Patrick Butler: Another Look

Janet walked into the kitchen the other day as I was busy doing her a “favor” by cleaning up. I normally congratulate myself on doing kitchen work and wait for a compliment about how different I am from “other” husbands. This attitude, of course, negates any nobility the simple act of sharing responsibility entails, but that requires introspection and I don’t want to go there.

So when Janet walked in, I was busy cleaning out a plastic container, awaiting her compliment as I looked the other way “concentrating” on what I was doing.

“What are you doing?” she asked. Her tone had definite shades of surprise.

“Just tidying up,” I said. “Actually, it’s been quite a chore. I’m just finishing.” I held the plastic container to the light to make sure it was “sparkly” clean, revealing my handiwork to her.

There was silence. A bad sign.

“Um, do you realize you’ve cleaned a disposable container sandwiches come in?” she said. “I mean, I appreciate your effort, but …” and trailed off.

“I hate it when she won’t finish a sentence,” I thought irritably, avoiding the obvious and mentally changing the subject. “As if the conclusion is so-o-o-o obvious. As if I should run through the entire realm of possible conclusions and pick one. It’s mentally exhausting.”

Like when Janet calls work to ask, “What do you want for dinner?”

“How about lasagna?” I’ll say.

“Too much work,” she’ll say. “I’m tired.”

“I could buy frozen lasagna and heat it up,” I’ll suggest.

“I didn’t like it much last time that way,” she’ll say.

“OK, how about some salmon? I’ll grill it.”

“I don’t feel like having fish tonight.”

“OK, hamburgers,” I’ll say. “Quick, easy …”

“The meat is frozen and it will take too long to thaw.”

“Let’s just buy some more.”

“I really don’t want red meat,” she’ll say.

“Why didn’t you just say that the first time?”

“I had to think about it,” she’ll say.

And so forth. Now I just say, “It doesn’t matter. You’ll say ‘no’ to everything. Why don’t we skip the ritual and just get to what you want?”

One time I added, “Is this some kind of wifely obligation thing to satisfy yourself that you’re a good wife by at least asking?”

“Aren’t I a good wife?” she asked, sounding hurt over the phone.

Ouch. Now I’d done it. I’d crossed the line and hurt my sweet, loyal friend. I knew it meant flowers and clawing the carpet. It meant doing things like cleaning up the kitchen to show I appreciate all she does on my behalf all the time.

Which is what I was doing when she came in and saw me cleaning the disposable plastic thingy. I’d grabbed it, thinking some manufacturer was cutting back quality in this 21st century disposable society. Instead of a compliment I didn’t deserve, I was embarrassed.

“So, you mean what?” I asked sort of peevishly, putting the container down.

“The plastic is so thin, I wouldn’t use it again,” she said lightly. “It’s too much work.”

“I don’t know,” I said grasping for escape. “It can be reused.”

“Throwing it away is supposed to free you up to do something important, though,” she said. “It’s not worth the effort.”

“Really?” I said, voice rising. “What’s more important than taking on corporations wanting to hook us on ease by making products that don’t last so we’ll end up working longer and harder to buy more and more things to replace shoddy items that won’t work?”

I started waving the container in the air. Janet stepped back and gave me room.

“How about our new hundred-dollar computer printer breaking after 10 months?” I raved. “Not even worth repairing.” The ad said it could do anything.” Except work for a year, I guess. My cell phones regularly give up the ghost and I have to buy new ones because everyone I made appointments with, I foolishly gave that number, and I’ll offend everyone if I don’t get a new one fast.”

“It’s just a sandwich container,” said Janet with arms folded.

“It matters not,” I said, wagging a finger in the air. “It’s the point. I can see the future; TV go out? Dump it. Washing machine dies? Forget about it. Car breaks down? Throw it away and get a new one. What’s more important than standing against that?”

“I don’t know,” she said shaking her head. “Why don’t you write a column about shoddy products?”

“OK,” I said, airily tossing the clean plastic container into the trash. “I will,” I said and left.

But sitting at the keyboard, I took another look; Obfuscation doesn’t work with God. I’d made a serious subject silly to cover my strategy. I stared at the keyboard. I had nothing to write about.

I sighed and went back to Janet to confess and apologize. Sometimes I think marriage is about learning this practical spiritual exercise. God knows it’s a good thing to do. After all, how do many people get things right with God?

“I forgive you,” Janet said, smiling sweetly as usual. Giving me a hug, she said, “So, what do you want for dinner?”

Patrick Butler
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