Frigid stare.
If I parked a sparkly new Corvette on our freezer’s eye level shelf or deposited a shiny diamond in the vegetable crisper, my husband would just hold the door open and gape. For seconds which seem like days. In full view of a wife who wants to save on electric bills. He’ll make his selection languidly among his stash of flavored popsicles, allowing the door to swing back of its own accord. He’ll already be out of the kitchen before the door re-seals.
Opening the pantry door to find the chips, his preferred snack – forget about quick! A monster truck smashes the pantry door…the same reaction.
The TV is on and football is already mid-season. He’s fixedly staring at the TV screen, absently sucking on that ‘sicle.
His habits are as predictable as the fact that Buffalo Bills perennially lose. Could one imagine a winning team in Buffalo, NY, the purgatory of frigid air? You don’t have to imagine that my husband sucking on iced pops when it’s fall in CA – because he is.
But I digress.
My snack attacks are instant, so it’d be unthinkable to hold the fridge or pantry door open and just stare. I’m in and out of our various repositories for food in nano-seconds, already chomping an apple or a snack bar before he’s made a choice.
Interestingly I’m the one who dawdles over dinner selection at a restaurant, whether it be fast food burgers or pizza toppings or upscale fusion faire or open kitchen chic.
Not because it’s a male vs. female style. It’s not precisely that I’m indecisive.
I’m a grammar scamp eager to notice a misplaced comma or misspelling – and I adore words. The menu copy of a splendid new restaurant, especially a themed one, is stuffed with fancy and exuberance. Every item tantalizes.
That’s when my eyes dawdle, stupified by prose, seeking the story and/or the dynamic ingredient mix that will not only satisfy my taste buds – and not add poundage to my hips – but change my life with its digested arc.
So I stare. Nevermind. The waiter will come again.
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