Today we all read and reread the NY Post article about a woman who is either a marketing genius, or a misguided and desperate old maid seeking to win over the heart of a man who has given her a conditional proposal of sorts.
In short, if she made her “Alexander Skarsgård look-alike” boyfriend 300 sandwiches, he would marry her.
No, this isn’t the plot of a movie with a bumbling Rachel Bilson or Kate Hudson rummaging through the kitchen of a “sleek” Brooklyn apartment with exposed brick walls. It’s the real life of a NY Post writer and otherwise smart woman named Stephanie Smith.
And her declaration that she is only 124 sandwiches away from marital bliss – or 124 sammies away from avoiding a miserable life as a spinster with a barren womb – managed to piss off mainstream feminists, excite men everywhere and made us all question the crazy things we do for love.
But Stephanie, who seems oblivious to the underlying sexist tones and how demeaning it all seems, is happy and right on track to get what she wants. That is, if her Rumpelstiltskin boyfriend doesn’t renege because the 300th sandwich was a classic PB&J.
And even though I’ve been fuming most of the morning about her cavalier attitude, his dick-ish “hurry up and make me a sandwich” request that she finds so endearing, and the idea that she commits to some sort of servitude for her man who in turn will reward her with – gasp – commitment, not all is bad.
Like Sandwich #116 – This Garden Fresh Banh Mi Breakfast creation she thought up while sitting on her patio, drinking coffee with boyfriend Eric as they “pondered” over what they would do for their mommies on Mother’s Day.
Make a sandwich perhaps?
But then there were those moments during the article, which she wrote by the way, that made me want to shake her and make her repeat the affirmation “I AM SOMEBODY!”
Each morning, he would ask, “Honey, how long you have been awake?”
“About 15 minutes,” I’d reply.
“You’ve been up for 15 minutes and you haven’t made me a sandwich?”
Which would make most of us do this…
But instead made her do this…
Or this part where she equates sandwiches to affection:
To him, sandwiches are like kisses or hugs. Or sex. “Sandwiches are love,” he says. “Especially when you make them. You can’t get a sandwich with love from the deli.”
Whereupon she should have told him to go fuck himself and marry a fucking Subway sandwich shop. Also, you CAN get a sandwich made with love from the deli. It’s called a bodega.
There was that magical moment when he ate that sandwich she created (before even having time to wipe the damn eye boogers out of her eyes) and declared, jokingly or not, that it would take 300 sandwiches to pin him down:
Eric devoured the sandwich as if it were a five-star meal, diving in with large, eager bites. “Babes, this is delicious!” he exclaimed.
As he finished that last bite, he made an unexpected declaration of how much he loved me and that sandwich: “Honey, you’re 300 sandwiches away from an engagement ring!”
Was our happily ever after as simple as making him a few sandwiches?
Wait. What? Who are you right now posing a totally ridiculous question in the middle of this article like that? Carrie Bradshaw?
But that was short lived. Because then Stephanie became a bit obsessive and Gollum-ish about obtaining her “precious” ring.
Ten sandwiches or so in, I did the math. Three sandwiches a week, times four weeks a month, times 12 months a year, meant I wouldn’t be done until I was deep into my 30s. How would I finish 300 sandwiches in time for us to get engaged, married and have babies before I exited my childbearing years?
Ummm. Because not having babies with a man who won’t even let me piss in the AM before I make him a sandwich has to be the worst thing that will EVER happen to me. Take a note from Nene Leakes…
And then there was this thing that made me really sad, because it confirmed that she wasn’t doing it because she loves fucking sandwiches the way her “gourmet cook” boyfriend does. But because…well…because she was trying to persuade him.
I made sandwiches for breakfast, lunch, dinner and dessert. I made sandwiches to get myself out of the doghouse — like No. 67, a scrambled egg, smoked salmon and chive creation that combined some of Eric’s favorite things to make up for my being 45 minutes late for dinner the night before.
You don’t have to do this…I promise you don’t have to do this.
But then there was this peach cobbler dessert sandwich that made me want to tell her “please continue…please do what you do best!”
But then I hit my breaking point:
Even after covering movie premieres or concerts for Page Six, I found myself stumbling into the kitchen to make Eric a sandwich while I still had on my high heels and party dress.
Because there are more important things to do than leaving a party exhausted and going home to make your fetish-sandwich-loving boyfriend something to eat. Like leaving a party exhausted and going to Shake Shack to have someone make you something to eat.
In the end, I figured this shouldn’t bother me that much. I mean, this heavenly edible came out of her quest to finally get hitched and I ain’t mad at it.
Well. Until I read what her boyfriend told her:
“You women read all these magazines to get advice on how to keep a man, and it’s so easy,” he says. “We’re not complex. Just do something nice for us. Like make a sandwich.”
Not 300 of them.
But then again, I’ve done much more than make a sandwich…for a lot less than a wedding.
And now I’m part of Stephanie’s genius marketing plan to get a book, and maybe even a movie. So there’s that.
Now who’s the smart cookie…sandwich?
PHOTO CREDIT: 300Sandwiches, Giphy