“You’re odd,” my husband said last night.
I froze with my fingers in the mustard jar.
“Me, odd?” I spluttered. “YOU’RE odd, pal.”
He stopped sniffing the silverware. “No, I’m interesting,” he huffed. “You’re strange. Sorry, darling.”
I walked backwards to the refrigerator and put ice cubes in my tuna salad. Widdle continued to peer at the cutlery.
“Where’s my lucky fork?” he demanded. “You know I can’t eat without my lucky fork.”
“And I’m odd?” I said. “Who lost a laptop in the multi-layered landfill in his truck?”?“Ah yes, cars,” he said, nibbling at a potholder. “Let’s talk about your car, and why the oil hasn’t been changed since Clinton was President.”?“You know it makes me feel invaded,” I snapped.
“Normal people get the oil changed regularly BECAUSE IT’S THE NORMAL THING TO DO,” he pointed out.
“Stop yelling!” I yelled.
Widdle walked into the dining room and started opening cupboards. “I’ll bet you’ve hidden my lucky plate, too,” he said. “How is a man supposed to eat around here?”
I picked up a cheese grater and scratched my back. “You’re giving me hives,” I said.
That’s when our dog, Nicky, leaped straight in the air and belched. She does this several times a week. We don’t know why, but it scares the bejesus out of our vet.
“Even our dog is odd,” Widdle said.?“True,” I said, and briefly there was peace, as we gazed fondly at the tiny queen of our domain. Then Widdle removed his socks and put them on his ears.
“Why is it always so cold in this house?” he asked.
“Beats me, when you keep the thermostat on 83 degrees,” I said. “I break out in a sweat reaching for the phone book.”
“You haven’t called anyone in two years,” he said. “You’re an Internet addict. Admit it!”
“Facebook is my friend,” I sniffled. “But you’d rather speed-dial the weather than date Carrie Underwood. You can’t go 30 minutes without picking up the phone.”
“Okay, 1) My job requires me to talk on the phone, 2) I’m a faithful husband, and 3) Carrie Underwood is off the market,” Widdle said.
“And,” he added dramatically, “You could sit alone in this house and read for 50 years. That’s odd!”
“No, that’s what happens when you major in English,” I said.
He sighed. “Would you make me a garlic and banana sandwich?” he asked. “I feel a cold coming on.”
“Oh no, you’re not odd,” I said. “Your diet is terrifying.”
“All you eat is raw almonds and Splenda packets,” he said.
“One time!” I wailed.
And so it went until the day was done.
“I’m going to bed,” I said.
“Me, too. Seen my reading glasses?” he asked.
“There’s pair on your head, a pair in your hand and two pairs tucked in your shirt,” I said.
Then I toddled off with a glass of pickle juice containing two-and-one-half ice cubes, a book, emu oil (for my scaly feet) and two cheese crackers, all of which I arranged in the shape of a Maltese cross on my bedside table.
Widdle gathered his customary 16 pillows, pounded them to a pulp and crawled in beside me.
“Good night, dear,” he said. “I’m glad we’re odd together.”
Amen.

Julie R. Smith, who’s not strange at all, can be reached at widdleswife@aol.com.