Get in the Kitchen and Make Me 300 Sandwiches

Have you heard some woman is making 300 sandwiches for her boyfriend so that he'll propose to her?

I'm assuming you have, because I've seen nothing else on social media since this morning. Ted Cruz talked for 21 hours, and this chick is making sammiches upon sammiches upon sammiches.

A lot of folks are pissed. And a part of me gets it, the woman behind 300 Sandwiches, Stephanie Smith, a senior reporter for Page Six, is trying to make herself known for giving breath to every douchebag who thinks "make me a sandwich" jokes are funny. For the record, they're not. And never were.

To them, she's the Patron Saint of Domesticity. A beautiful woman whose boyfriend gets to say the following without the fear of castration:

“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?”

For real, sweetheart? I completely understand that some things said in the confines of a relationship may not translate to the outside world, which is why you don't blog about those things. Because now everyone hates your boyfriend. He looks like a mega-tool. And I'm sure he's not, he just really loves sandwiches.

It's the same reason I don't blog about my boyfriend calling me a gutter slut, because people wouldn't understand that it comes from a place of love. (By the way, I'm pretty sure my dad's reading my blog now. So have fun crying that one out, Pops.)

But she put this all out in the open--every slightly disheartening comment.

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. … Maybe I needed to show him I could cook to prove that I am wife material. If he wanted 300 sandwiches, I’d give him 300 sandwiches — and I’d blog about it.

Now don't get me wrong I make my boyfriend sandwiches all the time. I cook. I bake. I clean. I do all kinds of things that would make June Cleaver proud. But none of the aforementioned duties are performed with hopes of proving that I am "wife material". What does that even mean, anyway?

And how long after the 300 sandwiches are made does he have to propose? Is there a window of time or will he dropping to one knee while wiping dijon off his face? What if on sandwich 298 she finds him balls deep in her best friend? Is the agreement then void?

It just seems bizarre to be so attached to a proposal that you're willing to barter like you're buying matrimony on Craigslist.

I don't know Stephanie Smith so I don't want to judge her too harshly, but I do question how it feels to compromise the natural course of a relationship with a deli item? Will she feel a slight pang of regret when he does propose, because it was based on a sandwich quota? Is the thrill still there? Or is it like a modern day dowry? I'll give you 2 goats, an acre of land and 300 sandwiches.

But maybe we're all bartering in relationships. Look how funny I am. How good in bed. How many goats I have.

Maybe Stephanie Smith is on to something. Something really fucking weird.

Now I wonder if she'll make me a sandwich? No mayo, babycakes.