Monday through Wednesday at our house is tough. Monday and Tuesday nights the hubs has class and doesn’t get home til almost 11 and Wednesday nights are always yoga with BF-H and whomever else wants to join. (Uh hem…) I usually get home between 8-10 on these nights so dinner can happen as late as 10:30. Don’t know why I feel you should know all that, but whatever.

While we’re being all detailed and stuff, I’ll paint an even clearer picture. Tonight, the hubs got home around 8:40. I’d walked in a few minutes earlier. I’d come from yoga and was about to eat my arm off. Not a problem usually, but we’d decided to have steamed artichokes for dinner and those take about 45 minutes. I could hear the nutries voice in my head, telling me not to snack, wait, drink water, pace, anything but start snacking, but I require about 2,100 calories a day and I was hovering at about 900 and shit was about to get ugly. Needless to say there was a storm of mini snacks while hubs steamed the chokes. (Usually we eat them alone, but since we’re both “training” for the half marathon in may I thought I’d make some tilapia with a miso glaze. You know, protein and stuff. Super simple and takes about 10 minutes. Happy to email you the recipe.)

At 9:45, about twenty seconds before I fainted from the lack of nutrients, We sat down to dinner (in the official and grown up dining room) and began to enjoy our fish and chokes. Twice the hubs asked me why I was eating so fast. I ignored how loaded and offensive the comment came across, but I opted to tell him I’d try to gentle eat for the rest of the meal. i.e. Blow it out your ass, buddy. I’m fucking starving and now is not the time to go all OA eating tips on me.

We decided to eat in the dining room because we had all sorts of grown up stuff to talk about (money, weekend plans, etc.) and the dining is way more conducive to focused conversations. The hubs started talking about work which usually includes a reminder of how much he hates his job, a remark or two about the idiots he works with, reinforced by a story or two, and concluded by an interesting bit of information he learned from a customer or one of the few people he works with who wouldnt be better off mute.

Tonight’s conversation was too good not to share.

hubs: Did you know that most vegetarians don’t eat eggs?

me: Yes.

hubs: Yeah… but there’s an name for it and everything, ov–

me: Ovo vegetarian. Like ovary.

hubs: Are you sure it’s not from the French word for egg?

me: Can’t be sure, though I feel certain the French word comes from ovary anyway. Like ovulation.

hub: Anyway, learned that at work today.

me: Huh. Wonder if there is an assumption that pescetarians eats eggs? I guess not because I’ve heard the term ovo-lacto-pescetarian.

hubs: Are you fucking kidding me? That’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.

me: Well, I guess. But technically that’s what I am. I’m a vegetarian who eats eggs, cheese, and fish.

hubs: I don’t care what you are. Don’t ever tell anyone that. Ever. Just tell them you are picky. I don’t want to know any of the miserable, stupid fuckers who actually categorize themselves as ovo-lacto-pescetarians.

me: I don’t call myself that. I’m just saying, that’s the technical term for what I am.

hubs: Fine. But I’m the only one who has to know. Keep it to yourself.

me: Did you have a bad day at work?

So, between you and me, I’m an ovo-lacto-vegetarian picky eater.