Killer Fiction

He doesn’t need me anymore. Or so he says.

Well, I never thought I’d hear these words from my husband’s mouth, but he said them. I was working in my office, trying to make my deadline when he walked in. He stopped in front of my desk, looked me right in the eyes and said, “I don’t need you anymore.”

I stopped writing, stared up at him through my lashes. Now, I’ll admit my chest tightened just a little bit. “Really,” I asked. Then I saw the evidence on his cheek, and I knew exactly what led to this conversation. And it wasn’t lipstick from another woman, either.

“Hmm…” I said. “So your fried chicken turned out that good, huh?”

“Yup, it’s awesome.” He had a little flour smeared on his face, his smile was chockfull of male ego, a smile he reserves for special occasions when he thinks he’s accomplished something really extraordinary. (He can be good at extraordinary, too, but that’s a different blog.)

“I guess I don’t get any credit that I told you how to cook it, huh?” I asked.

“Nope, you should never share your recipes, because all that matters is that now I can cook it for myself. Which means you are no longer indispensible. ”

“You know. . . ” I grinned and offered him my sassy look. “I do more around here than just cook. You sure you don’t need me? And hey, how about we do some bartering.”

He hesitated, but, what can I say, he must have been really hungry, because he told me. “I don’t know. It’s finger-licking good. ”

Feeling slightly rejected, I wasn’t taking his word about his grand accomplishment. I popped up from my desk and went to sample this piece of fried meat that had led to my husband’s flour-smudged face and hurtful words.

Men, can you believe them? I mean, I tell this man how to do it. Explain the pitfalls—make sure the grease is hot enough, make sure the chicken is coated really well--and he manages to fry up a couple of breasts and he thinks he doesn’t need me anymore. And here’s the really terrible thing. His assessment of his accomplishment was dead-on. It was darn good fried chicken. And to be honest, he’d recently mastered rice, cream potatoes, and jiffy cake topped with homemade icing.

Yup, Mr. Craig has turned into Mr. Mom. Why, you may ask? Well, since I’m writing two series, pulling at least ten hours a day, at least six days a week, he’s stepped up to the plate. Or rather, he stepped up to prepare the stuff that fills the plates.

Now, while I’ll admit that he’s mastered some fine Southern cuisine, I’m still working on some of the other Mr. Mom job requirements. Funny thing is that later that day, his Mr. Mom status dropped a notch. I gave him the duty of washing the bed sheets. Now, he’s no stranger to working the washing machine, so I couldn’t see how he could fail. But that evening, when I crawled into bed and I reached for my pillow . . . well, I noticed that my pillow had arms.

Mr. Mom had accidentally put one of his white T-shirts on the pillow instead of a pillow case. “How could you not see it was a T-shirt?” I asked chuckling.

His answer was even funnier than the pillow. “I must have been too busy watching Oprah.“

We both lay in bed laughing and right then, I reminded him of something else he needed me for. And don’t go assuming anything here. I mean, he needed me and, I’ll even admit it, I need him, for the laughter. Oh, the other stuff is nice too, but there is nothing like having a good ol’ fashioned laugh-until-you-hurt session with someone you love. We’re coming up on our twenty-six year anniversary and let me tell you, we can still make each other laugh. And that’s even better than fried chicken.

So what’s going on in your world lately? What crazy thing has someone in your life done? Are you laughing enough? Are you enjoying the company of someone you love? I hope-- even if you’re like me and working too many hours--that you can say you love what you’re doing. I hope that you still find the time to count your blessings, to laugh, to occasionally indulge in good food, have a little wine, and even better, some great company.