I have a very observant husband. As a writer and reporter, John can walk into a room and immediately discern the piece of a display starting to peel away from the wall or the tense vibe between his interviewee and the customer walking out the door. He’s not quite worthy of Psych or The Mentalist, but it would take me intentional examination and note taking to walk away with what John picks up on instinct.
His observation skills do have a hang-up, though. Namely: me.
Our summer tradition has been to end each day with Netflix television and a bowl of ice cream. John only has chocolate ice cream, because it’s his favorite. I refuse to eat only chocolate, so we now have “his” and “hers” flavors in our freezer. Recently, I’ve been eating orange serbert with Sprite. Basically, punch. I’m a fan of light and refreshing!
Last night, John proposed our ice cream ritual earlier than usual, while I was busy transferring some pictures to my computer. “Ya, I’d like some ice cream,” I mumbled. My chivalrous man went to do the dishing himself. When he came back empty-handed I puzzled as to where my serbet was. His pause was concerning. “I dished you up chocolate ice cream but put them back in the freezer to wait until you’re done,” he confessed. “You said ‘ice cream’ not ‘serbet.'”
I had assumed it went without saying that I wanted my ice cream, which might not be ice cream by definition, but who speaks that technical? I laughed, but told him I’d put syrup and peanuts on it and turn it into a sundae. He left to fetch the ice cream, I finished my photos. I had just risen to go make my sundae, which I was actually starting to crave at this point, when he walked in with a bowl of serbet. “It’s ice cream; it’s not like you can’t put it back,” he said nonchalantly, settling into the couch and queuing up Netflix.
I wanted to say that – actually – I wanted the serbet in a glass. With Sprite poured over it. With the rest of the can sitting on the end table for refills…like I always have when I buy serbet. It’s why I always buy both ingredients at the same time. But I chose a higher road, called him a sweetheart, and ate what he had so thoughtfully provided.
So why ruin my noble intentions by spelling out his error in a public blog which he reads? Because of lack-of-observation story #2.
John made my lunch kit this morning. I love craisins and have been eating them like candy lately. John decided to make me a craisin-trail mix. He’s done it before; I approve of the craisins and peanut blend. But today he decided to make it “true” trail mix and add chocolate chips. I was surprised because he and my college roommate bonded over making fun of my apathy – often dislike – of chocolate chips. “Only a few,” he assured me before I headed out the door.
He lied. That man drowned my trail mix with the bitter semi-sweet Hershey’s morsels! I had to dump it all out on my desk to pick them out and now one of my most utilized reference sheets at work is spotted with peanut grease.
And since I don’t think he’ll notice this tense vibe walking in the door when I get home, I just write it. In plain English. A reporter may relax his perception when he gets home at night, but he should still be able to read!
Any bets that, tonight, I’ll get my serbet in a glass?