“Which shoe looks better?” , she asks and stands there assuming I will be able to tell the difference between two black high heeled shoes that, I swear to you, look like they came from the same box. You know what happens, right? I say, “They look the same to me.” She says, “Oh you’re no help.” And she is right.
Now I always say, “Wow, you look hot. I like the ones on the right.” She says I always say that. And she is right. Because it doesn’t matter what I say. She will tell me the right answer.
For instance, tonight: Mandy is heading to Harris Teeter to “make groceries” (as they say in New Orleans). She asks me what I want for lunch tomorrow. I don’t care isn’t going to be the right answer…I know this. She is going to get a specific answer.
I ponder tomorrow night’s festivities and know that the unavoidable caloric juggernaut that is Super Bowl Party food will be sufficiently bad for me. So I asked her to get me some turkey dogs and whole wheat buns. She makes a face, “The kids don’t like hot dogs and neither do I.” No hot dogs.
I query, “Well how about leftover Southern Soul BBQ?’ She says that after my 8 year old finishes her dinner tonight, it will be gone. No Southern Soul.
So I suggest 132 other things, only to get a few no’s and a whole lot of Mandystares. Here it is…”Okay Dear, what do I want?”
She’ll tell me in her own due time. Out come the cookbooks and 15 minutes later it is decided and proclaimed: we are having slow cooked beef tacos with some fancy sauce and name. Sounds better than turkey dogs.
Couldn’t she have just decided that asking me beforehand is an exercise in futility? No. She needs me.
In the end, I play the game. She will tell me the answer and she will look hot as always and I will always get a better meal than I deserve. I am a smart man.