Let’s talk about nit-picking.
Last week, the world was treated to a very special example of nit-picking by our president. It happened in a joint press conference in the Oval Office with the visiting President of France, Emmanuel Macron.
Our president said, of Macron, “We do have a very special relationship. In fact, I’ll get that little piece of dandruff off – we have to make him perfect. He is perfect.”
The Commander in Chief then proceeded, in front of the cameras of all the world, to brush an invisible piece of lint off the president of France’s shoulder.
“Stop right there, Judy. You say ‘lint,’ but Trump called it ‘dandruff.’ ”
“Yes. So?”
“So, which was it?”
“I have a feeling it was neither one. But why nit-pick?”
“Oh, this isn’t nitpicking,” said my husband. “If it were, that would imply that the President of France had head-lice, since a ‘nit’ is, literally, the egg of a louse.”
“So I’ll say you’re making a lousy point! My point is that — in a non-literal way — you are always nit-picking me, and I wish you’d stop.”
“Like when, Judy?”
“Like last night, on the phone with our son, when you kept interrupting and nit-picking me till I wanted to scream!”
“You mean, in the conversation about how he might have to renew his driver’s license without coming home?”
“Yes, that one. I was saying how all he needs to do is get a vision test with an eye doctor, and have them send their results to the DMV —”
“But you were completely ignoring whether it should be an optometrist or an ophthalmologist who does the test! An ophthalmologist is the one who —”
“I know all that! I’m the one who’s worn glasses since the age of 9, for heaven’s sake!”
“But he doesn’t know that!”
“My point is, none of that matters! Don’t you remember, when our oldest had the same problem? All that mattered, in the end, was whether the office he went to could send the results to the DMV!”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” said my husband.
“So then why correct me — and right in front of our son?”
“We weren’t actually in front of him, you know, we were on the phone—”
“There, you just did it again!”
“Did what?”
“You nit-picked me!”
“I didn’t nit-pick; I was correcting you.”
“Now you’ve just nit-picked me on the word ‘nit-pick!’ ”
“Well, somebody had to,” said my life’s partner.
But he must have seen my face, and gotten my message. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll try not to nit-pick so much. Especially around the kids.”
“Even if I say ‘I’m nauseous’ when it should be ‘nauseated’?”
“You would never do that.”
“Or if I talked about ‘voltage’ when it should be ‘current’?”
“You don’t know the difference,” he said, a bit smugly.
“Or ‘flammable’ instead of ‘inflammable’?”
“Trick question, they both mean the same.”
For some reason, this reminds me of one of my favorite TV ads, where one man says to another, “It’s about time they gave Left Twix and Right Twix their own packs; they’ve got about as much in common as you a mortician and me an undertaker.”
A third man says to a fourth, “Or you a janitor and me a custodian!”
Then one translucent woman to another, “Or you a ghost and me a spirit!”
And all six laugh uproariously.
“You know,” said my husband, “you could learn a lot from Macron. Look how well he took it— it didn’t bother him at all.”
“Well, of course, it didn’t. He knows it was nothing. We all do. No French man would ever go near the President of the United States with dandruff on his jacket! And even if he tried, no French wife would let him!”
“So,” I continued, “we can safely assume there was no dandruff. Or lint. Or louse-egg. But did Macron nit-pick the President of the United States, and tell him so? No! He knows better than to do that. Which is one more reason why he is perfect!”
“So I guess you’d say I’m not perfect?”
“I might say that. If I were the nit-picking type. Lucky for you, I’m not.” And my husband opened his mouth to refute me before he realized what I was up to — and said nothing.
“A close call!” I told him. And smiled, as I brushed invisible nits off his shoulder.
