A Hotdog

I've lived with my husband longer than I've lived without him, so you would assume that he would know my likes and dislikes. For the most part I think he does, but every once in awhile he comes up with a whopper of a a misjudgment that leaves us both dumbfounded and wondering who exactly are we married to?



Last week we had tickets to the Cardinals game. Most native St. Louisans would be giddy and decked out in red from head to toe, they would call their family and friends to tell them to watch for them on T.V, they would take a ball glove in the off chance that a foul ball would come their way and they would participate in The Wave, the hat dance on the jumbotron and any other number of fan participation gimicks. I am not a native St. Louisan so I was wearing a green and white shirt and was happy that we missed the first inning, I would probably duck and scream if a ball came my way and I sat leisurely clapping while stuffing another bite of my son's cotton candy in my mouth when the Cards made their first homerun. I go to the game for the hotdogs and crackerjacks, period. I like a hotdog the moment I get to the stadium. I find my seat and then one of us goes after all the goods. This time my husband and my father-in-law made the journey to the concession stand. As I sat through an inning thinking about my hotdog smothered in ketchup and relish, my mouth watered and I had a hard time concentrating on my son's repeated questions about how cotton candy is made and his amazement that it came in multiple colors.

Finally, I spied my husband loaded down with six hotdogs and I sat on the edge of my seat excited and drooling. Three of the hotdogs went to my father-in-law, yes, I said three. His hotdogs were smeared with a big glop of mustard. I thought, huh, well, to each their own, the guy obviously likes mustard and a lot of hotdogs. I saw my husband grab his two plain hotdogs, the guy has never put anything on his hotdog, I know this because I pay attention to what my husband's likes and dislikes are, it's important to me to know all the little trivial things like that. It's nice to know these things, so when we go somewhere we can just gaze at each other and know what the other person wants and no energy is spent actually speaking. So you can imagine my surprise, my utter astonishment, my annoyance, my disappointment, my "are you kidding me, how long have we been married?" when he handed me my hotdog slathered with mustard and he said, "Here, I put mustard on it, thought you would like that." Since when?

Later, he explained that he saw his dad putting a bunch of mustard on his hotdogs and he knew that I would want something on my hotdog and the mustard looked like a good idea, so that's the direction he chose.

I didn't want him to feel bad, so I pretended to enjoy the hotdog by gagging and coughing and sputtering and panicking for a drink of soda. But to really drive the point of his stupidity home I said, "I'm going to blog about this."

Honey, FYI.....Hotdog with ketchup and relish, that's how I like them. Never just mustard, never.