The Reverend Billy Graham’s lovely wife Ruth once said; “I don’t believe in divorce—but I have considered murder.” I’ve always liked that woman.  I’m sure Ruthie and I would get along quite well. Of course I have no intention of actually murdering Frank but to deny fleeting feelings of aggression would be ingenuine. Allow me to share the story of the smoked turkey. (Well, it actually goes much deeper than the smoked turkey, but you already knew that.)

        After almost 20 years of marriage, I thought it would be safe to assume certain things. A reasonable person should be aware of the likes and dislikes of their spouse. A reasonable person should have some idea of what kind of gift their mate would enjoy or where they would like to spend a vacation. A reasonable person should be able to expect his or her mate to bring home an entertaining video from Blockbuster. A reasonable person should know their mate’s opinion of sushi, lentils, goat cheese, curried chicken, root beer, and smoked turkey. Well…Frank has been unreasonable.

         My husband works a half-day on most Saturdays. He says it keeps him ahead of the curve. He says it makes him more confident on Monday mornings. He says he needs to be a good example to the others. I say he’s escaping Saturday morning chores around the house and that he loves breakfast at the diner, the morning paper and Starbucks.  I let it go—because I’m reasonable.

         My husband’s favorite comedy is “It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World” and his favorite drama is “Twelve Angry Men.” Whenever he stops to rent a movie, he usually brings home one or the other. When he’s in the mood for high adventure, he shows up with “The Great Escape.” I used to enjoy those three films but now I dislike them. (The children have memorized the scripts.) I smile and watch—because I’m reasonable.

          My husband gave me “sleepwear” for my last birthday. Of course, nobody could actually sleep in the item he bought because it would give any woman a royal wedgie. I held it up to the light three different ways to figure out where the escape hatch was, but to no avail. I wore it (okay—only once,) because I’m reasonable. (Now for the smoked turkey.)

          My husband occasionally brings home cold cuts and rolls on Saturday afternoons.  Of course, that’s a kind effort and we deeply appreciate the gesture. He has known me twenty years and he has known the children all their lives. The children and I abhor smoked turkey. It’s usually pinkish and tastes more like very salty ham. The smoked taste is quite despicable. On the other hand, we love the roasted home style turkey which they will gladly slice (any thickness one desires) at our local supermarket. It is quite delicious, always fresh, never salty and by gosh—it tastes just like turkey. For variety, we enjoy roast beef, ham and Swiss cheese. Whenever Frank arrives with smoked turkey (always a pound of it), he also brings American salami that tastes just like hot dogs (always a pound of it). We do not enjoy either of those items. Never have—never will. However, we say grace, spread a half a cup of mayo on the roll and eat what’s in front of us—because we’re reasonable.