This post is about bread. Seriously.

Dave made French onion soup last night, but before he could get started, he realized that he needed bread. Normally, he'd go get his own ingredients, but seeing as he was going to work out and I was going to sit on my ass, he volunteered me to do it.


Dave: Just run downstairs and pick up a country style loaf.

Me: Um, okay.

Dave: Do you know what that is?

Me: Yes.
No.

Dave: It's just a certain type of loaf.

Me: Well, duh! I don't really know what it is specifically, though.

Dave: You know what a French loaf is?

Me: Yeah, I'll get that.
Let's see if he goes for it.

Dave: No, that's different. But the country style loaf will be over there by that.

Me: Is it really hard like French bread?

Dave: No.

Me: Is it long like that or does it look different?
That's what she said.

Dave: Seriously?

Me: And it's not sliced, right?

Dave: Oh, Jesus, you'd think I asked you to input fucking missile codes or something.

Me: DAVE, I DON'T COOK. I eat.

Dave: Now I'm scared to have you do this.

Me: What's the big deal? It's just bread.

Dave: All right, all right. Just pick up the damn French bread.

Me: Okay.



Dave: No, fuck that! You can get the country style!



And so I did. It was clearly labeled and since I know how to read, it really wasn't very difficult. I was just being difficult. I know it. I knew it. I kinda thought it was funny to watch him freak out over sending me to pick up a silly loaf of bread.

Then again, I AM easily amused.