Mah-wwidge.

Mah-wwidge, it seems, is all about the cookies: Who has the cookies. Who doesn't have the cookies. Who controls when and where the cookies are consumed.

I had dinner today with a set of in-laws-- my brother-in-law's brother and his wife; or my sister's brother-in-law and his wife; or my brother-in-law's brother and his sister-in-law; or my sister's brother-in-law and her husband's sister-in-law, take your pick-- and I had a front row seat to some sort of altercation still festering from the morning after the wedding, which took place over eight weeks ago. Apparently two cookies came with the honeymoon suite, one for the bride and one for the groom, and the groom ate his cookie while the bride was in the shower. She exited the bathroom extremely put-out, as she had her own plans for the cookie.

"I was going to eat that!" she said.

"You already ate yours," her husband pointed out.

See, that's what marriage is all about. Your cookie is my cookie. I, as the only umarried person in the whole entire room, felt at liberty to share this wisdom with the group.

"Actually," my sister said, "my cookies are still my cookies, and your cookies are my cookies too."

The failure to realize such things is probably the reason I continue to sleep alone. This afternoon I announced to my sister and her husband that I could never marry a boring person. "I must," I said, "be entertained."

"And that strategy has worked so well for you so far," Britton said.

I told him to shut up, then acknowledged that he had a point, then told him to shut up again.