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Last week, I took residence in the doghouse. I have an issue with being late, especially when it comes to meeting E for dinner or appointments during the week. No matter if I have one foot out the door, work will always keep me much later than expected. If I tell E I’m leaving in 20 minutes, chances are the 20 will actually mean 40—or 60.

E and I were going to meet up for a casual dinner at Gran Electrica, our favorite neighborhood joint. I told E I was leaving around 8, but I got caught at an all office gathering much longer than expected. You know how it is: the whole office is there, and it’s your chance to get to know everyone—from management to the interns—a bit better. Morale at the party was running high. I didn’t want to be the buzzkill.

I didn’t want to be the jerk that had to bust out early from the gathering, for fear that my leaving would cause a mass exodus from the party. I also didn’t want to take out my cell phone in mid conversation with, say, the head of human resources. That, too, is rude. So, instead of communicating with E that I would be running late at 10 minute intervals, I let time go on, and assumed he would assume me not communicating would mean that I was busy. Or late. Or both. He didn’t assume either one.

Instead he went to the restaurant and ate by himself. And sulked. And texted me. And drank Johnny Walker Black while sulking and texting me.

“I’m on my way. Where are you?” I wrote.
“At the restaurant. But not for long,” he wrote back.
“Should I meet you?”
“If you come, I may not be here,” he wrote.

When I got to Gran Electrica 20 minutes later, E wasn’t at the bar. He was in the bathroom, and he shot me the surliest look as he walked out and toward me. But a gorgeous blonde with an English accent didn’t see that surly look. Instead, she focused on E’s stunning blue eyes and flawless, baby perfect skin and made an animated effort to compliment him on both as I took my coat off. Had I showed up five minutes later, I wondered if she would have been the one having dinner with my boyfriend.

“You are so in the doghouse,” he declared.
“I figured,” I groveled. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t want to be rude.”
“Oh, so you’d rather be rude to me than to Bob in accounting?”

Schnap. Guess I learned my lesson. Always text if I’m running late. And screw Bob in accounting.

The next day, I got up early and went to the grocery store to make breakfast. I had to make something E would like, no matter what I was in the mood for. I made him the creamiest eggs I could possibly scramble, with a generous pat of butter and consistency of porridge, just like E does it (that is, after watching Gordon Ramsay do it). Then I included the one thing I find disgusting but that I know E is a huge fan of: smoked salmon. Ugh. Slimy, stinky pink uncooked fish. Not my thing. I held my nose as I layers on the slimy fish slices onto the sandwich. E would love this. But I would go hungry this morning.

“Honey!” E said, surprised at my sacrifice. He ate every bite. “I guess you can come out of the doghouse now.”

Rating:

She has indeed learned how to do scrambled eggs beautifully. Most would think “ahhh scrambled eggs: such simple bachelor food” but you’d be very wrong about that. Proper scrambled eggs almost have the texture of a creamy risotto and require the same attention: constant stirring, on heat, off the heat. Start with butter, add in some smoked salmon and a little creme fraiche (SOUTH PARK EPISODE!) at the very end and you’ve got yourself a perfect pass OUT of the doghouse.

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