Could you cook dinner tonight?

This past week was exhausting for my missus and me; we ordered in just about the entire week. I was looking forward to a simple weekend dinner.

As it turned out, we both were.

“I am tired today,” she whined, “could you cook dinner tonight? Something simple, please.”

Well, I sure wasn’t expecting that.

“Sure,” said the reluctant me, “what do you wanna eat?”

Rookie mistake. But, how was I supposed to know what lay ahead?

“Hmm…”

tick-tock, tick-tock

“Hmm…”

tick-tock, tick-tock

“Hello?” I punctuated.

“You are the man of the house. You decide.”

“What crap! You said you would cook, didn’t you? She can at least tell you what she wanna eat. You are screwed, dude. What are you gonna do now? What? What? What?” — Mister O (yes, I nicknamed my alter-ego).

“Okay, what about that mean Spaghetti I make?” My first offering.

“Yuck! You mean that instant noodle thingy that you made one time.”

“C’mon, Sonia! It wasn’t that bad. I added an Indian touch to it, remember. It was Fusion.”

“Fusion, my ass. Do you know my b-hole burns every morning? I wonder why.”

“Wait! How can it? It was more than a year ago,” I countered, “Never mind. How about an Omelet? I will make it Indian style just how you like it.”

“Omelet? For dinner? You are just trying to get away with another quickie, aren’t you?”

“No, it’s not like that. I thought you were famished. If you can wait an hour, I can cook something Indian.”

“Nicely done, dude. That’s what you wanted to have, didn’t you? Veg curry and chapati. She will never even figure out she got played.” — Mister O.

“What did you say? So, now my Indian is not good enough for you, huh!” she exploded, “Why? Because your mom makes it better than me.”

“WTF! When did I…”

“No, you listen to me, Gaurav. What do you wanna eat — North Indian, South Indian, Bengali, Maharashtrian. Tell me. I will cook it right away.” A finger-snapping challenge.

“Okay, cook North Indian then.”

“Oh-oh! You fucked up. Rest In Peace, dude.” — Mister O.

“What am I your maid or what? I am never cooking for you again. From now on, you make your food, and I will cook mine.”

“Woah! Now, that is a much bigger fish to fry, lady. Dude, you got to discuss the recipe of this new nuptial plat du jour with her. But, for now, focus on the beef at hand.” — Mister O.

“I have a brilliant idea, Sonia. Rapid-fire?”

tick-tock, tick-tock

“Babe?”

tick-tock, tick-tock

I got a nod. Okay, a nod is good. Nod is fuckin’ brilliant.

“Pizza?”

“No way! Too much cheese. You don’t want me to lose weight or what?”

“Don’t you enter that territory, man?” — Mister O

“Pasta?”

“Nah! Too many carbs.”

“Veggie Burger? I won’t add any cheese for you”

“Still, too many calories.”

“Veg Hakka Noodles?”

“Pass. Ajinomoto burns my stomach.”

“Momos (Nepali dumplings)?”

“Didn’t we have that the day before yesterday?”

“You are going overboard considering your culinary skills, bro.” — Mister O.

“Sonia, that’s all I know…”

“I know. I know. Should we order-in?”

“That biach. That was her game. Play along, man. Don’t do anything stupid now.” — Mister O.

“Absolutely!” I surrendered.

“We also have a $15 coupon from Uber Drive.” She reminded me.

“Excellent! What do you wanna eat?”

“Oh crap! You dumb fuck. Go, hang yourself with your pubes. Rot in hell, you illegal rhinopotamus. beep, beep, beep…” — Mister O.