He deserves this name because for 45 years he has endured:
My cooking. There were those 1969 Swedish meatballs, I made when we were newlyweds. He fielded the call from the neighbor who complained about the smells coming from our apartment.
My dieting. After he has driven home in a blizzard, shoveled the driveway, and walkway and stumbled through the door, icicles dripping from his nose, I’ ve been known to say, “Hi honey! We’re having a bag of salad and a can of tuna tonight.”
My food shopping. So I spend $6.99 at the Farmer’s Market for a teeny tiny box of locally grown strawberries! Jerome, The Great and Good, is standing there off to the side, patiently holding our canvas bag filled with the strawberries, kale, swiss chard, and zucchini. I know he’s thinking of the rest of the guys who are home, watching the ball game, and chowing down on their nachos and three layer dip from Costco.
My sulking. He’s really good at dodging an occasional plate of Italian meatballs and spaghetti thrown in his direction.
My worrying. When my imaginary friend, Overthinker, takes over my thoughts, Jerome is right there with my other imaginary friend, Grim Streaker, pushing me on.