I'm not saying they do it on purpose... In fact, I just made it abundantly clear by using scientific evidence that they can't help it. Geneticists all over the world have done extensive studies on why men only hear what they want to hear and they actually isolated the "I'm Not Ignoring You, I Just Am Not Able To Pay Attention To Anything You Say That Doesn't Involve Sex Or Football" DNA particle. Don't believe me? Then come to my house on any given night and listen to my husband ask me the same questions he's asked me 145,747,839,302 times before and then insist that the subject has never come up and I don't know what I'm talking about.
In his mind, he is the innocent victim of my inability to communicate effectively.
It's a scenario that takes place night after night, on couches, at kitchen tables, and in bedrooms all over the world.
Dan is fairly picky, food-wise. (Which is shocking, considering he looks like he's never missed a meal.) If it isn't something he mother made (Hamburger Helper, Rice-a-Roni, frozen fried chicken, or any large hunk of animal flesh served with potatoes and corn), then he's iffy, at best, and is usually pretty sure he won't like it. (In no way do I blame his mother... she had to cook for the pickiest eaters on the face of the planet. If it wasn't meat and potatoes, it wasn't getting eaten. She has my deepest sympathy.) Over the years, I've introduced him to many different foods that he's never eaten before, and literally every single time I cook one of these "weird" foods, he claims I've never made it. Which I have. Many, many times.
Dan called from work, as he usually does, around 3:00-ish. Also per usual, he asked what's for dinner.
Me: *answering even though I knew exactly what was going to follow* "Frittata."
Me: "FRITTATA. FRITTATA. FRI. TAW. TUH. FRITTATA."
Dan: "Fri-what, now?"
Me: "Fri. Taw. Tuh."
Dan: "What the hell is that?"
Me: "The same thing it was the last 200 times I've made it."
Dan: "You've never made that."
Me: "Yes, I have. It's the egg thingy I make, with ham and cheese."
Dan: "You mean an omelette?"
Me: *remaining calm... I'm a SAINT, people* "If I meant omelette I would have said omelette. It's like a crustless quiche. You like it. I usually serve it with crusty bread and a salad."
Dan: "So it's like an omelette."
Me: "No, Dan, it's like a frittata. Because that's what it is."
Dan: "So is the ham and cheese and stuff inside of it, like an omelette?"
Me: *giving up on Sainthood* "Seriously? Dan... it's a frittata. It's like quiche, only with no crust. I cook it in the oven, cut it into wedges, and then we eat it. Like quiche. Only without crust. Because it's a frittata. I send the leftovers to work with you in the morning for breakfast. We have it probably once a month or so."
Dan: "So what's it called again?"
We go through the same spiel if I make tamales, enchiladas, fruit salad (I know, right? He can't get it through his head that fruit salad is just cut up fruit. He always wants to know if there's Jello in it. NO, THERE'S NO FREAKING JELLO IN FRUIT SALAD. IT'S CUT UP FRUIT. PERIOD. THE END. GAHHHHH!), chili verde...
It's enough to make me crazy.
I also think it's a good enough reason to smother him with a pillow while he sleeps.
(I kid, I kid... Or do I?)
Here's what I know, with absolute certainty: The sun will rise and set, the earth will spin on it's axis, and Dan will come home tonight and say, "Now, what do you call this again?"
Mark my words.