My wife thinks dinner rolls are to be eaten raw and steak to be well done (somewhere between killed twice and coal-like in appearance). She can never make up her mind when ordering food, and a simple dinner at Oliver Garden goes something like this:
Waiter: Hello, can I take your order?
Wife: Yes, I'd like the spaghetti with meatballs. But . . . instead of meatballs, I'd like chicken. Instead of spaghetti sauce, I'd like alfredo sauce. And . . . instead of spaghetti noodles, I'd like fettuccine pasta.
Waiter: . . . Umm . . . so you're saying you'd like children alfredo?
Wife: . . . No . . . I'd like the spaghetti with meatballs. But . . . instead of meatballs, I'd like chicken. Instead of spaghetti sauce, I'd like alfredo sauce. And . . . instead of spaghetti noodles, I'd like fettuccine pasta.
Waiter: . . . Umm . . .
Me: Sorry, we just picked her up from the mental hospital and this is her first time in public in a long time.
Waiter: HAHAHA
Wife: Looks like you'll be sleeping on the couch for a while.
Me: WTH . . . oops, sorry dear. I'll try harder to be more patient and nice next time.
She totally puts up with more of my idiocracy than I put up with hers!