It’s no surprise that I love to eat. Meals are my favorite time of the day (as are snack times, Starbucks breaks and anytime I get to see Jake Gyllenhaal without a shirt). But the worst part about mealtime is deciding what to eat.
My husband is a picky eater, and he typically doesn’t go for my suggestion of “Just put some Nutella on whatever you find in the kitchen and call that dinner.”
Can you believe it? He’s so picky.
Yes, I realize I could make a meal plan for the week so we would know what we were having each night, but that would take away from my Sunday afternoon nap time, and this girl needs her beauty rest.
So tonight when my husband got home from work, he asked the question he asks every night after work; “Whats for dinner?”
Please note this isn’t the only question he asks each night after work, but it’s one you can probably relate to. Other questions include “Which dog threw up in here” and “Why does our house smell like pee?”
I had a long day at work and wasn’t in the mood to make dinner, nor could I be bothered to come up with ideas. I focused on the sweet goodness of my Grey Goose and told him it was his turn to come up with something for dinner this time. I wasn’t going to do it.
It was like I told him he had to cook a Thanksgiving dinner for 30 people instead of simply figure out which restaurant from which to order. He was flabbergasted that I would leave such a big decision to him, and he let me know he wasn’t happy about it.
In his defense, I still won’t let him have a say in what decorations and artwork go in our home, so I suppose it wasn’t a big surprise that I normally don’t want him deciding what we will have for dinner.
And by “artwork” and “decorations” I mean whatever is on clearance at Home Goods and whatever pictures are in the damaged section of Garden Ridge.
He suggested I come up with ideas and he would make the final decision. Um, no. That would give him some sort of power, and I think we know how I feel about that. Plus, I wanted to hold the power of veto.
It was the closest I would ever get to my favorite show on television, Big Brother, only the veto in my house isn’t a necklace with a circle and a slash through it. It’s simply a glaring look and the ability to kick the groin with accuracy.
I told him he should throw out some ideas and I would tell him if they sounded good.
Because apparently he has the appetite of an eight year old, he suggested we have cereal for dinner. Immediately, I imagined a heaping bowl of Cocoa Pebbles or S’mores cereal.
I was actually fine with that suggestion, as I’m a lover of all carbs, and cereal is nothing but sugar and carbs: two food groups I think are staples, along with peanut butter and anything dipped in Ranch dressing.
I told him I was fine with the cereal idea, but we didn’t have any cereal so he would have to go to the store to get it.
Although we have 2 vehicles and the store is about a mile away, my suggestion he drive to the store was quite detestable to him, despite the accommodations provided.
I usually decline because I don’t appreciate The Playboy Channel blaring the next time I turn on my car.
He said he didn’t have the energy to go to the store and that I should do it. I reminded him I couldn’t drive, as I had a drink, and I was nothing if not an obeyor of the rules, except for parking rules….and yielding…and speeding…
We decided to scrap the cereal idea because it involved work on our part, and after a long day, we couldn’t be bothered with such menial tasks.
I suggested we find a teenager who needed some extra cash and pay him to go to the store for us, but since we aren’t pedophiles, we don’t have access to the contact information of teens.
Yet another strike for us.
I asked Matt what he wanted and he said “I definitely don’t want pizza.”
I couldn’t fault him for this as we’ve had pizza quite a bit lately. I reminded him there were very few places aside from pizza joints that delivered. Chinese restaurants usually deliver but since we are dog lovers, we didn’t feel right about ordering “beef and broccoli” when we both knew it wasn’t beef we would get with a side of rice.
We went to our trusty friend, the “Internets” and silently thanked Al Gore for making that possible. We then looked up menu options for pizza places. I reminded him that many pizza places make more than just pizza.
We looked at a few websites and decided to order pasta from a place that delivered. He pointed to the phone and told me to call it in. Um, no. It was his night to deal with dinner, and I wasn’t calling it in.
We then took no less than 10 minutes arguing about which person should have the obligation to call our order in. I think we all know how that argument ended.
My dear husband shares the food preferences of an eight year old, and I thought his head was going to explode when he realized he couldn’t get the pasta he wanted.
I considered suggesting mac and cheese and applesauce, but I didn’t think he’d find the humor in that.
I walked away from the door so I couldn’t hear anymore of the conversation. The urge to make jokes was far too strong, and I knew he wouldn’t find my hilarity nearly as endearing as you all do.
We returned to the couch and waited for our dinner delivery, doing our best to avoid meaningful conversation. We needed to save that for dinner…while we watched reruns on TBS.
The food arrived and I stayed inside with the dogs while Matt stepped out to pay the driver. We figure a delivery person doesn’t want to be accosted by three dogs who have been licking their crotches for the past 15 minutes.
Of course, we don’t have a problem letting this happen to our friends…it makes them like family.
Matt brought in the food and took it to the table for dinner. I looked over at his dinner, and do you know what it was? Pizza. Seriously?!
I reminded him that his one stipulation for dinner was he that he didn’t want pizza. I asked him how he went from refusing pizza to affirmatively ordering it on the phone. He looked at me with his boyish grin and told me they didn’t have spaghetti and meatballs, and the fish sticks were all sold out.