Now, if he'd said Pluto, I'd go.

Today is Josh and my third wedding anniversary. Last night, we went out for an absolutely lovely dinner at Le Perigord, one of New York City's finest French restaurants. It was an evening replete with sensational cuisine drizzled with rich, dark sauces; pretentious, ornery service who would occasionally walk past our table and speak to us in French just because Josh said "merci" when handed his menu; and clientele whose average age we brought down to be about 72.

It was really enjoyable, actually: It's restaurant week, when many of the greatest establishments in the city offer prix fixe meals for low, low prices, and it gives us an opportunity to try places we normally can't afford. Even so, I've been to enough of these chichi haunts to know that when you're youngish and not dripping in estate pearls, it's anyone's guess how they're going to treat you. Josh and I are polite and educated and we clean up nice, but it's no secret when we walk into a room that we're not going to spring for the $200 bottle of St. Estephe. Some places — like Chanterelle — wine and dine you no matter who you are (even if you're wearing a $30 strand of fake pearls you [meaning, I] bought at Lord & Taylor), but I was a little wary about this place, especially since I was wearing a skirt with no pantyhose in such a reputable establishment. Would they deign to feed a woman of such questionable taste and morals? I felt far less bad about it when I saw a patron who was probably 862 years old fall asleep at his table for roughly 20 minutes. You know the service is good when they wait until you wake up on your own before they tantalize you with the dessert cart. And it made me feel better to see that they were ornery to everybody, not just to us. It was very old-school, very '30s, and when we told one of the servers that we were transfixed watching him fillet a salmon with a spoon because he made it look so easy, he gave us a look like, "Seely cheeldrin, I heve been doing zees for fourty yeerz. Of courss I mek eet look eezy!"

I must say, the chocolate souffles were fluffy heaven in a cup.

When we got home, Josh said, "Do you remember that conversation we had about going into outer space?"
Um, no. "Yes."
"Well, I've been thinking: If it turned out that it was safe, I'd be okay with going to Mars."
[pause, while I stare at him blankly]
"I mean, if it turned out we couldn't get back and were stranded, I'd be okay with staying on Mars."
"Is Mars developed at this point?"
"Not necessarily. I just mean that if I had a choice between floating out to space in a capsule or staying on Mars, I'd feel more comfortable on Mars because I'd be on land."
"But Mars isn't developed. It's just a desolate, red planet. You'd have nothing. What's the difference between dying out in space where you'd have nothing and dying on Mars where you'd have nothing?"
"Because at least I'd be on land instead of lost Out There. I'd be grounded. It's better."
"Why? Either way, you starve or suffocate to death."
"Ugh. You don't get it. Just ... look ... it's better ... never mind."

He also told me the other day that he thinks women in PVC catsuits are hot. And he didn't have a problem that, in a dream I had Tuesday night, I had sex with David Duchovny in a shower, because he recognizes that David Duchovny is the shit.

Best three years ever.