When the inevitable question was posed, Who's fixing dinner? instead of the usual spousal debate, all I had to say was:


"43 6th graders"


No, not all day, in the same room at the same time.

...

update 10/31:

Sorry for the incoherent grammar-deficient post*. In an effort to appease one of my 1/2 dozen readers is the following presentation of Who's Fixing Dinner II, The Clarification Edition:

When the inevitable, as in always, predictably due to being creatures of habit and in need of sustenance for our physical bodies, every night around 5-ish in the evening, sometimes earlier if we did the brunch thing or later if we had a late lunch down at the mall or if the boys, one or both or even all three, had practice that evening, question was posed, Who's fixing dinner?, or some variation of the query, including but not limited to What are you making, what's in the fridge, what do you have planned, where are you taking me, and sometimes, but rarely I have a little cash, instead of the usual spousal debate (transcript of actual debate, repeated countless times word for word, so help me God and ask my children if you don't believe me because they plan on having it engraved on our headstones:

She: So, who's fixing dinner (or some variation, see above)?
Me: What would you like?
She: What do you want?
Me (sweetly, with nothing but the desire to make her happy shining in my eyes and dripping from my voice): Whatever you want, my love.
She: What do you want?
Me (with only the satisfaction of her desires in mind and heart): Whatever you want, my love.
She: What are my choices?
Me: What do you feel like having?
She: I dunno, what do you want?
Me (while looking desperately at my sons, hoping one of the boys does something even remotely wrong so I can thump him upside the head and with one thump conceivably accomplish two goals, the first of which is to take out my frustration on a kid who probably deserves a thump anyway, I just haven't found out what he's done yet, and secondly to disrupt the inane conversation long enough that She actually tells me what she wants for dinner, or looks away for long enough for me to escape): Aaaaaahhhhh!!!!!!

...all I had to say was:

"43, as in more than double 20, which is more than plenty already, thank you very much, 6th graders, the kind of children between the ages of 10 - 11 with the beginnings of puberty's hormonal rushing chaos sprouting up somewhere deep inside, unbeknownst to most of them, unless their parents bought them a book or they are allowed to watch 2 1/2 Men"

No, lucky me, not all day, in one room because unfortunately I could not lock half of them outside the room, at the same time, as in at the same with me, otherwise I would not have been witness to this 7th level of hell.

....

Then again, there is Who's Fixing Dinner? The (censored) Uncensored Edition:

When the inevitable question was posed, What the %&$#%'s for dinner? Instead of the usual spousal debate all I had to say was:

"40 %$#$-3 %$#&^ 6th %&^$#@# graders in 1 %$&&# room!

"Oh yeah, "Mr &%$#@^ Mom" without a %$&*^ job for 2 &%$%^# years while I've worked my &%%$#@ off, get your %^%$# in the kitchen!"

....




(ed note: he would never talk to The Wife that way, nor she him. although she does give mighty powerful glares. and if he did ever talk to her that way, you'd all be on Travelocity right now comparing prices of flights out west, and dusting off your somber black outfit.


*after all, they were 6th graders. 43 of 'em