I Don't Know How To Tell You This, But...

On Thursday, longtime hubby and I will celebrate our 38th anniversary. That's 38 years of uninterrupted bliss. Can you even imagine the mazel of such a situation? I mean, the man just knows me. He tolerates adores the quirkiness that defines this kvetchy lil Jewiss, a gal who was a good inch and a half taller when we wed back in 1980.

I don't know these people.

Here's yet another example of how much he gets me: This morning, I remove the cream cheese from the fridge, as one does on a Sunday. As the nice bagel toasts, I prepare for the ritual schmearing of the afore-mentioned cream cheese. Something deep inside me whispers, "Not so fast, sistah." I turn the container over and reality hits me like a frozen babka.
"Honey, I don't know how to tell you this, but..."
"Should I sit down?"
"No, you can stand, but maybe hold onto the counter for support."
"I'm holding."
"This cream cheese... has expired."
"Oh @#$%."
"I will not serve my husband bad cream cheese."
"That's not how you roll."
"I'm love that you get that."
"You want me to run out and get new cream cheese?"
"Not necessary. Would you like to know why?"
"Why?"
"I'll tell you why. Because your wife is always prepared for the worst. Yesterday, I bought new cream cheese."
"Just in case."
"New is always better than old. Except when it comes to you, my love."
"And vice versa."