll of paper towels, I threw them at his head and ordered, “Well, don’t just stand there! Do something!”
He hurriedly began swabbing at paint and muttered, “Stupid spot.”
“OK, Lady Macbeth,” I said. “I know you have this weird tunnel vision about things being perfect...but sometimes you just have to let it go.”
He scowled in response, but I continued with a smile, “Sometimes you have to admit you have a problem.”
And that’s when I ducked to avoid the paint-covered towel aimed at my head and ran for the hills.