“Whatever you do – Don’t marry a Felix Unger!” I watch my other half carefully garnish a plate of salmon that he has grilled to perfection. On the stove are cut green beans simmering in a delicate mushroom sauce. Also on display are homemade mash potatoes.
“Sally! Whatever you do – Don’t marry a Felix Unger!” Now I get it! I drop my shovel and wipe the sweat from my forehead. Felix served a mean quiche but I don’t remember him doing yard work or being a handyman.
And the irony hits me as I dig out an old lilac bush. And It echoes as I stain the deck and paint the bedroom and peel ‘n stick the family room floor. I think of this pre-marriage advice as I pile 10 bags of woodchips in the back of my car to spread under the kid’s favorite apple tree. I ponder it as I beg the floor clerk in the hardware store to please explain how to assemble the lawn mower I brought home in an over-sized box last week. And I continue to think of it as my husband firmly ushers me away from the washing machine as he holds up his favorite t-shirt covered in bleach stains.
Yep. I married a Felix Unger. Yep. I did.
I return to my digging and think, “This fresh air sure smells good. My Felix doesn’t lift a shovel or mend a fence or own a tool kit but I know one thing. He cleans and cooks and he irons and picks up dry cleaning. My husband's Oscar Madison is one very lucky woman!”
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