Page 19 - Southington Magazine Issue 46 Autumn 2021
P. 19

 insulation and garage wall. Alarmist husband became crazed husband. It seems hilarious in retrospect, but not so at the time. He’s not one for attempting the simplest, most obvious solution to a problem. I offered my electric staple gun with extension cord (it had stopped raining for a bit), and
I fetched a wide roll of plastic sheeting.
He wouldn’t take my advice. The rain picked up.
I stuffed the staple gun under my shirt to keep it dry. He decided to duct tape the shingles in place (“Hold it here! I said ‘HOLD IT STEADY!’”) and then tried to nail them over the gaping hole with headless nails that were too short. The shingles didn’t hold, of course; he was nailing into nothing. He started un- rolling the plastic sheeting. A fight broke out, and I went in the house. My mom probably wished she had stayed home.
As it turned out, Henri exited as quickly as it blew in. All we were left with was a big house hole.
My friends make fun of me because, whenever there is a customer service problem I cheerily tell them, “, I called!” For example: No newspaper delivery for 10 days straight. (New driver. Not a very good one, I see.) Called every day for a recovery pa- per. A messed up magazine subscription. Called to inquire. This was quickly resolved. Insurance claims. Called-emailed-forwarded photos. Claim was being
processed. Thankfully, I have the time to devote to this insanity.
My husband recently had to make changes to his diet, cutting carbs and sugar. I spied our favorite barbecue sauce in the supermarket that screamed “Lower Sugar!” Hmmm. I always scrutinize product labels. This one listed the carbs and sugar content as usual. Lower is better. So I bought it.
Once home, I compared this new, lower sugar version with a the same brand of the regular, nor- mal formula I had in the fridge. Checked the calories, carbs and sugar per serving. The ‘lower sugar’ bot- tle had MORE of bad stuff than the regular recipe sauce. Across the board. I called! Spoke with a woman who was SO glad I called. “Oh, I’ll pass this information on to our marketing department,” she trilled.
How ‘bout you tell your nutrition department, who makes the stuff? Maybe someone there should read your labels.
I found this moment hilarious. Just as my hus- band was calling the State of Connecticut with a serious business-related tax question, I was on my
phone complaining about barbecue sauce.
Green Stuff
Now, my culinary expertise never remotely rubbed off on my husband. After 40+ years of cre- ating spectacular meals for him (food snob that I am), he has learned nothing. He and my son-in-law were together on a golf trip during the summer. My daughter and I asked them each (separately) what was served on the buffet.
Husband: “There was spinach salad. Spinach. That’s the round green leaves with the stems, right?”
Me: (I’m not making this up.) “Yes.” Husband:“And it had bleu cheese.”
Me: “Did it have blue veins running through it?” Husband: “No. It was white.”
He never eats spinach, so I don’t know if he even
knew what he was eating.
When I shared this with my daughter, she said
that my son-in-law had reported, “There was no spinach salad.”
At this point, we realized that neither man has any conception of what we so painstakingly prepare for them. And they are incredibly picky. No herbs. No seasoning. No overwhelming flavors.
My daughter: “Oh dear God. Those two should have their own Food Network show. We could inter- rogate them about what they both eat. We can call it, ‘What’s This Green Stuff?!’”
When we stop laughing, we’ll start working on it.

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