So, my dear sister has me reading another book. A good thumping fundamentalist book that will help me win the battle of housewifery. However, the author is obviously not married to, nor has she ever encountered or fathomed, a man like The Hubs. Case in point? In one section, she talks about goal-setting with your spouse. Such as when to do market-day, what he prefers his starch setting on the iron to be, whether he wants his toast folded and his underwear crispy. Inwardly, I giggled. As he happened to be snoozing on the couch at the same time I was reading this, I poked him in the ribs and I pointed to this section and asked him if he really wanted to be that involved in the day-to-day planning. He said sure. I asked him specifically about meal planning. He said I should cook more fish.
I don’t cook fish. Ever. The Hubs doesn’t eat fish. Ever.
So I giggled again, inside of course, and filed away that little tidbit in the ole mental Rolodex. Fast Forward to the frozen foods aisle at Trader Joe’s yesterday. I asked him to pick out some fish. He looked at me like I was from . . . Mars. “I don’t like fish.”
The Hubs is from IKEA. No, I don’t mean that he is cheap or foreign. I mean that what you see is what you get. He is what he isn’t. He is a simple birch table. No veneer, no frills. There is nothing pretend in him, and that is what makes him beautiful. He isn’t going to give me a list of demands like starch settings or precision underwear folds. Heck, I think the man is truly jubilant just to have clean undies–folded, not folded, wadded up, still in the basket, still in the dryer–whatever, just clean. As for “market day?” Yes, please. Yes, go to the market. Buy food. Cook if you are up to it. Not up to it? How ’bout soup. No soup? PB&Js. No bread? Let’s order pizza. Didn’t get around to cleaning up? Don’t worry about it.
That much freedom turns me into an insane woman…a Martian. Makes me think his care-free-ness is care-less-ness. I’ve often wondered what I would do if he came home and actually said the thoughts that I think run through his mind . . . “What the heck do you do all day ’cause it sure ain’t housework?” I tear myself apart through his eyes. What I think he thinks of me. I fight with an engineered, veneered, faux-hand-carved, made-yesterday antique table that puts on airs about my lack of domestic ability when my very real, sturdy, birch IKEA table husband just shakes his head and tells me simply that he doesn’t like fish. It really is as simple as that.
He isn’t going to tell me how to do all this. He isn’t the type to direct every detail. He is not a taskmaster/boss type of husband. He isn’t going to yell at me when he is out of granola bars or toilet paper. He is going to be a friend. A companion. He has his thing. This realm of housewifery is mine. And that is okay. Even when a book as wonderful as I know this book is going to be tells me that I need to set housekeeping goals into minutiae with my hubby, I just need to remember that he doesn’t like fish and let the man sleep.