The Laundry Pit

I don't know why I want to try to have more kids so I can have a son.
I don't know why the idea of having another male in the house would appeal to me at all.
I don't know why the idea of having a male in my house ever crossed my mind. Ever.

Really.

My husband and I seem to have days where we speak two totally different languages, but both of them sound like English.  I have a degree in English. Why, when my husband speaks it, does it not sound like English, but at the same time, it is?  This is along the lines of why does jello wiggle and who the hell eats blue jello...but hey, there are many unanswered questions out there.

I finished cataloging some mail this morning and went to go upstairs, and hubby came hustling down the hall to the bottom of the stairs;

"Do you want waffles for breakfast?"

I stopped. Oh, boy. What a loaded question. Now what am I going to do?

"Uhm."

My hesitancy has now flicked his switch and he goes into passive/aggressive mode.

"Well, if you don't want waffles, I don't have to do waffles- but I thought I would offer to make waffles."

I'm already tired of the word waffles.

We had breakfast for dinner the other night as I bought fresh blackberries and we had...you guessed it...
waffles.

Normally I am the cook in the house as I don't use recipes, I don't follow instructions (this is a life-long thing) and I cook using my senses and intuition- which means if someone else does it- and follows a recipe or instructions- I totally DO. NOT. GET. IT.

So Tommy made waffles the other night when we did breakfast for dinner.  Uhm...they weren't, well. Great. Something was not right.  I cut one with a fork and it disintegrated. No part of said waffle would stay on the fork. It was weird.  I ate one.  That was all I could manage as I was about to get a spoon and some chopsticks to contain the 'waffle' that really a physics scholar should have been figuring out what on the atomic level was WRONG with this waffle.

Flash back to me on the stairs, staring at my hubby with his white-boy-Irish-afro of hair and boyish expression, now wondering what in the world I had against him, his cooking, and more importantly, his waffles. 

"Well- the waffles the other night just tasted odd- and I'm not sure why. If we don't do that again...yeah."

He said: "Ok."

I proceeded upstairs with my cache of mail and went up to my office- which I am trying to avoid today.

I came back downstairs a few minutes later- to Tommy sitting by his laptop. Hmmm.

So I sat back down on the sofa and went back to pursuing that really obnoxious ebay auction that had caught my attention.

Twenty minutes go by. I risk being eviscerated:

"So, are we not doing waffles?"

"Well, you said you didn't like my waffles."

"No, that's not what I said...." (but it's what I thought- maybe I thought out loud...) "I said the last ones were kinda weird and 'off' tasting and if we don't do that again, I'm fine with waffles."

"Ok, so you want me to make waffles?"

"No. Whatever. I'll toast a bagel."

Here's where things just slide like butter on a hot cookie sheet.

"Fine. I'll make waffles for me, and I'll eat my waffles and if you think you can bring yourself to eat my waffles, then eat the waffles...but I'm making waffles...."

I'm going to borrow a phrase from Shauna Glenn: "Stab. Stab. Stab."

Something tells me this is not the time to tell him that when he makes the coffee it tastes like feet, or that I totally don't trust him in the kitchen cooking any more than he trusts me in the garage fiddling with a metric wrench set and hydraulic fluids.....

I just didn't dig his waffles the other night.  I walked past the stove while he was prepping and the batter looked like spackling compound- but hey, he was cooking so I sucked it up and didn't say anything hoping that the lack of food in my system was fiddling with my eyesight and it would all be just hunky-dory....right?
Yeah. Well. Whatever.

So....I'm sitting here in the living room not saying anything. No waffle. No objection to waffles. No opinion on waffles.  I'm sipping feet-flavored-coffee that I put half a pint of cream in to avoid the feet-taste, and I'm not saying anything about the XY chromosomes in my kitchen making odd-flavored food.

I must be insane to want to replicate this situation by having a son. Really.

Now, I'm gonna go sit down at the table and choke down the waffle he just dropped onto a plate for me.....with a resounding "FWAP!" that I heard here in the living room.

Marriage is all about the communication.....and the waffles.