I should preface this little story with this: My husband makes my lunch every single work day. And a good lunch at that, usually a salad (with multiple toppings!) and possibly a sandwich of some sort and some snacks. This morning as I am getting ready for work, and running late of course, the following transpires (paraphrased of course):

Him: What did you do with the Feta?

Me: I didn’t do anything with the Feta.

Him: Well, I can’t find the Feta.

Me: Did you check the fridge?

Him: Yes.

(This is one of the things I love to complain about that husbands do. I think maybe if they phrased it in another way it might be better. Instead of saying, “what did YOU do with the whatever piece of food in the fridge I can’t find and am too frustrated to keep looking for,” maybe try saying, “hey, I looked in the fridge, but am not seeing it, can you be my second set of eyes?” Implying that I am the one that hide it from you on purpose in the fridge just puts me off.)

So I drop what I am doing to get ready for work, and go check the fridge again for him. I move some things out of the way. I find the feta, really far in the back, behind something large.

Him: Thanks.

Me (huffing away): You can move stuff around as well as I can!

Him (smiling, and always diffusing the situation like a good husband should): Apparently, you CAN move stuff around much better than I can.

Gosh, even when I want to kill him, I still love him.