This Woman Made 300 Sandwiches to Get a Ring on It. Discuss


I’m not even kidding.

“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.”

So: Read this little lovely article about this muppet and her boyfriend who said he’d engage her ass with a cubic zirconia or shit if she made him SANDWICHES every day for 300 days.

Or see here, for your very self, what this total idiot it doing and writing about. PS, she says her boyfriend looks like Alexander Skarsgard. I beg to differ. A Lot.

‘I’m 124 sandwiches away from an engagement ring 

My boyfriend, Eric, is the gourmet cook in our relationship, but he’d always want me to make him a sandwich.  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?”

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.”

One lazy summer afternoon just over a year ago, I finally gave in. I assembled turkey and Swiss on toasted wheat bread. I spread Dijon mustard generously on both bread slices, and I made sure the lettuce was perfectly in line with the neatly stacked turkey slices.

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!”

I paused. Was our happily ever after as simple as making him a few sandwiches?

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?

My mother was the voice of reason. “Relationships are a marathon, not a sprint,” she said. “Take it one sandwich at a time.”

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.

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.

“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.”

This story, plain and simple, makes me want to yack, along the same lines of Samantha “cor Blimey! Facts!” Brick, who proudly says her husband will divorce her if she puts on weight.

This notion that women have to change and bend and wheedle and maneuver in order to get (and keep) the elusive “ring” on their finger  is actually, bloody sickening.

You don’t have to look much further than the Aus version of The Bachelor to see a) a very boring, albeit classically handsome man (who denies being a stripper, no, he’s just a chiropractor now…..) and b) a large bunch of competitive, nasty, stupid, vapid individuals who would fuck each other over in a second in order to have five minutes “one-to-one chat” with someone who is good looking but as chronically uninteresting as they are, just in case he might marry them and it will all be flowers and rainbows and unicorns except it won’t. For the love of God – really???

He’s also really rude. If he’s on a date with two girls or five, it’s his job to make conversation with his guests and make sure everyone is comfortable and included. Bloody Australian men – no class I tell you – or proper manners.

*Here I make an exception re: Bachelor shows – a good friend of mine (from when we were kids) has been on another version of this show in Europe and he is intelligent, funny, awesome, talented, caring, lovely-mannered and very handsome. So there*

Two men in my life have asked, after a fashion, to marry me.

1. “I know I fucked you over but I have chased you to the other side of the world and you just say the word and we’ll go back to Scotland and get married.”

2. “I know you don’t want to study in Australia so you can live here so I think we should get married. PS I’m serious. I’m not drunk.”

Yeah. Super, huh? The next two said they totally would marry me. Luckily, I’m not the kind of person to casually arrange Bridal magazines on the coffee table and have already picked the venue/colour theme/bridal registry. Because one turned out to be a cheaty-McCheat-cheat and the other I will love til my dying day but I think we both know it will never probably work out.

I don’t expect or to or dream of getting married anymore. If I did, I’d probably relegate my childhood “pillow-cases on the head” thing to memory and have something small, with great food and booze, a second-hand dress, no cars, no bullshit expenses and a super disco in a lovely venue. That’s all anyone ever wants, isn’t it?

If someone doesn’t want to have a conversation about marrying you (or not), don’t make them 300 FUCKING SANDWICHES. Maybe think about why this was his response after so many years, rather than writing a Julie-Julia Blog about your sad life, hoping it will be made into a film and you’ll end up like SJP at the New York Library but not get jilted and it is all amazing. I hate you. I wouldn’t even make a week’s sandwiches for myself let alone for someone else.

I bet you have a collection of wedding dresses stashed away somewhere. You make me sad. You are not a Princess. And guess what? People will probably enjoy your wedding, especially if they get monogrammed gifts to take away. It may even rate in their “top five”. You’ll get presents and be the centre of attention for one day. People will cry. You might cry. But then the wedding ends and all the things you’ve spent years planning will all fall away. The wedding favours have been taken, there is cake crushed into mush on the floor, there are a few dodgy relatives still on the dancefloor and you’ll turn into a pumpkin.

If you can’t see a marriage and a wedding for what it really is – a bonding of two people who love each other in front of those they love also – then you are destined for disappointment.

300 Sandwiches? Fuck off. Actually, you and your man who suggested the sandwiches deserve each other. Good fucking luck.

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About ohhellwhatthehell

I like gin, mittens and otters, not necessarily in that order. Here's some stuff I felt like writing down when I'm not chained to a desk writing other things for a living. Please use caution when using this site; there may be sweary words, cute animals and general bullshit. Don't say I didn't fucking warn you.
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One Response to This Woman Made 300 Sandwiches to Get a Ring on It. Discuss

  1. Pingback: 43 Sandwiches Short of a Picnic | ohhellwhatthehell

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