Spork

My husband is about as opposite as I can get from myself. He's laid back pretty much all the time. I'm uptight more often than not. It takes a lot to make my husband mad. If you look at me crooked or even breathe wrong, it will usually set me off. He has so much patience with just about everyone and everything. I don't know the meaning of the word. He's easy going and calm. I'm anxious and demanding.

These attributes my husband has are worth mentioning before I go on to tell you of the one circumstance that will turn him into a crazed maniac. If by chance we stop at a fast food restaurant (as we did on Memorial Day Weekend) and he needs a utensil to eat his meal with, I have come to pity the fool employee that hands my husband a spork.

I have never in my life seen someone have so much animosity against a utensil. I should shut my mouth right there because he will tell you it's not a utensil at all. In his mind, a spork is not a means to transfer food into your mouth. It is the freakish offspring of a fork and spoon that should be destroyed at all costs.

The majority of the time, after he tosses it onto the counter in a huff saying, "This isn't a fork," the employee can usually find a fork to satisfy him. On this day however, we weren't so lucky. The only way my husband would be able to get his taco salad into his mouth would be by spork. Oh the humanity.

During the entire meal, all I heard were random grumblings about sporks. "This is not a fork. All the Taco Bells at home have forks, why doesn't this one? You just can't eat with one of these things." I sat there mesmerized and amused, watching my frustrated husband eat with this poor little plastic gadget. This is the one thing that causes him to become extremely irritated; he was, for once, acting like me.

It wasn't the spork's fault that it didn't live up to such high expectations. It had a job to do and it did it, much to my husband's dismay. That spork fed him just as fine as any fork ever could have and did not make that taco salad taste any less pleasing.

But that poor little spork suffered verbal abuse with each bite and in the end had nothing to show for it. It ended up tossed into the garbage, a good riddance from my husband. I have a feeling that poor little spork would have liked to have had a second chance to be used by someone who appreciates a good spork every now and then; or at least the chance to go tell all of it's spork friends still under the counter to watch out for the crazed spork hater.