Mr. Oliver’s Guest Blog

Well, it’s finally happened.  Mr. Oliver is demanding equal time.

Having read my recent comments about him in my blog, he now asks that I allow him to post a guest blog this week.  To – as he claims – give readers ‘his side of the story.’ Of course I graciously agreed.  I’m nothing if not fair-minded, after all.  There are two sides to every story, quid pro quo, and so on.

So, without further ado, Mr. Oliver’s passel of lies blog appears below.  (And if he should happen to mention it, I most certainly did NOT dent the rear bumper of the minivan as he claims.  It was an accident.  My car was in the parking lot, minding its own bloody business, when ANOTHER CAR backed into it.)

Please welcome my husband, Mr. Oliver.  I hope you enjoy reading his ridiculous rant guest blog as much as I have.

Mr. Oliver:  Thank you, darling.  *clears throat*

First of all, let me start by saying I’m immensely proud of Katie.  She’s a fantastic wife, an amazing mother, and a very talented writer. That said, like most writers, she also has a rampant imagination-

“A ‘rampant imagination?’” I interrupt.  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” he replies in his best unsmiling Colin Firth manner, “that sometimes you make things up, darling.  You embroider.  You exaggerate.  You-” he paused “-well, not to put too fine a point on it, but… you don’t always tell the complete truth.”

I begin to sputter out a protest.

“For instance,” he continues, “in your last blog, you said the only thing I know how to cook are omelets stuffed with moldy cheese, and that I burn the toast.  Not true.  No one makes better pancakes on a Sunday morning than I do.  You’ve said so yourself many times.”

“Well, yes,” I say doubtfully, “but… pancakes don’t count.”

“Pancakes do count.  It takes skill to brown them perfectly.  One has to flip them over at just the precise moment, when all those little bubbles cover the surface.”

“Well, yes,” I say again.  “But knowing how to add water to a box of pancake mix hardly qualifies you as a gourmet chef.  What else can you cook besides breakfast foods?” I challenge him.  “Go on – what else?”

“I grill, damn it!  I grill chicken, and hamburgers, and steaks-”

“Grill them?  You mean you immolate them!  I don’t know why you bother asking anyone how they’d like their steak – you always cook it well done.  ‘How would you like your steak, Katie?’ I ask, imitating him.  ‘Medium rare?  Certainly!  Here’s your extremely well-done steak with black crunchy bits and extra carcinogens, hot off the grill!  Just hand me your plate.  And then hand me the fire extinguisher.’”

He scowls.  “I don’t want anyone eating under-cooked meat, do I?”

“Oh, there’s no danger of that!  The wonder is that anyone manages to chew – much less digest – your shoe-leathery steaks.”

“Leaving the subject, if you please,” he says tightly, “might I get back to my guest blog?  Or do you intend to hijack the entire thing?”

“Sorry.  Carry on.”  I press my lips together and cross my arms against my chest.

*Mr. Oliver glares*  Thank you, Katie.  Now, then, readers.  While I admit my wife can be quite entertaining, with her stories and opinions and her clever little blog, she can also be a whopping great pain in the arse-

“Darling!” I say hastily, leaning forward.  “You don’t mean that.”

He ignores me.  “Whenever I fall short of the mark – which is constantly, by the way – she tells me in the most accusatory way possible that ‘you always do this’ or ‘you never do that.’  I’m sure you male readers know what I’m talking about, eh, blokes?  ‘You never put your clothes in the basket,’ ‘You always leave your keys on the coffee table/socks on the floor/the toilet seat up.’  Bloody hell!  Can’t do anything right, can we, chaps?  Are you lot as sick of it as I am?”

“Really, darling, you don’t want to air our dirty laundry in public,“ I protest.

“Well, according to you, I never DO the laundry.  One of my many sins, I might add.  And another thing,” he continues, gathering steam, “there’s the matter of the ouzo.”

“Oh, Lord,” I mutter, “here we go with the ouzo saga, once again…”

“That ouzo was a gift from the Greek ambassador!  And despite the fact that our babysitter drank a quarter of the bottle and topped it up with tap water, I’m supposed to ignore the whole incident and be happy with the watered-down crap I’m left with!”

“Darling, please…”

“No, Katie, I won’t have it!  I’m going in the den to watch pre-season football and drink my watered-down ouzo. I don’t want to be disturbed.  Then I plan to ignore the overflowing laundry basket and go outside and incinerate a few steaks for dinner!  Sound good?”

And he storms off in high dudgeon.

So there you have it… Mr. Oliver’s side of the story.  Very democratic of me to allow him his say, don’t you think?  But that’s what marriage is, after all – give and take. Compromise.

And truthfully, despite my complaints, Mr. Oliver really is a wonderful husband and an excellent father.

Even if he does have a somewhat rampant imagination…