It should really come as no surprise that DH hated...HATED the dishes.
I mean, was there ever anything that he really loved, other than himself?
But the dishes were just awful. The texture was wrong. The weight was wrong. The color was wrong. Even the sound they made was wrong. Who ever knew one could be so wronged by a dinner plate?
The suffering caused by my dishes was so profound that DH could simply not start out the day by eating off them. He would tolerate them at dinnertime, with a scowl and a two snotty comment minimum. But never, ever at breakfast.He much preferred the three white Corningware plates and two Tupperware bowls he had taken from his first wife in his first divorce. Now those were acceptable breakfast dishes. I hear she pitched quite a fit when he took them, breaking up the set and all.
I probably should not have been surprised at the course of my telephone conversation with DH today.
A regular old person, who had never before encountered DH's utter lack of reasoning skills, might have greeted his conversation with a jaw drop to the floor.
But I...no, I should not have been surprised at all.
He told me I could have the dishes.
How kind, seeing as they were a gift from my mom and he despised them. I was nearly moved to tears by his generous offer.
And to think I have accused him of never giving me anything?
But could I just please leave him a couple bowls and, maybe, three plates? After all, there are so many of them.
Hiding my momentary confusion with indignant laughter, it dawned on me that this must be his trademark.
Like Jack the Ripper or the Masked Bandit.
Two bowls and three plates. The women he leaves behind will always be recognized by their inability to provided table service for more than nine and a half guests.
And he...two more wives and he'll have a full set of dinner plates.