Just a couple of mushrooms

Stay with me. There is an analogy somewhere in here.

After having a not so minor argument over the phone with my husband about -- of all things -- bandaides, I was stewing. Mad. Thinking of all the reasons his choice of newfangled, trendy, expensive bandaides is wrong. And disrespectful! Oh, I had a bulleted list in my head, laying it all out:

• I hate the little white tabs you have to pull off. Really convenient when your fingers are slathered with neosporin and you have a moving little boy finger for a target.


• The thin plastic sticks together. And once that happens, forget it.


• The actual cotton part is so miniscule compared to the disproportionately large bandage.


• I JUST want a cotton-picking NORMAL, old-school-style, fleshtoned BandAide brand bandaide for pete's sake!

But dinner needed to be started. And Mr. Fancy Bandaid wasn't here to slough off my responsibility on, so I started in. Marinating the chicken, rinsing the mushrooms in the collander...when I spotted it.

**The guilt-inducing conjoined mushroom**

From the very instant I saw it, I knew.

It was a sign.

I was being petty and shallow.

Even the produce knew it, as it seemed to remind me, "You and Bryan are a couple. Stuck together for life. How could you let something so trivial come between you? How?"

I did what any rational person would do -- went to the office and grabbed my camera.

And that's when I saw the email.

As if the siamese twins on my counter weren't enough, my husband had also taken the time to send me an email, complete with (no doubt) google images of the very little gems I had not so pleasantly described to him on the phone:

Telling me to take my pick since he was stopping at the store on the way home.

So, yeah, I felt like total fungus. But at least I've got my better half. And at least he's got a sense of humor during the occasional times that I ... um ... don't.