Shawn couldn't sleep all night, and he's really tired.
So he asked me to make him a sandwich just now. Okay, no problem. "What kind?"
"Peanut butter, banana, and jelly."
I figured he was tired and thus a little mixed up. "You mean peanut butter and banana?"
"No, peanut butter, banana, and jelly."
Blech. How disgusting. But, that's what he wants, so ... A bit later he toodles into the kitchen while I am composing the abomination and says, "and butter."
"What???"
"Butter."
"Peanut butter, banana, jelly, and butter," I say.
Just to clarify matters. Because at this point, I am thinking he's slipped off the edge of sanity and just needs a gentle nudge back into The Land of Normal.
"Yes. How do you think Elvis ate his peanut butter sandwiches?" Okay, that came way out of left field. How is what Elvis ate even relevant to this conversation? However, something in me won't let it go, so I say, "Well, actually, Elvis ate grilled peanut butter and banana sandwiches, but they didn't have jelly in them."
He mumbles something about seeing a recipe with jelly in it, and one with honey in it too, but that's too sticky ... or something. I dunno. So, as he moseys on out of the kitchen, still murmuring under his breath, I shrug and put butter on one of the bread slices. I then put the two slices together; assembled, it looks like something a brave kid might eat on a triple dog dare. Gads.
Ever the dutiful wife, though, I take it to him in the bedroom. He takes one look at it and says, "I asked you to grill it." (You can review the conversation yourself. At no point did he ask me to grill it. He is always doing that to me.)
Ladies and gentlemen, I did the only thing at that point that could have made that sandwich more revolting: I grilled it. I'm not proud of myself.
"Peanut butter, banana, and jelly."
I figured he was tired and thus a little mixed up. "You mean peanut butter and banana?"
"No, peanut butter, banana, and jelly."
Blech. How disgusting. But, that's what he wants, so ... A bit later he toodles into the kitchen while I am composing the abomination and says, "and butter."
"What???"
"Butter."
"Peanut butter, banana, jelly, and butter," I say.
"Yes. How do you think Elvis ate his peanut butter sandwiches?" Okay, that came way out of left field. How is what Elvis ate even relevant to this conversation? However, something in me won't let it go, so I say, "Well, actually, Elvis ate grilled peanut butter and banana sandwiches, but they didn't have jelly in them."
He mumbles something about seeing a recipe with jelly in it, and one with honey in it too, but that's too sticky ... or something. I dunno. So, as he moseys on out of the kitchen, still murmuring under his breath, I shrug and put butter on one of the bread slices. I then put the two slices together; assembled, it looks like something a brave kid might eat on a triple dog dare. Gads.
Ever the dutiful wife, though, I take it to him in the bedroom. He takes one look at it and says, "I asked you to grill it." (You can review the conversation yourself. At no point did he ask me to grill it. He is always doing that to me.)
Ladies and gentlemen, I did the only thing at that point that could have made that sandwich more revolting: I grilled it. I'm not proud of myself.