I read in the news recently that I'm going to live to be 100. The article didn't come right out and mention me by name, but it said that women who give birth for the first time after the age of 40, which I did, have a better shot at the century mark. Apparently my insides are aging at a slower rate. (Too bad my outsides aren't.)
That, coupled with another newsy tidbit - that women who marry younger men, which I also did, live about 10 years longer than average - has me feeling pretty good in the life span department. The bad news is the flip side of the same study: Men who marry older women (obviously, all the husbands of those women who robbed the cradle) die young.This worries me. Who's going to kill all the spiders? And what about that noise in the basement? There'll be a lot of old ladies forced to go down there alone to find out just what that noise was. If the guy next door is also dead, we're in big trouble, especially if the toilet overflows late at night. We need our men!
It's not all gloom and doom, however. One thing that might actually improve is the barbecue, since women know and few men will admit that men can't barbecue. They insist on doing it, walking around in those aprons and waving their spatulas, but they can't deliver the goods.
My husband, like all men, thinks he's a barbecue master. I, like all women, am the one who's supposed to make sure he's got what he needs to work his magic: the implements, the charcoal, the matches and, of course, the food. I'm what the French call the sous chef, which roughly translates into, I do all the work, he gets all the glory.
It happens at our house every time. Burgers, chicken, fish, it doesn't matter how they start out, they all share the same fate: burnt beyond recognition.
Every so often I say, "Honey, I'll cook." Lamentably, I can't get the fire started without him. I'm afraid there'll be a huge explosion after I squirt on the lighter fluid, so I stand way back and let it dry off for too long. By the time I muster up the courage to light the coals, nothing happens. Then Mitch comes along and says, "See, you do need me."
He's fearless with the lighter fluid. Actually, he's proficient at many things. He can change a tire and use a drill and often spends hours at Home Depot buying stuff I don't recognize. I respect him tremendously and believe him to be possibly the smartest person in the world. But he can't barbecue his way out of a paper bag.
At first, he usually errs in the other direction. Fearful of overcooking, Mitch summons us to the table only to discover that it's "not done yet." With the promise that it "just needs a few more minutes," he goes back outside, leaving me to pass the guacamole and keep the guests awake. When next we see our dinner, it's black.
Over the course of our marriage, I've bought home a number of books on the subject with titles like "Grilling and You," "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes: A Beginner's Handbook," and most recently, "One Meal at a Time." I'm still looking for the book we really need: "How to Grill a Burger and Avoid a Custody Battle."
Books, shmooks, it never changes. There was a time when I was surprised by this since he takes the following items outside when he's barbecuing: a timer, a notebook and a cell phone. Pretty impressive stuff. It's only recently that I've learned that those things have nothing to do with our dinner. He's out there checking his messages and making business calls. The timer is a decoy.
I've talked privately with other women about this and have learned that it's epidemic. Last week was a perfect example.
We went to dinner at the home of our good friends, X and Y Chromosome. The little woman had beautifully marinated a selection of seafood and vegetables: succulent shrimp, tender scallops, perfect peppers, onions and mush-rooms. Artfully arranged on skewers, they were hand-delivered to the chef, literally on a silver platter. That's when the guys took over.
Y was in charge. I watched him from across the patio, noticing how, deeply engaged in conversation with another Y, he never even glanced at the food. Smoke wafted from the grill. Still, Y chatted away, completely confident that he was doing his job. Finally, X could stand it no longer, and asked, "How are those kabobs doing?"
"Great. I'm on top of the situation."
"Have you checked them lately?"
"I'll know when they're done. It's instinctive with me."
Fifteen minutes later, as his wife brought the rice, salad and garlic bread to the table, Y was pulled from a volleyball game and told it was time to eat. He brought the charred remains of the kabobs to the table, pathetic little dried-up things, hollow reminders of what might have been. X sat in a corner, weeping discreetly into her napkin.
Everyone said how good everything was.
I call it Barbecuegate. Another cover-up by the male establishment. How long can this go on?
Last night, we planned to have hamburgers for dinner. I brought the platter outside to my husband. "What's this," Mitch asked, "a plate of charcoal briquettes?"
"I figured we could save time and money by just eating them. Forget the ground beef, what with the E. coli scare and all. Besides, I don't think anyone who's ever had your burgers before will notice."
"Don't be ridiculous," Mitch said. "Haven't you heard that charcoal causes cancer?"
Thank goodness winter is on the way, and he can go back to simply scorching our pots and pans on the electric stove. I can always buy new ones when I'm old.