Spaghetti Drama (She Said) . . .

Welcome to the first (but unlikely to be last) version of "he said/she said" here on Crack of Sean. 

For this delightful trip down memory lane, we will be regaling you with tales of the biggest, dumbest fight (of the four official ones we've had in the nearly three years we've known each other) we’ve ever had. Ever. And this should give you context in to how we actually roll at the Amore home - for better or for worse.  

Presented, without additional ado, is the "Great Spaghetti Fight of 2015."  Since chivalry is not (yet) dead in our life . . . let's get the "she said" perspective first. Presented below (with the ONLY editing done being removing my daughter's name from the post (long story short - I made a promise to her mother years ago to stop naming my ex-wife or our daughter by name on the blog (don't ask)) is SLF's memory of the incident in her own, eloquent words:

It was the evening of Saturday, May 2, 2015. In several hours, this man, whom I love dearly, would embark on his second half-marathon – the culmination of MONTHS of dedicated training. Seriously – he gets up at 4:45am most mornings to run for a couple of hours before he comes home to begin the day. Dedication. With a capital D. He also tends to get a little, shall we say, ramped up about big life events, so the mood around our house that evening was a bit tense to say the least.

So it’s evening. Sean and the kiddo were in the den, no doubt with some mind-numbing YouTube video playing in the background. I asked if anyone had any thoughts on dinner. No one did. I went into the kitchen, took an inventory, and decided to make spaghetti. I figured pasta=carbo-loading – everyone wins, right? Now, to be fair, I did not share my plans with anyone. No, “Hey, I’m gonna make spaghetti – any objections?” shouted into the abyss. I just went about my business. I’ve also been at this rodeo before, so I did not combine all the ingredients into a big pot of spaghetti like a normal person would. Instead, once the food was ready, I took orders. “Who wants just plain noodles with butter and cheese?” (Read: The eight-year-old) “Does anyone want just sauce and cheese (Read: The semi-kashrut Jew at the other end of the couch)?” Sean responded that he wasn’t interested in any of it. 

Thus began the fight.

I was annoyed. He hadn’t had any thoughts on dinner 20 minutes ago, but now he clearly did. But I wasn’t MAD yet. Just annoyed. And admittedly, being a bit passive aggressive. He came into the kitchen and asked if I was mad. In an effort to honor my promise to be more forthcoming with my “feelings,” I responded that yes, I was a little annoyed. To fix my annoyance, he started aggressively filling a bowl with ALL the spaghetti ingredients (while also storming around and swearing). He proceeded to eat it in silence over the course of the next hour. In case it wasn’t already abundantly clear, dinner conversation that evening was minimal.

Fast forward a few hours. The kiddo was in bed. Sean and I were still not speaking. At some point, I heard him vomiting in the bathroom, without mention. He eventually went to bed. I followed shortly thereafter, but not before completing my nighttime routine, which on this particular evening included cleaning regurgitated spaghetti sauce off the back of my toilet. So at this point, I realize that this man has eaten the spaghetti and then thrown it up. Which pissed me off WAY more than if he had just not eaten the spaghetti in the first place. Seriously. Grown man. Knows own limits. Ate spaghetti out of a) some misguided attempt to undo my annoyance, or b) some even MORE passive aggressive attempt to demonstrate what a bad idea spaghetti was, or c) spite alone. I. Was. Livid.

I don’t recall speaking to him upon entering our bedroom. I crawled into bed and stayed as far away from his as possible (which, frankly, is a surprising distance given that we are two morbidly obese people in a queen-sized bed, but whatever). There was no good night kiss, no “I love you,” no “Good luck with the race tomorrow.” Just anger. And at some point, this man, whom I love dearly, literally TEXTED me, “Good night. I love you.” From the other. side. of. the. bed. Which I blatantly, completely, overtly ignored. Livid.

The next morning, he got up and left for the race. I think I said, “Good luck,” but I’m not really sure. We met him at the finish line, proudly, supportively, lovingly. By this time, my anger had mostly subsided. I was also comforted by the knowledge that his angst about the race would be gone and we could get back to our regularly scheduled programming. And I was right. We had a very straightforward conversation in the car later that morning where he disclosed a story from his adolescence that ended in eating WAY too much spaghetti to the point of illness. It all became clear. (Truth be told, learning that made me ever-so-briefly even angrier with him that he KNEW he would have that reaction and ATE THE G.D. SPAGHETTI ANYWAY, but I got over it – ish.)

So the bottom line is, we don’t eat spaghetti anymore. Or lasagna. Or goulash. Or anything resembling pasta, tomato sauce, and meat. And I’m OK with that. If I have a brilliant idea for dinner, I also run it by the key stakeholders first to make sure there are no lifelong food aversions that will rear their ugly heads. And occasionally – OCCASIONALLY – we are able to joke about texting from the other side of the bed.

Goodonya', love. But TOMORROW - I tell my side.