The other day, I was cruising the Internet looking for something to buy, preferably a handbag. Not that I need a handbag - I don't - but I find that "revenge shopping" has a beneficial effect on my blood pressure. "Revenge shopping", in the Connie Staccato Dictionary of Real Life, is defined as "the purchase of an expensive but unnecessary object, brought on by one's husband acting like a rat bastard". My husband, Anthony, is very lucky in that most of my revenge shopping centers around wearables. I have heard of other women purchasing satellite dishes, cars, houses, horses, and/or face lifts. And, I say, good for them.
In the process, I ran across the following article:
"15 Easy One-Pot Recipes for Date Night"
I thought, "Are you kidding me? Date night for who?" I don't know what I found more offensive, the "Date Night" or the "One Pot".
Yeah, I know, we've all been there, making dinner for our sweeties. And it was probably fun. But, done right, it was a spectacular display of our domestic divinity, designed to make the man our slave. Forget the 50-Shades-of-Whatever bullshit; what man has any hope of resisting a woman who can make a zabaione in high heels?
To be fair, my neighbor, Ruthie, does the at-home-dinner-date thing all the time with her husband. BUT - and this is important - even though they're at home, they dress up (at least she does, he just doesn't take off his tie), have a good bottle of wine, and create some actual cuisine, which Ruthie is quite good at, in spite of the fact that her maternal ancestors came from north of the Arctic Circle. But "Easy One-Pot" doesn't sound like cuisine to me It sounds like an excuse not to go out.
And that needs to be nipped in the bud. Because, all too easily, it goes from One-Pot Date Night to "Hey, Wend, bring me a beer. What's for dinner?"
Maybe the article was written for guys - that would sort of make sense - or by a guy, though it seemed to be gender-neutral. For the record, let me say that - in my own experience - there is very little about gender that's neutral. The next gaguzz I hear say, "We're pregnant," is going to get the back of my hand. "We" are not pregnant, "we" are going to be parents; she's pregnant. If you don't want to take my word for it, then just wait until you're watching her writhing in pain, cursing your Saint's Day. I promise, she'll never really forgive you unless you've regularly taken her to nice places and given her good jewelry. Then maybe.
Start now, for insurance. And it's never too late.