MY HUSBAND TAKES A STAND!

A few days ago, I posted dark thoughts about watching TV with my husband during the pandemic (See "MURDER, She Wrote"). Not long afterwards, he approached me with a serious expression on his face and a sheet of paper in his hand. 

"We have to talk." 

I was totally unnerved by this. You have to understand that my husband never wants to talk. For example, he would rather wash a hundred dishes by hand after a holiday dinner than converse with stray family members. And even when we're alone, he is perfectly capable of going several hours without uttering a syllable. (On our first dates, when he didn't talk, I fantasized that he was a brooding soul with a mysterious past, like Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights. Turns out, he wasn't.) 

So anyhow, I was nervous. 

"What's wrong?" 

 

"I know I gave you permission to use me as your designated doofus in these posts, but this last one about me and television-- It's just wrong." 

 

"What do you mean?" 

"I mean, you're a lot worse than I am." 

"For instance?" 

 

He raised the sheet of paper, which I realized was actually a list. "For instance. You like to crunch on Snyder's pretzel rods while we're watching a show. I have missed whole chunks of dialogue while you crunch." 

 

"I think you're exaggerating." 

"Am I? Am I really?" He looked back down at his sheet. "You also seem to need to go to the bathroom every 10 minutes." 


"Well, it's hard for me to focus on the show when I have a full bladder." 

"You can't stay focused two minutes before the end of a season finale?" He looked at me skeptically, muttered something about too much Diet Coke, then glanced again at the paper. "There's also the little problem of the running commentary you provide concerning story logic." 

"Hey, I'm sorry if I don't believe that tens of thousands of zombies can possibly be getting enough to eat on a regular basis. Or that none of the Bachelors and Bachelorettes have figured out that there will ALWAYS be a contestant there for the wrong reason."

"But did you have to point out during Finding Nemo that there's no way Dory could have learned to read English? And did you have to tell our grandson?" 

"Well…" 

He sighed. "And then there's your research addiction. When I said that the boss on Killing Eve looked familiar, I was NOT asking you to dive into IMDB at that exact moment and read all her screen credits to me. And when I said I liked that one song on The Morning Show, it was NOT a directive to immediately Google the Episode 6 soundtrack and tell me it was 'Let's Burn Down the Cornfield.'" 

I peeked at my phone. "Sung by Lou Rawls." 

"STOP IT! JUST STOP!" He regained his composure. "But the worst is when we're watching the Bears. I know you're not into sports and that you're trying to show some interest. But telling me that you think the single-color uniforms are ugly, or asking me which side has the ball, or wondering if we really have to watch the last two minutes—I'm telling you, you are dancing with death." 

He put the paper down in front of me. "I'm sorry. But a man can only take so much." 

He turned and strode proudly back to his den, leaving me to reread the list—which went on for a full page-- and ponder what he had said. And, well, he may be kind of right. So I tried to think of a way to admit my guilt and share the truth with all of you. 

This post is my solution. And I pledge to cut down on the Diet Coke and find a non-crunchy substitute for pretzel rods.