Marriage Illustrated with Crappy Pictures (6 page)

He backs out of the bathroom with his hands in the air as if he’s surrendering. His eyes are wide and fixed on the cockroach.

You know how most people have random irrational fears? I have several. So far, he has only one. Cockroaches.

We stand in the hallway and try to assign the job of cockroach soldier.

I tell him to be brave, that I’ll be right there behind him in battle.

He tells me that the cockroach always wins, so battle is suicide. Finally, we agree to do it together.

I go to the kitchen to grab a broom while he rifles through closets. We meet back in the hallway. He looks ridiculous.

He has on a knit hat, goggles and bright yellow kitchen gloves. He explains that his biggest fear is the cockroach touching his head. Or his skin.

Our plan is that I’ll hit the cockroach with the broom and once it is dead, he’ll pick it up and flush it down the toilet.

We take a deep breath and enter the bathroom.

Boldly, I walk right up to the shower curtain, holding my broom like a baseball bat. Crappy Husband is standing behind me.

I swing as hard as I can.

But at the last moment, the cockroach moves and instead I just hit the curtain, sending the cockroach careening through the air over my head.

And right toward Crappy Husband’s head. He drops to one knee and tries to shield himself as he prepares to die.

But it just misses him and lands on the floor.

It scurries toward my bare feet. I scream, throw the broom to Crappy Husband and try to jump up onto the toilet. The lid of the toilet isn’t down, so my feet perch on the slimy rim.

I almost slip and I scream at him to get it. He realizes he has survived the attack so he picks up the broom and smacks it down on the cockroach. He gets it.

However, he slams it down so forcefully that the broom snaps in half.

He’s still afraid of cockroaches.

COOKING

Crappy Husband cooks. I cook sometimes too. This is how he cooks:

He measures things and will not deviate from the recipe. If a recipe calls for seven celery sticks and we only have six, he will panic and go to the market. I’m not exaggerating.

If a recipe calls for 10 ounces of tomato paste and we have a can that is 12 ounces, he will measure it out and not use the measly extra two ounces. Must. Follow. Recipe.

He also uses every single pan and dish in the entire kitchen. I have no idea how a recipe with only three ingredients requires nine bowls, but it usually does. I’m very, very grateful for his cooking, but I loathe the food explosion in the kitchen after he is done.

This is how I cook:

Recipe amounts and ingredients are just
suggestions
. I approach cooking like an abstract painting. It’s art.

I clean as I go. I’m often washing the dishes and not noticing that things are burning or that my soup is boiling over. But at least the kitchen gets cleaned up.

Guess who’s the better cook? Hint: It isn’t me.

CARS IN THE COUCH

Once kids enter the picture, more stuff enters the picture. And less time to clean up all the stuff. As much as we could blame them, it really is our own doing.

Crappy Husband is looking for the remote so he lifts up one of the couch cushions.