He Said, She Said

Marriage is a series of compromises. Oh, you already knew that?

Well, sure, when it comes to weddings, friends, and sex, compromise is a given. Those things are major. After all, you don't want his drunk friends hanging out until 4 or 5 am playing video games at a decibel level that the teenage boy next door envies. Nor do you want him (your husband, not the teenage boy next door) showing up at the wedding hungover. Those sorts of things are expected.

I mean the compromises that aren't expected. Let's talk about peanut butter.

Simple substance until he declares that this is a Smooth house and won't tolerate a bottle of Chunky unless there's some sort of nuclear holocaust on its way. Even then, you should have checked another store.

And of course, the correct construction of a PBJ is to put the peanut butter on first. That way, if a little extra is carried over to the second jar, it's peanut butter in the jelly jar. No devastating side effects. As long as you don't mind peanut butter in the jelly. If it was performed the other way, well, you get jelly in the peanut butter jar and that just doesn't work. Unless you kept your peanut butter in the fridge. But we keep ours in the cupboard. Not where I want my jelly, even if it's only a tiny speck.

He declared that if I were making the sandwich the correct way, jelly first, then peanut butter, carry over of the jelly wouldn't be a problem. Jelly wipes off the knife cleanly.

I stick out my tongue and tell him when it's his turn to cook, he can make it anyway he wants.

I love compromise.