Those Three Words

It seems that the biggest problem in our marriage -- in most marriages I know -- is that he says those three words far too often. And not the three words he should be saying. About the same time every day, whether he's here, there or anywhere, he's always on cue.

"What's for dinner?" he asks.

I bite my tongue hard. When we exchanged vows was there some subliminal message woven in that suggested I might be assuming the role of his personal chef? Many a night I want to turn around and say, "I don't know J-Fed what is for dinner? What will you be making? What did you get at the grocery store? Ohhhhhhhh that's right. You don't go to the grocery store. In fact, you probably don't even know where the grocery store is."

As if it wasn't bad enough that he assumes I'm going to prepare dinner EVERY night, he has the audacity to complain when he doesn't like what I'm cooking. That's right. He'll actually make a face or turn up his nose.

"But you know how I feel about pork," he whines. Yes, I'm also well aware of the way he feels about pork AND celery, green peppers, anything with red sauce, salmon, mushrooms, carrots, too much chicken, Italian food, anything without butter and so on.

How simple life would be if I simply told him that he can very easily fix his own dinner... or even do the grocery shopping. Or what about adopting the mantra that we've taught our 5-year-old: YOU EAT, WHAT WE EAT.

I want to ask him if there is life beyond steak, rice and that nightly box of cereal he consumes. There are times where I lie awake wondering these very things. In fact, it actually elicits enough emotion to get me out of bed and into the kitchen.

And without fail, there sits that half full half empty jug of milk he always seems to forget to put away.