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For reasons I cannot begin to understand, I have a reputation in my family for being fussy. A fuss-pot. Difficult. Hard to please. A princess.
Mind you, when I say ‘in my family’, I really just mean ‘Jim’.
And he is wrong.
And he is the pot calling the kettle black.
When I am fussy about something, ie toast - for which I have very high standards because toast matters. It must be evenly browned, not too pale, not too dark, on both sides, and toasted all through (no soft center). Despite knowing this about me for the past 40+ years, Jim adopts a sort of squeaky voice, minces around a bit with one hand flapping, and does a very cheap imitation of a princess, “Ooooo,” he says, “and what would the princess prefer?”
This from a man who can’t eat a peanut butter and honey sandwich unless it is made with the peanut butter and honey mixed really well together in a bowl then put on the bread, despite that peanut butter on one slice and honey on the other slice is the exact same sandwich minus the hassle and princessiness.
Jim calls me fussy because I always do an in-depth inspection of a hotel room upon check-in (but seriously, who doesn’t?) and will change rooms as needed, which is, through no fault of my own, quite often. Jim gives me the princess dance for this, yet recently a very faint fan noise from somewhere outside the room, maybe a block away? made him insist on a new room, even though I was completely satisfied with that room. So, we were changed from the top-floor suite, which had been the substitute for the initial first floor room (I don’t like staying on the first floor) and, subsequently, the second floor room (which had a view of the roof of the pool instead of the ocean). In that four story hotel, we managed to test each floor, finally settling for a nice room on the third floor.
I felt aches and pains that night. I think the voodoo dolls at front desk were working. No, seriously, they were lovely with us, because we are always lovely about these things. Under the loveliness, though, were the voodoo dolls, I feel certain of it.
Speaking of hotels, bed comfort is important to me. If a sheet is not smoothly fitted on the bed, the fold will keep me awake, as it would any normal person. Jim accuses me of being the Princess and the Pea, but I don’t want to hear it from someone who has to get out of bed at 2 AM to tidy the bed if it is too messy. If I accuse him of being a princess in a situation like that, he looks shocked, “No, it’s not the same thing at all, nobody can sleep in a messed up bed.” which is my cue to violently toss the covers around, which is his cue to savagely tickle me, and so it goes. In over 40 years, he still can’t stand a messy bed, but I’m the princess for not liking an unsmooth bottom sheet.
And as princesses go, I have only one word: Shoes.
Jim buys shoes that are comfortable. Then, as soon as they are no longer returnable because he has worn them outside, he decides they aren’t quite the right fit. Not . . . quite. Not blister-making or anything, just not absolutely 100% the most comfortable shoes ever made, and therefore they are never worn again. I, on the other hand, buy shoes and wear them inside, so they can be returned next day.
And underwear. You can’t return underwear, and other than a pair of silk boxers bought sometime back in the 80s, none of it fits Jim properly.
Boxers - bad
Briefs - bad
Boxer-briefs - bad
Seams down the middle - bad
Cotton - bad
Non-cotton - bad
It’s all wrong, so he struggles along with the almost-good-enoughs, and I wear the damn cast-offs.
It’s insane, living with a princess who jeers at you for being a princess.
Two princesses. By god, we are royal.
Photo: Contributed
This article is written by or on behalf of an outsourced columnist and does not necessarily reflect the views of Castanet.
