My husband James and I tend to agree on most things. We’re just sickening that way. Before marriage we had the tough conversations, the ones on the “must discuss list” according to relationship experts like Dr. Phil and Father Guido Sarducci. We talked about family finances, child bearing and discipline. We discussed politics, careers, cooking, toilet seat positioning, light bulb wattage, snoring and cover stealing protocol. We covered it all.
Through frequent and exhaustive communication, James and I have become as compatible as…..as…I’ll have to get back to you. However, last night, as we lay in bed, watching Fox News and having a mutual admiration society meeting, the granite foundation of our marriage began to crumble. Oh, the horror! The origin of this destructive fault was…of all things, mayonnaise. Not ketchup. Not honey mustard dressing. Not even wasabi. It was mayonnaise.
It all started innocently, just as Greta van Susteren finished torturing Barney Frank and broke for commercial, I said, “Honey, I think I’ll make a turkey sandwich. Would you like half?”
“Yes, Love Kitten, that’d be great!” replied James.
As I patted his leg and began walking away, he added, “but can you make mine with regular mayonnaise? I can’t stand that Miracle Whip crap.”
“WHAT!?!?” My disbelief morphed into shock, which quickly turned into outrage….