The Good, the Bad, and the Scrambled

I know I've mentioned before my theory that it's the tiny, gentle acts of vengeance that really make a relationship go 'round. They relieve marital tensions in a way that only a good boxing of ears could otherwise match, without the resulting awkwardness of police statements and cauliflower ear and so forth.

But one can only make so many muffins, and DH just doesn't seem to realize that the toothbrushes are a microcosm of our relationship (I can't be the only person who puts them at opposite ends of the holder when I'm peeved, can I?), so basically - I'm out of ideas. I used to be so good at being evil! I'm really off my game these days.

Guess that's the problem with how much I like DH versus, say, my ex-husband.

One thing I do recall from my pre-divorce days, however, was that you have to be constantly on the lookout for signs of weakness in your opponent. Once you sense a chink in the armour, you ferret that information away and plot out how exactly you're going to exploit the flaw to greatest effect. It's a deeply instinctual process, hearkening back to the days of our Australopithecine forebears:

"Gaaaahhh! Ug, ug, grug ormph!"
[Doris, you bitch! I know you shrunk my loincloth on purpose! Now what am I going to wear to work today?]

"Urg ug, arrrrg ug!"
[If you ever got off your fat ass and helped out around the cave, maybe I'd have more time to fuss over your damn laundry!]

Tale as old as time, Doris, but alas - love and happiness have dulled my edge.

But then DH launched into one of his random tirades today, over poached eggs of all things. There was this little photo essay in a magazine showing how to make perfect poached eggs, and he just snapped. During his verbal assault on the authors, he accused them - I'm not kidding - of "using a Henrietta" and then faking the poaching photos. So, two things here:

1. A "Henrietta" is a hen-shaped electric egg poacher (like, for real - I had to look it up); and

2. If DH has given the problem of poached eggs enough thought that he not only knew what a Henrietta was, but could actually rant for a full five minutes about what cocksuckers those poach-faking sons-of-bitches down at Canadian Living are... my search for the perfect form of retaliation is over.

I bought an extra two dozen eggs tonight, and solemnly vow that on DHs next poker night with the boys, I shall perfect the poached egg. And then I will save that precious knowledge for a day when DH is so wildly irritating that I would just as soon drop kick him as look at him, and I will lovingly prepare him a simple, hearty meal of golden, buttery toast, freshly-squeezed orange juice, and a plump, perfect pair of poached eggs.

Oh, yeah. That'll really serve him right. *contented sigh* Yeah, baby - I've still got it.