I don’t mean to criticize, but the marriage books you’re supposed to read before you waltz down the aisle are a waste of seventy-two dollars. Take me, for instance. Every time I’ve used Dr. Noah Fence’s recommended New York Times Bestselling catchphrase — “How’s your love-tank, sweetie?” — I get a bloody lip and end up sleeping in my truck.
And then one day, while resting my head against the steering wheel, I came up with the secret to marital bliss. Which I’ve cleverly entitled: The Secret to Marital Bliss.
Exhibit A: Lucky for me, our first apartment sat two hundred feet from a pizza joint. The kind of place operated by hormonal teenagers who sneak off to taste each others’ braces in the walk-in cooler.
Whenever Jamie and I started fussing, I’d bolt. I’d trot straight to the pizza joint and shout, “Get out of the freezer! You have a customer!” Thus, some kid with a hickie would make me a large pie, I’d be back home in six minutes.
Jamie would see the box, smile and say, “What took you so long, jackass?” And somehow, I’d know we were going to be okay.
After one slice, she’d lose her black pointy hat and stop referring to our dogs as “my pretties.” And then she’d say, “You should watch baseball tonight, love bug.”
To which I’d answer, “No, let’s watch Lifetime again, cheek-whistle.”
Then we’d passionately kiss like teenagers in a walk-in cooler, until God sent his angels to break up the party — because this is a family story.
So, once you harness the marital power of artery-clogging food, marriage will be a picnic. In fact, I’ve based every home purchase around corresponding restaurants. You think I’m joking? I never joke.
America is full of starving couples who spend too much time arguing because of low blood sugar. They wander the streets with sour looks on their faces, headed for the Big D — and I don’t mean Dallas. This is because they haven’t tasted sausage in a decade.
Look, I’m all in favor of eating ultra-healthy things, believe me. And by all means, eat your broccoli.
But you’d better get used to sleeping in your truck, big boy.