Chicago mom on the strain of marriage

My husband threw away my kitchen sink strainers.

Let’s just allow that to sink in for a moment.

After “emotional cruelty” and “alienation of affection,” I believe kitchen sink strainers may be the number one cause of divorce today.

Now to be fair, Joe did run out beforehand and buy $2.99 replacement strainers. These were the kind with mesh wiring to catch the gunk. He said he hated my old strainers and the new ones were “better.”

Untested, sure. But somehow “better.”

The kids immediately jumped on board with dad, for no other reason than his strainers were newer and sexier.

My sons will have absolutely no problem welcoming dad’s trophy wife one day.

As Joe dumped my reliable and non-mesh strainers into the trash, I suggested we wait to see how the new strainers work out before we abandoned the old ones.

He would have none of it. He even had Danny take the garbage out to the alley to solidify his point.

And two days later, both $2.99 mesh strainers were broken and mangled, having never successfully retained a full sink of water.

I tried other ones from Target. They sucked. Home Depot’s strainers weren’t much better. I was left to order an assortment of new options from Amazon while jamming washrags in the sink to create a basin of soapy water.

And all the while, Joe maintained a complete façade of innocence, returning my angry glares with the most angelic of expressions, as though I wasn’t entitled to a single “I told you so.”

You don’t ever rob this crazy lady of an “I told you so.”

So I went a little nuts. There was arm waving. Maybe some colorful language. Perhaps I whipped the mangled broken mesh strainer across the living room.

Joe offered up the weakest of apologies:

“The Canadian Sorry.”

I call it that because Joe doesn’t pronounce the word like most Americans. He goes the Canadian route where it sounds more like “soiree.”

He’s cheating and he knows it.

Finally, my selection arrived:

After much testing and debating, I found the most reliable of strainers to be the plastic plunger looking one:

I happily filled up an entire sink of sudsy water that I knew wouldn’t immediately drain away. Peace and order were restored to the galaxy.

Until Joe approached and mumbled something about the new strainer not being able to collect gunk.

And that’s when I realized the fatal flaw of my new plastic strainer.

It totally doesn’t hurt when, say, thrown at a husband who needs to learn when to walk away.

And pronounce “sorry” correctly.

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