I’ve listed a few benchmarks based on years of experience for you-my friends, to help assess the status of your own unions. I personally use these common situations to answer the question: How do you know if your husband still likes you? Feel free to use the same criteria where applicable…
Your younger-married version of a healthy fish dinner – frying canned tuna, frozen mixed vegetables and mustard together is met with a fork and a smile (he might admit disgust years later).
He overcomes the enormous disappointment of marrying into large Italian family where only two people enjoy cooking and neither one of them is you (you fry canned tunafish).
He allows you to pick a tiny pimple on the tip of his nose. For the next several weeks, he roams the world with a scab the size of a pencil eraser on his face.
He does not get angry when you hand him his freshly-laundered, leather wallet complete with soggy money and warped business cards.
He is supportive when you’re temporarily replaced by an insane amalgam who calls herself ‘first time mommy.’
You request drawer dividers to separate your numerous socks and he builds them.
He rubs your back whenever you say it’s sore, even though you complain that his back is “sooooo much bigger,” when he asks the same of you.
When you (both) forget your Anniversary and it’s no big deal, because you consider yourselves the most intimate of friends above and beyond any other titles.
To summarize: Your husband still likes you if he can recall what life was like before he met you, and he still chooses scabbed noses and fried tunafish.
Admitting sheer stupidity is depressing, so it is with great humility I share this story with you-my friends.
Not far from my home, but far enough away is an exotic establishment. The nondescript building sits along a main route. Now don’t let your imagination wander, there’s no nudity involved in this story unless exposing my naked soul counts. The brick exterior of this exotic house holds no aesthetic allure other than its ‘mysterious’ blackened windows. The tall, magenta sign in front of the building – nearest the road is another matter. Whenever I happen to be driving by and get a moment to read the neon sign, I find myself thoroughly entertained. I’m fascinated by dancers’ names like Mama Lucious and Dolla Tiny Feathers…
Now back to my stupidity…the giant husband’s folks were visiting from the Land of Enchantment. One night, New Mexico Nana and Papa wanted to treat us to dinner. The six of us packed into the car, drove to a nearby restaurant and enjoyed a lovely meal out. Returning home we took a different route which lead us passed the exotic dance establishment. When I spotted the neon, magenta sign ahead, I began telling my in-laws what fun it was to read the dancers’ names. As our car passed by the glowing words, I blurted out “Wow, look at that unusual name – Montofris. That’s the best name yet!”
The giant husband and in-laws burst into hysterical laughter. In my unbridled enthusiasm, had I been unwittingly humorous? I didn’t understand what had just transpired. It took several very long minutes for the giant husband to catch his breath. When he finally calmed down he simply said, “It’s not Montofris darling, you read the sign wrong it’s Mon to Fris.” Then he began laughing all over again.
All I could do to defend myself was stammer, “They forgot to put spaces in between the words!”
The giant husband stored the Montofris gaff in his arsenal. To this day, whenever I boast of how brilliant I am, he quickly shoots me with Montofris ammo.
But who knows, I may have the last laugh yet. Somewhere out there lovely Montofris could be making happy the hungry hearts of the well-intended…