Achilles Heel

Now that I have written a couple of blog posts (like here and here) about my lovely, wonderful, sweet husband, I have to tell the truth about him.

When we are in a rush for one reason or another, I will quickly make him a sausage-and-toast sandwich instead of a big breakfast. (Lest you think I am an unempowered, enslaved, short order cook for him, let me clarify that this is just on the weekends.) This morning, I made him one and he told me not to put mustard on it. He didn't like it with mustard. For 30 years, I've been making them with mustard because, at some point when we were newlyweds back during the ice age, he told me he liked them that way. He waited 30 years to tell me differently?

Also. He leaves the heels on the loaf of bread in the bread package. We don't eat the heels. But whenever he opens a loaf to make a peanut butter sandwich (gah), he leaves the heel. I mean, he takes some slices out of the middle, then carefully puts the heel back in the package and closes it up. So, when I go to get a piece of bread to make toast for him, I take out the heel and throw it away. EVERY TIME. When I asked him about this, he actually said someone might want to eat the heel. AND WHO WOULD THAT SOMEONE BE?? He and I are the only ones who live here. I don't like white bread; I only eat wheat. He won't eat the heel; he just likes to carefully save it. So who is gonna eat it? He had no answer to that. I have actually tested him on this and, if there are, like, three pieces of bread left in there? Two of them will be the heels. So, I throw the heels away when I open the package. Other than that, he is almost perfect.

Oh. Except for the peanut butter and crackers. He NEVER puts them away. He fixes peanut butter and crackers (gah, again) for a snack, then leaves the crackers and peanut butter on the counter. Always. Never puts them away. When I asked them (with great restraint) why, he said he might want more. But he never does. He just leaves them on the counter. I think that's it.

Oh. Except for the beard trimming. Which ends with the sink and the surrounding area covered with little, tiny hairs. When I call him on this, he says he rinsed it. In what alternate, hair worshipping universe is that sink rinsed? Dontcha see all these hairs you left? That's definitely it.

Oh. Yeah, there is the clothing issue. I noticed the other day (yeah, it's been 30 years - I'm not very observant) that he was wearing the same sleeping pants and t-shirt every night. I asked him about it and he said, yeah, I wear the same clothes every evening and change on Sunday night. This is not quite as gross as it sounds, since he showers every night and basically spends the evening vegging so it's not like they get sweaty and dirty. I thought this was EXTREMELY peculiar (what woman would wear the same clothes all week, even to lounge in?) but my son-in-law said he did the same thing.

Can you feel my pain?

That's it, I think. I guess that's not much, in reality. He's really very neat, very considerate, very sweet and he loves me with every fibre of his being.

I know this. Because a few years ago? On the fourth of July? Some moronic idiot dropped a lit firecracker in the (full) box of fireworks. It was just a matter of time before the whole box exploded. Most people jumped back, many ran away. Tom? Reached over with both hands and shoved me behind him. So I wouldn't get hurt.

I guess I can leave mustard off his sandwich, throw away those heels, put away that peanut butter and clean up a few hairs.

If he is willing to get blown up for me.