It was just a typical Sunday around these parts. Mr. Husband was busy mopping floors while I was busy grouting some new tile. (Why, yes, we do epitomize stereotypical gender roles. Why do you ask?) Alexis was busy reenacting the past two Christmases as she rediscovered toys she had long ago forgotten existed, right up until I unpacked them for her this morning. (Shut up. I know we've been in this house three weeks and that it seems odd that I just now got around to unpacking some of the boxes clearly marked "TOYS." I've been busy painting and tiling and pretending there aren't boxes all over the dang place. It's hard maintaining this level of focus, yo.)

Alexis took a break in her enjoyment of all things plastic and annoying to seek out some lunch. She's become a bit too independent in that realm since we moved. It seems that having a pantry available for her to peruse has facilitated a never-before-seen level of crazy. She has managed to make her own breakfast by microwaving some waffles all. by. herself. She has managed to climb the shelves in the pantry so she could make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich all. by. herself as well. I'm expecting that she will either set the house on fire or knock down all its walls any minute now.

Fortunately, Mr. Husband caught wind of what she was up to before she had a chance to go mountain climbing for the peanut butter. (Yes, I know I could just put it on a lower shelf. Or, she could LISTEN when I yell at her to keep her feet on the floor. I like Option B a lot better in the long run.) As he gathered up the appropriate items to assemble the requested peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, he asked me if I would like one.

"No," I replied. Then my mouth ran away without my brain, "You don't make them right." I realized that I had just uttered fighting words two seconds too late. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it, he doesn't hear a word I say these days, so he totally missed my diss on his peanut butter and jelly sandwich-making skills. Given that I was up to my eyeballs in grout at the moment, I was in no position for a battle royale.

(An aside, why didn't someone remind me that I HATE grouting? I know I repressed the memory of all that misery, but somebody should have reminded me so that I wouldn't voluntarily tackle a tiling project.

Erk. Grrrm. Strrreng.

Oh yeah! I'm going to put the same tile in the kitchen if we ever manage to scrape together the pennies to replace the counter top! There's something about that idea I'm forgetting, but I'm sure I'll remember about 14 seconds after I open the . . . huh. I forget what I was going to say. Whatever. MEMORY REPRESSION IS THE BESTEST.)

Anyway, that got me to thinking about how I can totally taste the difference when he makes a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It doesn't make sense, I admit, but I can. Because I know that there will eventually be a brawl over who makes the better sandwich, I'm preemptively arming myself with ammunition to prove that I'm right.

I'm always right.

In my head.

So, there are two methods of sandwich-making that happen in this house. One person puts the peanut butter on one piece of bread, the jelly on the other piece of bread, and then smashes the two pieces together. The other person puts the peanut butter on one piece of bread, then layers the jelly on top of the peanut butter, and tops off the layers it with a plain piece of bread.

Who is right?

Thank you for your attention to this important matter.

Oh, and hey! Looky what I did!

Before:

After:

(Ignore the mess, please and thank you.)