My personal form of amusement is to daydream "hypothetical scenarios" for Mr T and I. It's not a very healthy hobby; I usually end up semi-hysterical.
Dreaming up best case scenarios
Mr T thinks I should stop starting so many sentences with "what if". He also thinks I should stop prefacing my conversation openers with "here's a hypothetical scenario".
But I really can't help it. My personal form of amusement is to stare at nothing and daydream "hypothetical scenarios" for the both of us, then imagine how Mr T would react in these imaginary situations. It's not a very healthy hobby; I usually end up semi-hysterical and ready to pick a fight.
So, understandably, he cringes when he hears the dreaded words: what if.
What if I'm offered a once-in-a-lifetime job opportunity that requires us to move to a new, exotic country and provides me with a salary better than both of our current pays combined; would we go for it? What if we learn we can't have children; would we adopt? What if I am involved in a terrible car accident (but did not sustain any injuries) and completely destroyed my car; would I get a new vehicle? A convertible maybe?
To be completely candid, however, most of my hypothetical scenarios revolve around two constants: food (or Mr T's inability to cook it) and our nonexistent children.
"What if I'm sick with fever and unable to get out of bed and our child is practically starving; are you just going to order takeaway for the duration of the week because you can't cook? What if I have an early morning meeting and leave the house before you; will you make sure the child has a healthy breakfast and pack a nutritionally balanced school lunch? What if I have to travel for work and you can't reach me to get a grocery list or a list of things to do; would you know what to cook and how to prepare it? What if both my arms fall off and it becomes illegal to order food to the house and we are banned from every restaurant in town; will you cook then?"
I'm always hounding him with similar questions. Judging by his reaction - he takes it all in his stride and chuckles a lot - it is safe to assume I'm not being taken seriously in this matter.
Which is why I sat down to write him a very serious email on January 1, detailing exactly what his 2012 resolutions should be. Number one on the list is very, very specific: "You have 12 months to perfect six meals that you can make with your eyes closed, as in knowing what groceries you'll need, what ingredients to prepare, how to put it all together from A to Z; something that is not processed and not out of a jar, not something you can defrost or take out of a package. Something that is fresh and easy and you can rely on whenever needed. To accomplish this mission, aim to perfect a dish every two months. I will help you."
I am happy to report that Mr T is taking the task to heart; he follows me around the kitchen with a notepad and pen, jotting down strange scribbles that only make sense to him. A few days ago, I received an email invitation informing me that Mr T wishes to share a Google Document with me, titled T's Cookbook. In it, he says: "This is my cooking book. I'll add stuff I pick up here. Only I can add. My way. You can make corrections if anything is wrong or missing something."
I emailed him a reply: "What if you lose the Google Doc? You should probably have a backup, just in case."