Inspired by Shit My Dad Says.

The back story: Every time either my husband or I leaves town, the one who is staying home often takes leave of their senses and orders evil, fattening takeout.

The qualifications for the takeout chosen are:

• the at-home person desperately craves it but rarely orders it, on account of the out-of-town person’s preferences
• delicious enough to cure loneliness after the baby goes to bed for the night.

When The Hubby is away, a binge-worthy serving of Thai drunken noodles is my vice. When I’m gone, The Hubby favors a big bucket of crispy-fried chicken parts.

While I was in San Diego for a few days last week at BlogHer ’11, I called home to check in. Here is a rough approximation of the conversation.

Me: How’s it going?

The Hubby: Not so good. I’ve been eating off this same bucket of chicken for two days and I had to throw it out.

Me: Old chicken, eh. Did the crispy coating get soggy?

The Hubby: No, it’s time to detox. I’m sweating gravy.

Me: I could use a detox myself. I’m going to eat more vegetables.

The Hubby: I’m going to eat jambalaya with sausage.