Okay, this isn't about an actual episode of tossing salad at each other. One, he doesn't eat "rabbit food" and two, this is about our first argument about cooking after we were married. Sure, I cooked for him before we tied the knot but this was a night when he decided to put his foot down in my kitchen.
Ding - Round One
In this corner, we have a 5'5 tall female weighing in at approximately 100 lbs.
In the opposite corner, we have a 6' tall male weighing in at approximately 150 lbs.
I can only tell my side and as this was over twenty years ago, I may repeat it wrong (somewhat, wink).
We were in our first apartment, which was an efficiency in Decatur, Ga. I was making spaghetti for us and not for the first time. I was tossing all the ingredients together and had it going when my hubby (We'll call him Werewolf) came in the kitchen.
I don't remember if we'd both been at work or if it was the weekend but I remember that as he didn't cook, he wasn't usually in the kitchen. Anyhow, he either looked at or tasted the sauce that I had simmering. The noodles were cooking but that didn't get any of his attention. What bothered him was that the sauce wasn't like his grandmother's.
His grandmother had been whose house he had moved into when his parents had gotten a divorce. She was the head of the household, doing most of the cleaning, shopping, and cooking.
I remember her sauce and it was a touched up version from a jar, like mine. The problem was that he was missing home and my sauce wasn't close enough to make him feel better. I'll suggest that he was having a rough day as this typically didn't make him get in a tizzy.
He commented on just how different it was from his grandmother's spaghetti and I acknowledged that he was correct but that I'd been making it this way since he'd met me. That wasn't what he wanted to hear and his response was (something like): This is my house and you'll make it like she did.
Ding! Then the fight started.
Round Two
We proceeded to throw cave men comments at each other to the point that both of us were riled up over the silly sauce. I remember being to a point where I wanted to throw it but that would only make a mess that I would be cleaning up on my own. So I took a deep breath, or five.
He then stated that if I was going to be his wife then I needed to do things his way. Well, that was news to me. And he came back to tell me that he wore the pants in the family, as he pointed at the jeans he was wearing, and that I needed to just get used to the idea. Knowing that I'm a spitfire plus he was in rare form, I smiled and asked him to explain himself as I calmed down. (Right!)
I let him finish, without interrupting, and then I asked him to give me a moment.
DING! Round Three
I went into the small bedroom and grabbed a similar pair of his jeans out of his dresser. I also picked up a piece of white rope that had been lying around from when we'd moved then headed back into the kitchen. He registered surprise at me having his clothes in my hands. I held up a finger, as a signal to give me a moment, then proceeded to slip his jeans over the shorts that I had been wearing. (After he proof read this, he remembers it as me coming back in with a tiny pair of my panties....You get the gist of it.) Of course, he asked What the Bleep I thought that I was doing. And I'm still surprised that I had kept myself from being a red headed demon at that moment.
After I got into them (it had to be a hilarious image), I used the rope to secure them Allah Daisy Dukes Style. (Remember the size difference? Giggle.) I asked him if he was sure about his statement that he wore the pants. He confirmed that those words were what he meant. I agreed and replied......
"Then why am I wearing your pants, the pants of the house?"
He was quietly fuming as he absorbed my point.
I then began to walk out of the kitchen (holding yards up so I could even walk), and looked over my shoulder to tell him...
"I'm not your grandmother and if you want her food then you know where the door is. And if you ever want to get in MY pants again, you won't pull this stunt again."
Needless to say, I'm missing a bit of the conversation in between and afterward...maybe a good thing :-)..that set a standard for me as a young married woman at the age of 19. Yes, young.
We're still married (insert hysterical giggles here) and I still make spaghetti my way but I conceded not to put his pants on again unless in a much better situation. We put that moment behind us and laugh about it when it's brought up. Neither of us are proud of how we acted but we understand that our territories were marked at that moment.
And I believe that he's even made me spaghetti since that day.
We've come a long way, baby :-)
)))Corset Hugs(((
Ginny Lynn
Wench Writer
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