Easy pasta putanesca- gluten-free with rice spaghetti.
Oh, you paint, too? is the faint, flat interest we get, we artist's wives who paint. Inevitably followed by, Isn't that difficult? In fact, I assure them, it couldn't be easier. (Try being married to a real estate agent who sprays Sun-In in his hair, I want to say, but don't.)
The scene is my husband's art opening and I play my role with decorum, clutching my plastic cup of Australian Chardonnay.
The scene is my husband's art opening and I play my role with decorum, clutching my plastic cup of Australian Chardonnay.
Do you compete? Darling, this question says a lot more about you than than me. No, I always answer, trying not to audibly sigh. We mutually admire. Then comes the big one. The favorite question.
Does he influence your work? (The subtext being, of course, he is the man, after all.)
Does he influence your work? (The subtext being, of course, he is the man, after all.)
I influence his, I answer, slugging down the last warm drop of wine. They will smile their awkward smile at this and wobble toward the grapes and brie. The word tedious comes to mind.
I catch my husband looking at me through the peanut nibbling crowd. He raises an ironic eyebrow. I laugh. A sparkled perfumed woman leans in to him for a kiss on the cheek. He is polite. I will tell him later he smells like Bloomingdale’s.
I catch my husband looking at me through the peanut nibbling crowd. He raises an ironic eyebrow. I laugh. A sparkled perfumed woman leans in to him for a kiss on the cheek. He is polite. I will tell him later he smells like Bloomingdale’s.
At home he will make me an ice cold vodka martini. We will kick off our shoes and eat spaghetti to Chet Baker. So what's on your agenda for tomorrow? he will ask. Maybe painting, I will say with a yawn. Or blogging. I'm not just an Artist's Wife, you know.
Nope, he always says. You're the cutest girl ever.
Nope, he always says. You're the cutest girl ever.
Yeah, I remind him, You're lucky I'm a new-school feminist.
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