Spouses typically come with a host of quirks and strong opinions. My husband is no exception. Despite years of begging him to stop, Joe advises anyone who listens that:
Cheering for the Cubs will lead to a lifetime of heartache.
Giordano’s Pizza sucks.
There is a “right” and “wrong” version of words.
I argue constantly that grown adults are not required to adhere to his standards of sports, pizza and verbiage. He shakes his head and insists I’m mistaken. With his somewhat stubborn take on the world, there are universal and indisputable truths to life and living. He figures helping people find the light is the only decent thing to do.
Thankfully, most of our friends are used to Joe and egg him on for the fireworks show. I’ll be sure to get those people’s kids presents with lots of glitter this Christmas.
Whether he is yelling at the game, traffic or how people say “falcon” wrong, I always comforted myself with the idea that there is only one of him. My three boys and I would be the agreeable and more flexible members of society. Live and let live.
Then I sat down the other night to overlook Jack’s math homework:
Like his father, who is under the conspiratorial notion that east coast transplants are slowly trying to undermine our local vernacular, Jack believes there is simply no accepting the word “soda.” It is pop. As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be.
Over the years, I have thrown up my hands in surrender. I now cheer for the White Sox while eating Pizano’s deep dish and gulping down a cold pop.
Come to think of it, perhaps Joe isn’t so very wrong after all.
