The matrix is real, the domestic goddess is an illusion

Woke up this morning to the wonderful crackling sound and hunger-inducing smell of bacon frying in the kitchen. The wife is so transparent she should come with her own bottle of Windex.

‘How did the try-outs go last night honey?’ she asks, the use of honey another dead giveaway about the game she’s playing.

‘Fine,’ I respond as gruffly as possible as I go to pour some coffee.

‘Let me get that for you babe,’ she says, really trying way too hard. ‘The bacon should be ready in a moment. How much syrup do you want with your pancakes?’

Soccer is an amazing game. It can turn the least domesticated woman in the world into Rachel Ray, all in the name of trying to ensure I pick her boss’s son for my team. The beauty of it all is she doesn’t know the boy has already made the cut in my mind.

‘So what was the technical standard like?’ she says, suddenly sounding weirdly like she’s been watching too much Fox Soccer Report at night. I swear she had an affected Scottish tinge to her accent like that McMahon guy.

‘Fine,’ I respond, chowing down, wondering how many more days of her groveling that I can wring from this.

‘Do you mind me asking how my boss’s child did?’ She waits until I’m almost finished my food before asking this, obviously hoping the breakfast of champions affects my judgment.

‘I do mind you asking,’ I say, faking umbrage and trying hard not to smirk. ‘This is a confidential process. I’m not going to breach the trust of the players and their parents by giving you an inside scoop. The boy tried hard, just like all the boys tried hard. And when I sit down tonight to evaluate them all using my measurement matrix, we’ll see if he made the cut.’

I don’t know where I pulled the measurement matrix line from but I can see she’s shocked and a little impressed. Try-outs, they really are the gift that keeps on giving.