We went grocery shopping and since we were walking, we were limited on how much we could carry. Fahim insisted on buying the 10 kg bag of rice today even though we still have enough for a week or so. Can’t risk running out. He had to carry it home and because he refused to carry it like a baby cradled in his arms (whine – "I’ll get rice dust all over my clothes and I have to wear them to work." "I can wash them. It’ll come out." "But that will wreck my clothing rotation." "You’re so anal you can’t break your stupid clothing rotation system?" "It’s called a system for a reason, dearest." And on and on – but much wittier and much funnier. We were killing ourselves laughing. Which didn’t help with his rice death grip. And yes, he really does have an anal clothing rotation system, and I really do think it’s silly, but heck, I knew he was anal when I married him – that was half his charm. If he wasn’t anal, he’d think I was totally nuts. At least this way, we match each other in our analness.) but instead gripped it with his hands, the bag started ripping where I think his nails started digging in. He thinks he’s bleeding and starts to freak out – but then we figure it’s the paint from the bag coming off where he gripped it. I, who had (some) sympathy for him, carried the rest of the groceries so he only had to deal with the rice. I’m nice and I’m strong. Fantastic combination.