"I ate all of my dinner!" I told my husband, who is the resident chef around here. He looked over at my plate.
"No, you didn't. You didn't eat the chicken."
"Right. The chicken smells like that stuff I don't like."
"Okay. I will take one 'no thank you' bite. Maybe I will like it," I said, because that's what we require of the children, and they eat all kinds of weird stuff.
He laughed and shook his head, watching as I took the bite. I tried to be gracious, because that's the polite thing to do, but it had that stuff I don't like on it and I grimaced. "No. Thank you," I said after swallowing.
"You eat like four things."
"Right. That stuff isn't one of the four."
"It's chipotle seasoning."
"Ugh. No thanks. You know I've always hated it. The steak was amazing, but chipotle tastes like it smells. Bad."
"Being married to you is like having a toddler for life. Like, forever."
"Like having a monkey?" I asked.
"No. A monkey would be way easier."
(So there goes the argument for why we can't have a monkey. This is practically permission to get one.)