The Recipe for a Healthy Marriage

You know your relationship is in trouble when you turn to Cosmo for answers. It wasn’t deliberate or anything, but the person ahead of me at the dentist’s office apparently needed much more than a cleaning and my phone only had a 7% charge, so I settled in.

Does your hubby often work late? Yes.

Has he been paying less attention to you? Than what? Than I pay him? Than when we were first married? Than other people pay to me? Geez. You need a guide to answer these quizzes. Unfortunately, under most options, the answer is still yes.

Does he isolate from you at home? Ever since “we” got a big screen TV. Yes. Especially when sports events are on. Which is every night. All year. Does Cosmo have some sort of surveillance system in my home? This is getting creepy.   

I score 18 out of 20, saved from a full 20 only by the fact that my husband prefers monochromatic boxers and drives an electric coupe. Any score higher than 12 indicates he is likely cheating on me.

Of course, I know Cosmo quizzes can’t actually know what’s going on inside a person’s marriage or diagnose marital problems with 100% accuracy. But they can point out relevant signs a person may have been oblivious to. Or consciously ignoring.

I flip the page, frantic. Is it time for me to consider lowlights? How will that help - Oh. The article ends with the quiz. I flip back to the beginning. No section on what to do if he is, just a quiz to tell me I should be worried. Thanks, Cosmo. Now I know we have a problem, but I don’t have any solutions. It’s just like talking to an environmentalist.

Undeterred, I turn to Good Housekeeping. My marriage may not be quite as big a deal as global climate change, but being smaller just makes it more manageable. Plus, my marriage is at least half my responsibility. The planet is only like one-seven-billionth my responsibility. And I already own an electric car and recycle.

Good Housekeeping fails to produce any more insights regarding fidelity, but it does indicate that the fastest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. That does sound easier than going through his rib cage. I read on. Ooh - a recipe for alfredo sauce. Apparently Italian food is the most romantic cuisine. Exactly what I need. I take a picture with my phone, energized by a possible solution.

I enjoy my minty fluoride breath through the grocery store, ignoring any vague misgivings about the interaction of garlic and mint. It works in Mediterranean cuisine, right?

Two hours later, I’ve finished chopping garlic and re-measuring all of the ingredients after I realized Good Housekeeping’s recipe was meant to feed twelve people. As things stand, we aren’t likely to have any other mouths to feed any time soon. I have been stirring far longer than the recipe recommends, listening hopefully for the garage door. I’ve already dropped the temperature on the stove twice in defeat. And then – yes!

“Hi. Honey! You’re home late.” I chirp as he enters. “Long day at the office?” I ask as I continue stirring the rapidly thickening alfredo sauce.

           “Yeah.” He wanders off to the bedroom. I take the pan off the heat and follow. If he wanted it hot and fresh, he could have come home an hour ago.

           “So, what happened?” I ask casually, sitting on the bed as he takes off his suit jacket and sets it across the hamper for me to take to the dry cleaner.

           “Not much.” He hangs up his tie, fiddling with it to get the balance perfect so it won’t fall.

           “Did you get another last-minute client showing up?” I graciously offer him an out, praying he will confirm that it was just a normal workday, just a late client. That I didn’t really see a $200 bill at Maggio’s when I was paying our credit card online. Or that the bill was for taking out a client. Or that he’d tell me his card was stolen. That he would tell me anything.

           “No. It was just a regular day.” He flips through the closet. “Did you wash my cerulean button down?” he asks.

           “It should be in there.”

           He continues flipping shirts back and forth, silent.

           “Liz called today. It sounds like she and Ben are fighting again.” Does he notice we are too?

“Poor Liz.” He pulls out a shirt, considers it, and then puts it back.

“She thinks he’s sleeping around again.” I look for any telltale tightening of his back, any flinch, to reveal his guilt. Nothing.

           He stops rummaging. “I’ll just wear the graphite. You can check the laundry tomorrow.”

           “So, I paid the bills today.” I test the waters. “We’ve been spending a lot at restaurants. Maybe we should try to eat at home a bit more.”

           “Maybe cut out those girl’s nights? How much did you have to drink last week?” He finishes buttoning and slips on his house shoes. “It would cost $20 to get some vodka and fruit here at the house, but you spent $50 at the club.”

Normally these comments make me defensive. Of course I need a girl’s night out. I’m stuck here alone all day, and he barely speaks to me when he gets back. But today, I will not be distracted. Maggio’s bill was a month worth of girl’s nights out.

           “I tried a new pasta recipe tonight.” I say as I trail him into the kitchen. “Alfredo sauce. I made it extra garlicky, just like you like it.”

           He walks over to the stove and runs the spoon through the alfredo sauce, letting thick white clumps fall from the spoon. “I’m not that hungry.”

           “I could make something else?” Tell me you already ate. Tell me you’re still hungry. Tell me anything.

           “Don’t worry about it. I’ll just have a drink and watch the game.” He wanders off, leaving me alone with the congealing sauce.