Trena Eiden

Yesterday Gar and I were standing in the kitchen when he looked down and saw he’d missed doing up a middle button on his shirt. He raised his eyebrows at me and quipped, “Well, lookie there, only half dressed, but leaving every other button undone really saves time.” 

Our toaster broke a few months ago so the next time we were in a store selling toasters, we bought one. Getting home, Gar took the new one from its box. It had a couple settings we’d never seen before so Gar said he’d figure it out while I put things away. A few minutes later, I walked through the living room and glanced over at Gar, sitting on the couch hunched over, reading. He had his glasses on, which he only uses to decipher tax forms, trusts, contracts, deeds or documents. I figured the new appliance must contain nuclear codes so I left him to it. Thirty minutes later, he motioned me into the kitchen where he proceeded to give me a lecture. He leaned toward me and with a serious expression, said, “This isn’t just a toaster, this is “A TOASTER,” and the directions said that what I’m about to tell you is ‘very important,’ so listen carefully. This snowflake button is for frozen breads only and it just positively can’t be pushed in, until the knob has been pushed down to start the toaster first. That’s very important, critical. There are extra wide slots for thick items like bagels and there’s a setting just for that, and it’s crucial that the bagels are put in with the cut side in. That’s just imperative — the cut side in.” I started to giggle but he sternly put his hand up in a, “stop that right now” gesture. Staying in character with the solemness of a mortician, he uncapped a bright, yellow highlighter. I frowned and asked what he was doing, and he gravely replied, “The instructions said, of all that was important in these directions, it is flat-out essential that for pastries we use the absolute lowest setting, so I’m highlighting it.” I watched him a second then said, “You do know, I’m putting that paper in a drawer and we’ll never see it again.” Gar nodded, “Yes, I know, but the kids will inherit this toaster and they’ll need to know how to run it.” 

That’s the “super duper alley ooper” side of my squeeze. Then there’s that other side. A few months back we found ourselves in downtown Houston traffic at 5 p.m. I texted a friend, “While sitting in bumper-to-bumper congestion, it makes me grateful for a husband who handles it so well. He says being stuck in a gridlock gives us more time together, and then he merrily whistles a catchy tune.” Total fabrication. 

The other day I told Gar that I often run into folks who say they read my columns, then almost always, they quickly add, “Your husband is a saint.” Gar nodded then replied, “Ya, I need a Go-Fund-Me for Gar.” 

One day I was reaching around him for a Kleenex and wacked him in the head with my elbow. I pursed my lips and said, “Do you think maybe I meant to do that?” He nodded, “Probably.” Then he said, “I just read about females like you. I think I’m a male in the Latrodectus spider family. I make all the right moves to win her over, and she seems to like me, but then she tries to kill me.” 

We went out for a burger last week, and I had half of mine left so I put it in the fridge for the following day’s lunch. The next morning, I put the half burger in my food bag, then busied myself making coffee and breakfast. As I made our lunches, I fixed a whole sandwich for Gar and a half for me, then as I went to put it in my lunch container, it hit me that I’d already put the burger in there. Lord help. Soon Gar came to the kitchen and announced, “I just sprayed eye drops up my nose instead of saline nasal spray. Shaking my head, I told him my sandwich story and we bared our teeth at each other in a grimace, then tittered. I said, “You know, if we were sane, we’d worry. We don’t, but we should, somebody should.” Gar nodded, “Don’t tell the kids. With them we can show no weakness. They’d consider today our final warning and they’d make a few phone calls.”