C'mon, C'mon, Now Trust Me Babe

In some ways, Consort is completely trustworthy, and I treat him as such:

QUINN: I found a matchbook from a strip club in your pants pocket when I was putting them in the wash. It had a phone number and the name “Amber” written in it.

CONSORT: Oh. Funny story-the battery died in the car, and I couldn’t get a cell phone connection for some reason, so I walked into the nearest place to call AAA, which happened to be a strip club. While waiting for a jump start, I ended up talking to this girl who worked there. I showed her pictures of the two of you, and the conversation got around to pre-schools, because she has a three year-old: also, because she was wearing a Catholic school uniform. Anyway, I told her that we were really happy with our pre-school, and I promised to call her and leave her the school’s phone number.

QUINN: Oh, that’s nice. I think there are a couple of spots open in the three year-old class.

In some ways, Consort is completely untrustworthy, and I treat him as such:

Consort comes to bed. I am asleep, but hearing him tip-toeing around, trying not to wake me up, wakes me up.

QUINN: Is the cat in?

CONSORT: No, I told her to stay outside and pick fights with coyotes. Yes, the cat is in.

QUINN: The alarm is on?

CONSORT: We’re trying something different tonight. I left all the doors ajar with signs on them saying “Our stuff isn’t that great”.

QUINN: Humor me. The alarm is on?

CONSORT: Yes, the alarm is on.

QUINN: You checked the stove?

CONSORT: I didn’t have to check the stove. We haven’t used the stove since last night, when you made me check the burners. Twice.

He slides into bed. I slide out of bed.

QUINN: I need a glass of water.

CONSORT: No you don’t. You’re checking the stove.

I leave the room. I come back a minute later without a glass of water.

CONSORT: How was that water? Was it turned off, just like I told you it was?

QUINN: Oh, go read a New Yorker.

I ask you, how can any person be expected to place trust in a man who can go to sleep without making sure we won’t all be turned into flesh S'mores? And this is not a completely irrational fear: Consort has the most marvelous ability to turn on the stove to cook something, only to remember he wanted to replace all of our window screens. More than once, I have walked into the kitchen to find a burner blazing in a way that would be pleasing if this were Victorian England and it was our only source of heat.

[Consort has asked me to give his side. He claims to have left the burner on no more than twice in six years. He also claims that I am a complete lunatic. I have now given his side and we can ignore any further outbursts from him.]

It’s strange to realize that I am more likely to trust Consort in Las Vegas with Angelina Jolie than I am in our kitchen with O’Keefe and Merritt.

But, in the interest of total disclosure, I must admit that there is one category where I simply cannot be trusted. Please note the following interaction:

CONSORT: This is the last of the mayonnaise. Are you going to the store today?

QUINN: Yeah, I’ll get some.

CONSORT: Because it’s really easy for me to go to the store.

QUINN: No, I’ll get some mayonnaise on the way home from Gymnastics.

CONSORT: You know what? I’ll be passing right by the store twice today, I’ll get it.

QUINN: I SAID I’LL GET THE MAYONNAISE, I’LL GET THE MAYONNAISE.

I don’t get the mayonnaise.

Unlike Consort’s irrational neglect of our stove, there is a good reason for this. Our house was built by someone with an obsession for drawers but a phobia of shelf space. We can either own a jar of Kalamata olives or two cans of tuna fish, but we do not have room for both. Consort’s response to this situation is to cram cans and jars on top of one another. I open the door to find what appears to be a refugee boat from the Land of Canned Corn. Food in the back of the shelf goes lost and forgotten for years until it has formed a separatist movement, complete with its own flag. The Popular Front for the Liberation of Pimentos. Consort likes a cabinet which tells the world, “I could whip up a Thanksgiving dinner for twenty-five on a whim”.

I take a far more mature view of the situation: minimalism encourages creativity. We’ve run out of maple syrup for the pancakes? Try honey. Honey’s gone? There’s always jam. No more jam? Soy sauce might be fun. Consort, being smart, knows my inclinations and now buys items in furtive multiples in order to make sure that he doesn’t, say, have to use marshmallow fluff as a binder for tuna fish salad. While I, being smart, refuse to tell him when I am using the last container of anything, for fear I will open a cabinet door to find The Leaning Tower of Peas.

I’d leave him and begin a new life but there is Daughter to consider. Also, I’m not sure I could convince another man to flavor his coffee with Peeps.