Corn is flying everywhere as my husband shoves a cob all the way into his mouth.
me: you know you are literally eating that like a pig? I do not mean the old cliché, you are eating like a pig. I mean literally – like a hog – on a farm.
My husband thinks this is hysterical and starts laughing causing the trajectory of the corn to actually reach my son and me.
me: Dude, you are disgusting.
son totally laughing now: Can I get a “snort” papa?
me: This is great, I am so thankful you don’t get your table manners from your father.
husband: That’s what woman are for, Boo, they’re for Civilizing Men.
me: Great, I thought that’s what mom’s were for. Too bad my “oldest” is so hard to train.
This is not the first time we’ve had this conversation. It certainly won’t be the last.
While I was trained to hold my fork correctly, use my knife to cut and push food onto my fork. My husband doesn’t ever even touch his knife. Twelve years I’ve been putting a knife next to his plate, and for twelve years that sad lonely fork has been forced to take a bath even though it was never dirty. For twelve years I have had to endure the stomach turning visual of him pushing his food onto his fork. Four fingers touching his plate, touching his food – pushing it onto his fork. Four fingers that may have been up his nose, touching the dogs butt, who the heck knows? I don’t know. I stare at him sideways, because looking straight on makes the food that made it to my stomach the Correct Way want to join his on the plate.
me: Kim, please. Could you just try eating like a Person? Be a good role model for your son?
husband: What? What’s the big deal? He knows he shouldn’t eat like this in public.
me: Oh, so the public is good enough for good manners. But I should feel like vomiting whenever you are eating a plateful of chicken, chopped onions, mustard and BBQ sauce with your hands. Not to mention the 500 crumpled up disgusting BBQ mustard sauce covered napkins that creep into my personal space and threaten to attack my plate with their vileness.
husband: Well, just don’t look.
It is impossible not to look. It is impossible to turn away from the fascinatingly disgusting train wreck that is my husband’s table etiquette.
Emily Post rolls
In a grave of mushy corn
Sad lonely knife cries