“I think she thinks I think she thinks I think they’re great …but they’re actually not.”

Hello Readers,

You’ve caught me in the middle of trying to decide whether to tote all the children to the petting zoo today or do housework. Try not to get chased by goats or vacuum the cracker piles threatening to start an ant colony under the twins beds upstairs?

Both are unsavory interactions with Nature. Then again, if I find enough ants, perhaps I can convince the children we actually went to the petting zoo.

As complex as that choice seems, however, it’s nothing compared to trying to find things to make Husband for lunch. Yes, when I decided to embark on this housewifery gig, I decided I’d do my best to try and find sustenance for my spouse on a daily basis. He does, after all, split the body wash and toothpaste evenly with me, so why not.

The mustached part of the duo works much too far away to come home for lunch, so my lack of culinary skills and I try and try again to send scrumptious* things along with him.

*I promise never to use the word “scrumptious” again. It just didn’t feel right.

Unfortunately, the lack of culinary abilities on my part tended to stand in the way of finding anything satisfying to throw in the old cooler. (Although, there are starving hermits the world over who would appreciate the finesse with which I can shot put a piece of bread, Pop Tart, and can of beans into a lunch bag.)

Crackers became “tiny, fancy pieces of toast.”

Chips …a main course if the proper optimism is utilized.

Beef jerky. The settlers called it the “breakfast, lunch and dinner of the prairie,” and so can you.

When I found the pre-made deli sandwiches at the grocery store, I thought I’d found a winner. And so, I bought them incessantly. Husband couldn’t pass me without getting a turkey, lettuce and tomato thrown at his head.

“Sandwich?”

“I’m in the shower.”

“But it has Swiss and roast beef.”

Up until Thursday, I lived in a world where my man was perfectly pacified with all sorts of deli delicacies. But that was the era directly before he turned his head toward me and whispered, “I really don’t like those sandwiches.”

I stared at him in shock and began to absently erase the diary entry I’d been working on.

Dear Diary,

Husband loves the sandwiches I keep buying him. It’s so satisfying to know that

“What?”

He looked at me awkwardly. “I don’t really like them. There’s too much bread and this tiny slice of meat in the middle. It’s just ..they’re not that good.”

“You don’t like the sandwhiches?”

“I don’t.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m telling you now.”

Distraught, I searched for meaning in a sandwichless world. “If that’s how you feel, I guess I’ll stop buying them. You think you know someone, and then they crumple up your heart like a paper lunch bag. Do you even love me, or do I have too much bread?”

“It’s just the sandwhiches.”

“I simply want to make sure we’re not living a lie.”

So it’s back to the drawing board for me. The good thing is I think I’ve found a few interesting ways to dress up those tiny, fancy pieces of toast.

Paige Kellerman blogs about marriage, babies and gin at www.paigekellerman.com, and is the author of At Least My Belly Hides My Cankles: Mostly-True Tales of An Impending Miracle. You can reach her at .

She also hides out on Twitter and Facebook.