You Don’t Win Friends With Salad

My husband is one of the pickiest adult eaters I have ever met. The list of things he doesn’t eat is longer than the list of things he does and there are many foods that he refuses to touch despite the fact that they have never passed his lips before, ever. Well, the fact is that you don’t win friends with salad.

Simply put, Dave likes his starches. Pasta, rice, crusty Italian bread, potatoes, pizza…and I don’t blame him, but he doesn’t balance those starches out with anything else. He’s a meat n’ potatoes but hold the veggies kinda guy.

He does eat a select few vegetables and watching him eat them is almost comical: he eats them first, very quickly, in order to get them over with so he can throw himself into the meat and the starches, those sweet, sweet succulent starches.

So you could have knocked me over with a feather last night when he sat down beside me on the couch and told me he wanted to revise his eating habits and that for starters, he was willing to try salad.

My husband does not eat salad. I don’t think he has eaten a salad or anything remotely close to a salad in his entire life. I’ve known him for six years and I’ve only ever seen him eat a teensy weensy smidge of lettuce, but he ate it on a bet and sort of convulsed mildly and drank a big glass of water immediately after putting the smidge in his mouth, so it doesn’t count.

The shock and disbelief…well, I’m sure you can imagine. I sat there and gaped at him for a couple of seconds. I shut my mouth before drool started to escape and told him I would buy him anything he wanted. Then I gently reminded him this was salad we were talking about.

“Oh, I know babe,” he said. “I was reading about mixed greens today at work.” He enunciated the words mixed greens like he was speaking a foreign language, and he practically was. “Can you get me some mixed greens?”

“Babe,” I said. “Mixed greens is salad. That’s what a salad is. Its different kinds of lettuce – hence the term ‘mixed greens’ – with vegetables, vegetables that you don’t eat, with dressing on top.”

“Well, if you just went out and bought me a loaf of salad, I could try it, you know,” he said, in a rather haughty tone.

“A loaf of salad?”

“Yeah, you know, those balls of salad.” He made a ball shape with his hands. “A loaf of salad,” he said, all huffy-like.

“Those loaves of salad are actually called heads of lettuce, Dave,” I said, patting him on the back. “But you reach for those stars, okay?”

He’s got a lot to learn.


My mind is on the blink

All of the cleaning and scrubbing and furniture moving and working like crazy to make this place look decent on top of parenting two children and cooking and laundry and errand running caught up with me yesterday, slamming into me full-force like a Mac truck. I’m tired. Bone tired. Achy, creaky, zombie tired, All this computer work.

I’m at my worst when I’m hungry or tired. I’m bitchy and irritable and cranky; it washes over me and I really struggle to control it, to be nice to those around me instead of acting like a raging psycho bitch. My mother used to pull the HALT bullshit on me whenever I got like that: “Are you Hungry, Angry, Lonely or Tired?” I hated to admit it and usually wouldn’t, but it was always either the first or the last for me.

By the time Dave got home yesterday I wanted everyone to f*** off and leave me alone. I couldn’t think straight. Everything was pissing me off. I couldn’t find humor in anything, even when I asked Julia what the snow she was eating tasted like and she said sour cream, as though she’s eaten sour cream before and knows what it tastes like.

I didn’t want to be around the kids and I didn’t want them touching me. I didn’t want to talk to anyone or do anything or have to cook or pick up chunks of food off of the dining room floor or tidy up or bathe small children and put them to bed.

I hate it when I’m like that. I hate me when I’m like that.

I crashed early last night and I feel better today but there’s still a heavy blanket of tired draped over my shoulders…and I don’t foresee it slipping off and on to the floor in a heap so I can stomp on it anytime soon.