While I am in the bathroom brushing my teeth Jon walks in, nudges me out of the way, and says he needs to clip his fingernails. This is a typical struggle we have at night because the bathroom is just too small for the both of us to take care of our respective hygiene at the same time. I need a sink to wash my face, he needs that same sink to brush his teeth and see how much water he can leave standing on the countertop. Quite a bit, it turns out.

I ask him how long it has been since he cut his toenails, although I don't need him to answer because I know exactly how long it has been. That's my job as a wife, to know these sorts of things, just like I know the exact amount of time down to the second his nose will bleed when I take a pair of tweezers and yank a skin tag off his nostril.

"I really shouldn't cut my toenails at this time," he says.

"No, you really should," I correct him. "That way we can sleep in the same bed, and you won't gouge the skin off my ankles. It'll be neat."

"But what if I need these toenails?" he asks.

"Why would you ever need toenails that are that long?"

He shakes his head as if he can't believe I don't already know the answer to that question. "In case both of my hands are occupied, and I need a way to snort some blow."

"Oh my god, that is totally disgusting."

"And yet, practical!"