PMS

Last night at dinner Mr. G made a face. Not a face you’d recognize, not even a face the rest of his family would recognize. He has a peculiar way of pushing food around while mini-sneering and then taking smaller than necessary bites. Only 15 years of marriage and a few extra for dating would make that face a recognizable one.

He didn’t like my dinner.

Mr. G then failed every IQ test ever administered and said, “I don’t really like this cut of meat. Maybe next time you can get something else.”

So I calmly explained to him that it wasn’t the cut of beef he didn’t like it was the marinade. It was missing an ingredient. Then he persisted and said that it was the cut of beef and he didn’t like skirt steak and I had to explain to him that loves skirt steak, that it’s marbled and flavorful and perfect for the grill because the fat just sizzles out and the cut is thin enough to hold all the marinade. He didn’t relent and I think I tried to smile but it may have appeared as more of a snarl.

Then in a positively suicidal moment he said, “Is it time for the red tide?” And I didn’t even try to smile at that point, because he was like, “First there was all that assembly and then there was the window washing, is there any chance that I don’t like this cut of meat and you’re just having that time?”

So I bought the biggest fucking soy sauce I could find. Mr. G will get his skirt steak with the marinade done properly and he’ll find out that he (like every red blooded American) does like skirt steak and then he’ll recognize that none of this has anything to do with time of the month.

Or maybe he’ll just learn to not say anything and to keep his own damn chart and then he would have known with certainty that it is indeed a very dangerous time of the month.