My husband and I just snuck away for lunch at our favorite Indian restaurant.

(Related: Snuck isn’t a word? Really? Is it sneaked? Wow. You really do learn something new every day.)

Anyhow we were sitting next to this family (they were Indian but still) and marveling at the way the kids were eating. Spicy stuff with sauce and everything. And they weren’t complaining. So I started telling Joe about one of the girls’ friends who had been over that week, who had pretty much eaten like that.

Me: And when I asked her if she wanted mayo or mustard she said ‘sure whatever you have’ and then she ate the crusts and everything!

Him: [Shakes head silently, sadly]

Me: What?

Him: It’s just that you should know if you died in a plane crash tomorrow, that’s how our kids would eat.

Me: Look I realize that their every flaw is somehow my fault but if you actually think this one is fixable why aren’t you doing something about it? And why the fuck did you have to say plane crash? Jesus.

Him: Sorry, if you get accepted on that moon-shuttle thing and it explodes, the girls will learn to eat whatever the hell I feed them.

Me: No really, you should start making them eat stuff now. I’m kind of sick of buttered noodles.

Him: [No comment]

Me: That’s what I thought.

(And this is why I am qualified to write marriage books, people.)