Perchance it’s a mistake

This morning on CBS The Early Show, I heard that women ages 35 to 54 are the saddest segment of the population. Apparently only 17 percent report they are “very happy” compared to 34-ish percent of the rest of the population.

Who knew?

If I had to guess, I would have guessed teenage girls, or at least 12-year-olds living in my house because apparently her life is horrible and it’s mostly her mother’s fault (which actually contributes to her mother’s Very Happy status). Apparently, however, she wasn’t surveyed.

This is the kind of news that just makes you go, “Huh?”

In fact, upon hearing this news my husband turned to me and asked me why I was so unhappy. I’m not, for the record. I’m very happy if only slightly sleep deprived.

For instance, I take huge amounts of delight in moments like one last night. Steve was telling me how Granny and Gramps were thrilled because they are going to eat Thanksgiving dinner at Steve’s parents house on Thursday (something they normally don’t do) AND still get to spend it with their eldest daughter (which they normally DO do) because she is having her dinner on Friday. Gramps liked this.

That’s when I informed my hubby that we would be having Thanksgiving dinner at our house this year (guest list at in-laws having nothing to do with it). Steve paused for a moment as I imagined him contemplating his having to break the news to his mother (who would not be thrilled). Then he ventured, “You don’t have time to make dinner.”

Which is when I repeated a line he often says to me, “I’m a good cook when I take time.”

He, however, repeated it back to me with a twist.

“You’re a good cook when you take the time and Irene helps,” he said.

Irene, for those who don’t know, is my brother Keith’s wife, aka my sister-in-law. I helped her make thanksgiving dinner the year my dad died. I was responsible for pulling up her sleeves as she stuffed the turkey. I did my part well.

“I am so blogging that,” I said to my husband. His response to that phrase is usually, “No you’re not.” This time, however, he said, “And tell Irene I really miss her and her meatballs.” Because the guy knows Irene reads this blog.

To which I replied, “I bought frozen meatballs Sunday when I went grocery shopping.”

Him, “It’s just not the same. I miss her meatballs.”

So, Irene, instead of pizza for our Denton Christmas dinner, what do you think about spaghetti with meatballs? I promise to pull up your sleeves.