Friday, October 10, 2014

In My Mind

You know what  I need?  I need a little projector built into my head, so that the lens comes out of my forehead.  I need a projector in my mind to show people what I really mean, because clearly something gets lost between my my mind, my mouth, and their mind.

The other day a friend was telling me about her go-to dish for parties. She loves making antipasto.  Salami, pastrami, olives, cheeses, some veggies like tomatoes and cucumbers. I listened raptly as she described the platter.  Yes, I thought, I need to do this!

I got it in my head to take the kids on a hike. We needed to get out of the house and the fresh air would do us all good.  I also wanted to have a surprise picnic.  A picnic of antipasto! Yes! Yes!  What a fabulous surprise for them.  I had it all arranged in my head. I would wake them in the morning and spring the hike idea on them. The older ones would be grumpy, the younger ones less so. We would drive to a beautiful area, get out of the van, have the fresh air hit us and suddenly be in perfect harmony with one another.  We'd probably even see a bald eagle.  It would be amazing.  At the end of our hike we would be tired and hungry and then I would spring the real surprise on them!  Antipasto platter hidden in the cooler.  Oh, yes. I would be adored.  They would remember this as one of the most special moments of their lives.

I was just thinking of how tired I was, and how little I actually wanted to go to Wal-Mart to fetch my fabulous supplies when my husband mentioned going to the store.

"Do you need anything?" he asked.

"Actually,"  I replied, " I do."

I filled him in on my Fabulous Plan. He seemed keen.  Well, he nodded his head.  I asked for salami, fabulous cheese, olives, and some fancy crackers.

"You know, so I can put together something fabulous like the Barefoot Contessa. Okay?  Get some good stuff."  I re-iterated my Fabulous Plan.  He again nodded his head in what I took as comprehension.

I went to bed.

In the middle of the night I awoke thinking of my Fabulous Plan.  I poked my husband, "Hey, did you get the stuff I asked for?"

"Yes. I did. Don't talk to me anymore,"  he mumbled back.

The next morning I pulled the cooler into the kitchen, giddy with excitement.  A hike!  An antipasto platter!  My joy would be complete!

I could find none of the objects of my desire.  I went deeper.  I moved the eggs. Finally, underneath a bottle of dressing, still in the plastic sack, I found what I was looking for.

Well, not really what I was looking for.

I found some Oscar Meyer salami, a package of American cheese, and a jar of baby dills.  There was also a box of saltines on the kitchen table.

I went to the window to put some distance between me and the demise of my antipasto platter.  I noticed it looked like rain.  I felt a funk coming on. On my second cup of coffee, though, I felt like I had a handle on the situation.

I had a moment of clarity after the coffee had taken effect. Each and every time I had ever asked my husband for something and ended up with a something completely different from my original vision  flashed before my eyes. The time I wanted a lavender bedroom and he surprised me with Barney-purple walls. The time I asked him if he could trim the boys' hair for me and he shaved them practically bald. The time I had the flu and asked him to get me a great movie and he brought home Riddick. The time I told him we really needed new curtains for our bedroom and he brought home black sheets to hang over the window.  (Those black sheets still are my curtains. HELP.)

You get the idea.

The coffee combined with the stark difference between my dream and reality shed some light on the situation.  Men and women obviously come with different pictures in their heads. All of my pictures come from Better Homes and Garden, HGTV, and the Food Network.  All of Lee's pictures come from the Dollar General ad. He can't help it if he doesn't have the right pictures in his head.

I can help him with that though. I just need to put the right pictures in his head.

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