Last night as The Wife and I were heading to bed, she gave me The List of her favorite things– that I need to leave alone, and that if I do, I’ll be all right in her book, or maybe I should say if I leave her alone, I won’t be marked down in her book.
What prompted this recitation, of all things, was my going to get a handkerchief from a drawer in our dresser.
She: “That’s not the plaid handkerchief, is it?”
She: “Because that’s my favorite handkerchief and I don’t want you using it.”
She: “I told you, because that’s my favorite handkerchief and I don’t want you using it.”
Me: “No, why is it so special?”
She: “It’s like 30 years old and it’s all old and soft and it’s like my num-num.” [As if they now use sandpaper for handkerchiefs NOW?]
Me: “It’s 30 years old?!?”
[Addendum: “It came from Tracey Dooley’s dead grandfather,” she tells me today. “I like hankies. She hooked me up.”]
She then told me, though, not also was this plaid handkerchief– which if I might say, is one of the ugliest handkerchiefs ever stitched into existence, no matter whether 1978 or 2008– her favorite handkerchief, but also that the orange handkerchief was her favorite handkerchief. [Probably because the green contrasts so nicely with the orange when you blow your nose, you know?]
For some reason, I then asked her if the handkerchiefs were left alone, then that’s all she needed (a la Steve Martin in The Jerk).
She: “Well that and the pens…” (For her holy view of pens, see here.)
Me: “So just those two handkerchiefs and the pens?”
She: “Well, no, there’s more…”
Me: “Wait, I have to write this down.” [at which point I proceeded to get a notebook to transcribe all that follows herein]
She: “My Chapsticks.
Italian bread — the heel.
The piece of pizza — the one with with the bubble of cheese in the middle.
And the heel on the meatloaf.”
So as you can see The Wife is a simple, kindhearted soul who doesn’t need much (not that I’m saying she is a jerk, mind you).