Last night, Joe and I made quesadillas for dinner but really they were more like tostadas, if I'm being completely honest. And I might as well be completely honest because why lie about quesadillas? If you can't be honest about quesadillas, what CAN you be honest about?
I took them out of the oven and we transferred them to plates so we could cut them into fourths. Because that makes it easier to eat with your hands and why wouldn't you want to eat with your hands? Why are you so fancy? Who are you trying to impress? Plus, eating with your hands is awesome. Anyway, since he is a gentleman, Joe started cutting my quesadilla before his and then this happened:
Me: NOOOO! STOP! You're cutting it wrong!
Me: If you make them the same size, how will I know which one to eat first*?!
And that's when Joe started pounding his head on the cabinet (for real) and laughing at me and I was all, "...I'm mostly kidding," and he was like, "IT'S THE MOSTLY THAT WORRIES ME," and this is what it's like to live with me, right, Heidi?
*If I cut stuff in half (or fourths, whatever), I have to cut them in different sizes because I have to eat the smallest piece first OBVIOUSLY. Shut up.