Posts Tagged ‘wok ‘n roll’

“Take Your Lunch Or I Will Gut You Like A Fish” -by Alison Grambs

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They say the secret to a happy marriage is communication.

Well, tonight I am communicating with my husband.

I am doing so through a note I have left taped to the mirror on the medicine chest in our bathroom. It reads,

Take your lunch or I will gut you like a fish.

Now, you “oh, isn’t marriage so wonderful” saps out there might assume that this note I’ve left for my husband is some NSA surveillance-proof marital code for, “Meet me tonight in our bedroom – I’ll be dressed in cellophane dipped in honey.”

But you would be wrong.

For when I wrote, “Take your lunch or I will gut you like a fish” I meant exactly that…

“Take your lunch or I will gut you like a fish.”

My only regret is not placing a comma in between the words lunch and or. Such a stupefyingly sloppy grammatical error just proves that my high-brow English Literature degree has done even less for my intellect than I originally suspected. Otherwise? My note reads pretty much exactly the way I intended it to. I have no intention of doing a second draft… or running it through Spell-check. Yes. That is how very committed I am to the message I’ve inscribed on that piece of notepad paper I stole from TD Bank.

Why, you might ask, would I leave such a note taped to the bathroom mirror to greet my sweet husband as he rises from slumber to begin a new day?

Because my husband is a putz.

Not all of the time, of course. But in the forty-eight minutes he spends getting ready for work each morning – forty-eight minutes in which he has no responsibilities other than those of getting himself clean, getting himself dressed, and getting himself out the door – this strange phenomenon seems to occur wherein this otherwise brilliant man demonstrates the mental capacity of a turnip.

You see, we’re trying to be, not only more budget conscious lately, but also more health conscious. And among the many new commitments we have made to improve chances of getting into Heaven is the pledge to eat more home-cooked meals.

Do you want me to make you lunch for tomorrow?” I ask each night before Tommy slips off to bed.  “Or are you going to get something on your own?

His reply is always the same. “I love your lunches.  Make me something and I’ll take it.”

So, around midnight every night, while Tommy slumbers away in our canopy bed with the six foot Great White shark on it, I momentarily cease my work writing the next Mediocre American Novel to prepare a delicious, well-balanced ‘brown bag’ lunch for the love of my life.  A lunch that is so thoughtfully engineered to meet my husband’s picky eating habits, while also remaining highly transportable in – now wait for it – an R2-D2 lunch container that lights up and bleeps when you press on R2’s dome.   Yes, I work hard on these lunches, folks, coming up with new and creative combinations of the five (or is it four?) major food groups, and making sure that at least one item in every lunch is dipped in glazed sugar or bacon.  

In short, I prepare Tommy’s lunches with love.  And sometimes, since we’re on the subject, despite partial blindness and overwhelming fatigue.   For it is usually around midnight that I have already been writing for four hours straight, and my contact lenses are beginning to fail me, sticking to my eyeballs in a way that sends me banging around the kitchen like a crystal meth addict who just used up her last  stash.

How does my husband repay me for my efforts?

By consistently forgetting to take his friggin’ brown bag lunch.

“Are you cheating on my lunches with Wok ‘n Roll?” I ask.

“It’s not you, it’s me,” my husband assures me.  Then he explains how he just gets ‘confused’ in the morning and sometimes ‘can’t find’ the kitchen.

But you had no trouble finding the computer to go on e-Bay and purchase a replica of Princess Leia’s metal bikini” I point out rather pointedly.

It is usually at this point that my husband feigns a heart attack so he can escape into the other room and avoid further interrogation.  

But tonight?   Well, that allll stops.  

Dear husband, I am fixing your ‘I get confused and lost in our 850 sq. foot apartment‘ mental condition once and for all.  You see that love note I have left for you on our bathroom mirror?  The one that, in no uncertain terms, states that I will eviscerate your Star Wars and bacon lovin’ body if you fail me on this matter?  

Consider it a simple, somewhat violent reminder to take that delicious homemade beef and scallion stir fry I stopped writing the Mediocre American Novel to prepare for your lunch today or… oh, yes… oh, yes indeed… 

I will gut you like a fish.