Happy Couple Challenge: History and Context

Happy Couple Challenge: History and Context: "This morning on the way to daycare we heard a story about whether or not it was wise for people to blog about their personal relationships...."

Dream A Little Dream Of Me

Ang Howard is my BFF and has been since I was a junior in college. We have a special mind-to-mind connection that allows us to communicate practically telepathically. You know you are BFFs with someone when you can read what they have typed to you and hear it in their own voice. Anyway, yesterday I was giving Ang grief because she was responding to my emails in three words instead of giving me something long and interesting to read (so that I could procrastinate grading). She apologized but said she didn't have anything funny to say.

This morning, however, was a different story. I opened my email at 11:00 and found this wonderful story from Ang.

I have a funny story. I dreamt of you last night. We were going to run together for a race and we decided to have matching hair styles. So I went into the salon to get my hair cut. I texted you to see how much I should take off and you wrote, "I'm shaving my whole head - you have to too!!" So of course, not doubting your logic at all, I had her shave my head. It wasn't to the skin shaved, it was buzzed, but she made a design on the back of my head that was an eye and left a long rat tail. So - I get to your house, and see you through the window. You did not shave your head. I am very mad. I went in and said, "what the hell!" and you laughed and said, "oh my god - I was totally joking"

Then I woke up.

FIN

This story made me laugh and laugh. Thanks Ang!

Good Grief

This is a crime against humanity. Now, many people know that I am anti-princess culture. However, I have mostly resigned myself to the fact that Harper will be exposed to it. But this princess sipper with strategically placed straw is going TOO FAR. As my brother would say... Hate mail to Disney (or whoever thought up this atrocity).

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Mark is Good WIth Names

Mark is not good with names. He once introduced me as "his girlfriend... uh... KRISTEN!" Another time he forgot the name of his cousin and I had to remind him, even though I'd never met her. On one memorable occasion he answered the phone "Spectrum, Mike, uh, Mark speaking."

Sitting with him at his brother's wedding was an interesting experience. We'd been dating for about 4 months. As people went through the receiving line he would tell me where they lived, how many kids they had, how long they had either know Barb and Dave or his parents, what their jobs were, how long they had been at said job... but NO NAMES! Earlier that day I had gotten on his case for never introducing me to anyone. He response was that he would have, but he couldn't remember their names. Do you see a pattern emerging?

Anyway, this morning Mark was about to pull up in front of my building so I could get out an go to my office. A woman was walking on the sidewalk. Mark said:

"It's Diane Guilbeault-Jeans." (Sounds like the Girbaud Jeans brand).

"What?" I didn't know what he was talking about.

"That's how we remember her name in our office. Her name is Nancy Guilbeault. So we call her Guilbeault-Jeans."

"You just said her name was Diane."

Beat.

"Right. I call her Diane so that I remember her name is Nancy."

"Right." Laughing, I exit the car and head to my office where I immediately blog this story.

Will Inflicting

Sometimes Mark likes to pretend that he has Jedi mind powers while we are driving. He'll point his finger out at some other driver and then gesture them into the other lane... kinda like he's dragging the car over with the power of his mind. Sometimes this move is accompanied by swearing. Sometimes not. Swearing or no, this move rarely ever works.

On the way home earlier this week he pulled out the Jedi finger and used it to move the car in front of us into the next lane. Miracle of miracles, it actually worked. Mark made a triumphant sound and gesture.

"You realize that's an anomaly right? That doesn't really work."

"Yes it does," says Mark. "I inFLICT my will upon people." (emphasis original)

"Indeed," I reply. Because, really, what more is there to say?

Mark's Drawers

Our kitchen is 30 years old. It has the sorts of problems you might imagine in a kitchen that is original to the house. One of the things that REALLY bugs me is a broken drawer next to the oven. Over the past few weeks Mark has attempted to "do something" about the drawer. Usually, he attempts to "do something" after I have screaming fit because I can't get the drawer to function properly. Tonight was one of those time (minus the screaming fit, however. I was too tired to through fits tonight).

So, we are sitting in the living room, a gaping hole where the drawer should be...

Mark is looking at the computer.

"I'm thinking about going to Menards."

"Need something for the big install tomorrow?" I ask. (Mark has to install some cork boards or something tomorrow morning. He's told me before, but I must admit that I didn't pay much attention).

"No. For the drawer."

He pauses. I look at him.

"I may have... done... something..."

This makes me laugh. Alot.

Several moments later.

"Oh?" I say.

"Ummm, I sort of... took it apart."

This is so funny I know I must blog about it immediately.

"Give me my computer," I say.

A few minutes later (while I am writing this blog) Mark says, "I shouldn't go. Make me stop."

I laugh some more. "Why? What?"

"Should I go? Get a replacement drawer?"

"Because you took the other one apart."

"Yeah. I thought I could fix it." Mark gives me a significant look. I think I may have looked skeptical. "It was BROKEN."

Mark sighs, then puts his shoes on. As I'm typing this, the garage door opens and he backs the car down the driveway.

Madden on... driving?

Sometimes Mark does things while driving that I do not approve of: tailgating, rolling through stop signs, ignore the stoplights that are supposed to control when you merge onto the interstate during rush hour, things like that...

This morning he wanted to move to the lane to the right. We were at a confluence of confusion when he decided to move over. Mark wanted to move into the lane at the same time that traffic was merging into it from Hwy 55. In order to make this maneuver work we were at one point surrounded on three sides by cars that could hit us. He almost rear-ended the car in front of us in order to speed up enough to get ahead of the car in the lane he wanted to be in. At the same time, a black Honda was merging into the lane. Luckily the black Honda backed off and we were able to exit 94 unscathed. After he pulled ahead of the Honda I said:

"No. That was bad. I cannot approve of what you just did."

"Whatever," said Mark. "I was driving defensively."

"No," I shook my head. "That was driving offensively."

"Well," said Mark, "the best defense is a good offense."

"Wrong," I said. "That is the wrong use of the word offense."

"It's driving according to John Madden," said Mark. "You know I always like to follow Madden's advice."

My Stalker

Every time I've come into the office lately Carly, one of the film TAs, has been there. Understandably, this has led to a few comments about her stalking me. Today, Carly helped me carry a few things out to my car.

Me: "You won't be able to stalk me this weekend. I'm going on vacation."

Carly: "Oh, I'll be there. This is great. I've been needing a vacation." Pause. "Where are we going?"

Me: "Duluth. We're going to Split Rock on Saturday. You'll love it."

Carly: "Great! See you this weekend!"

I like Carly.

Enjoying the Scenery

So, Mark has this somewhat annoying and disturbing habit. When we are driving if at any point he sees a scantily-dressed, overweight, and hairy individual he will exclaim "Oh Look!" like he has just beheld something truly amazing. He always makes it sound so good and interesting. But really he's just pointing out things that I have no desire to see.

It turns out that he got this habit from his mother. I know, I know, I was a little surprised as well. One day we were driving through Hopkins when his mom declared there was some "scenery" coming up on the left. It was a huge man in tiny shorts. Every one in the car groaned. I thought to myself "AHA! That is where Mark got it!"

Anyway, fast-forward in time to this past weekend. Mark, Jared, Annie and I (and Harper) were on our way to Gastof's for a delicious German dinner. We were celebrating Jared's birthday. On the way out of our neighborhood Mark pulled the "Oh Look!" I did not look. I am slowly learning my lesson. Jared and Annie looked.

I made some comment to the effect of: "I never look because it is always some fat guy with his butt-crack hanging out."

Annie replied, "Oh, when I want to see that I just look at Jared in his sweatpants."

HILARIOUS!!!!

Jared says "HEY!" all indignant.

"No!" Annie says, slightly horrified. "I didn't mean the fat part."

Mark and I are laughing really hard.

"I mean your sweatpants! Your sweatpants are too big! You know..."

Oh, still laughing...

"I didn't mean you were fat..." Annie kind of trails off...

And then I had a little internal argument with myself.

This is funny, I should blog about it. (Evil Kristen)
No, I can't do that. The topic is a little... well... butt-cracks... (Good Kristen)
But I haven't laughed this hard in a long time. (Evil Kristen)
But, poor Jared... (Good Kristen)
Ah, screw it, I'm totally going to blog about it.

And Evil Kristen wins again.

Digging Through the Past

So, yesterday my brother-in-law dropped off two rubbermaids full of stuff from Mark's childhood. I think that Mark's parents kept EVERY SINGLE THING that either Mark or Dave touched as they were growing up. Seriously, we've been going through stuff for years. The amazing thing is that somehow, even though we've already gone through what seems like an endless supply of rubbermaids, new ones keep appearing... It's actually kind of spooky when you think about it.

Anyway, so there were two new tubs to address last night. I was in bed reading. Harper had already gone to sleep, so Mark was left to dig through his past.

He kept bringing things in to show me.

First, it was a Lego boat.

Then, a box full of baseball cards.

After that, a creepy, unopened Lucky Charms doll.

A copy of his high school newspaper. Three really terrible visual aids from a presentation he did from a history fair (seriously, they were bad). More Legos.

Then, the pièce de ré·sis·tance. I couldn't figure out what it was. It was made of wood... mostly. It looked kind of like an ax, except the part you would chop with was made of wood like the handle and it stuck off at a greater-than-90 degree angle. It was sort of shaped like the tail of a swallow. But, the weirdest part, was that there was a naked blade sticking out the other side. Just, you know, a knife blade... sticking out of the thing.

According to Mark, the weird thing was some kind of war club.

"And your parents just, ummm, let you play with that thing?" I ask.

Mark was laughing. Seriously, the club was the most bizarre thing I have EVER seen. It didn't even look like a very effective weapon.

"I can't believe this was in there," he says.

"Look, if we're going to keep that thing, you have to put it somewhere... up high... so that it can't be reached by children."

Mark looks at me, pretty surprised. "I didn't think you'd let me keep it."

"Well," I say, "I never know what of your weird Boy Scout stuff is, you know, nostalgic or whatever." We have a shield made of a turtle shell somewhere in our cold storage. And an ax. I'm not kidding.

Mark is brandishing the club over his head. He laughs.

"I could keep it under the bed," he says, "You know, in case we need to defend ourselves against a robber in the night."

I laugh.

"Gotta fight the crazy with crazy," says Mark thoughtfully.

He turns and leaves the bedroom.

A few minutes later he returns holding a bowling pin. A real bowling pin.

"I think I got this from bowling league," he says.

"Maybe we could use THAT to attack robbers," I say.

A Couple of Posts About Murder

Yesterday:

Mark and I are heading toward the Lowry tunnel when Mark gets cut off by a pretty crappy Ford van. It's a utility-type van, not a Ford Windstar. It looks like a Ford Econoline, but that's not what it was. I tried to note the make so that I could accurately represent it here, but I can't remember. Anyway, the van was old and pretty beat up. Through the back windows you could something that looked like cleaning products or whatnot stacked against the doors.

"Oh look," I said, "a serial killer van."

Now, I know it's not funny to make fun of serial killers or their vans. But I do it anyway.

Just then, ANOTHER van, this one a Ford Econoline, pulls up beside the other van. This one is even more beat up.

Mark says, "If possible, that van is even more crappy than the one in front of us."

"Yes," I say, agreeing. "But, it is a better serial killer van because it doesn't have windows in the back."

Mark peruses the van as we head through the tunnel. "Yes," he responds, "and it has a ladder on top so that the serial killer can climb in the second story."

It's quiet for a moment. Believe it or not, I'm actually thinking that I should quit making fun of serial killer vans. I KNOW it's not that funny.

"I'm coming to kill your cereal!" Mark says suddenly.

I start laughing.

"Imagine, you come downstairs into your kitchen to find your cereal box all shredded up and bits of cereal all over the floor..."

Mark picks up the narrative. "And milk splashed all over... Cereal... lying in puddles of WARM MILK!" Mark sounds horrified.

Hilarity ensues.
________________________________

Today:

My friend Ryan declares that I should "bitch slap" someone.

"Yeah," I reply, "because I want to get arrested. And lose my job."

Ali and Ryan and I all laugh.

"That would be just what I need, to get arrested for manslaughter," I say.

"Whoa!" says Ali, "Manslaughter?! That sure escalated fast! Bitch-slapping is quite a bit different than manslaughter."

I laughed so hard I had to bend over the counter.

"I know!" I say, "I meant to say battery, but I didn't say the right word!"

"Or assault," says Ali.

"Assault and battery," says Ryan.

Still quite a bit different from manslaughter.

80/20 Rears Its Ugly Head

So, the 80/20 ratio reared it's ugly head again this morning on our commute to school, this time, in regards to Mark's music. (For a more in depth explanation on the 80/20 ratio, see my previous blog "20 Percent" published in February).

Mark loves music. He is a collector of music... all kinds of music. This morning I was treated to his Purchased Music file from his computer at work. He had synced his ipod and it was playing in the car.

I couldn't figure out what the hell we were listening to.

We started out with several songs by Joshua Radin. Now, I have nothing against Josh Radin, I agreed with Mark when he said that many of his songs sound the same. So, Mark skipped through some of the Joshua Radin. Then, a Christmas song starts playing. I look at Mark.

"What is this?"

"Umm, I just synced my ipod to the purchased music folder on my computer."

He skipped past the Christmas song, I believe it was by Charlotte Church, and another Christmas song started playing. He skipped that one, too. I didn't comment.

For the next several minutes we skipped through some Christmas music, some weird music, and heard some good music.

Then, a song started that had a musical introduction that sounded distinctly like... porn music.

Mark laughed. "It's porn music," he said.

I laughed. It was, in fact, very funny.

We skipped through the porn music to find more Christmas music.

Finally, I could contain myself no longer. "This is a lesson," I say, laughing, "that you need to think before you sync."

Mark laughed. "Also," he says, "You should not sync and drink."

"Or, more appropriately," I say in response, "You should not drink, then sync."

"Yeah," we are both laughing.

More Christmas music.

We drop off Harper at daycare and head toward downtown on 55.

More porn music, segueing into Christmas carols. Christmas music by Toby Keith. Geez.

"It's Christmas porn!" declares Mark.

That is disturbing.

"You know, like, we could awake Christmas porn?!" A clever play on awaking Christmas morn.

I shake my head at him and look at the ipod display. There are 103 songs on his ipod. We are on song 80-something.

"So," I say to him, "out of 103 songs on your ipod, 97 of them are either Christmas songs or porn music?"

Mark shakes his head sadly. "It's the 80/20 rule all over again," he says sadly.

Sigh. Yes it is. That damn 80/20 rule.

"You need to take this ipod into work today and re-sync it," I say.

"Yeah," he said, "I can't take it anymore," and he switches to the radio. Sarah McLaughlin is playing on Cities 97.

"Listen," says Mark, relieved, "It's neither Christmas nor porn music."

"It's a Christmas miracle," I say.

Ice Tea Baby?

It is Saturday morning. My parents are here to celebrate my birthday and Easter. We have begun the getting-ready-for-the-day rituals when Mark, who hasn't yet showered, emerges from the bathroom (where, presumably, he had the chance to behold his appearance in the mirror).

"Vanilla ice tea," he says.

My mom and I kinda look at each other. We're not sure what that means.

"What?" I say.

"Vanilla... ice... tea..." Mark now looks unsure. "Ah, ice tea..."

Still not quite sure what he is referring to, but suddenly craving tea, I ask again: "Huh?"

Mark gestures to his hair, which formed into a fairly impressive flat-top during the night.

"I look like..."

"Vanilla Ice?" I supply helpfully.

Most of the time I can read Mark's mind which is a good thing. If I couldn't, we'd never be able to communicate effectively. In this particular instance, however, it took me a little longer to get his drift. Oh, I had my suspicions, but I KNOW that he knows that Vanilla Ice and Ice T are two different people. He even had Ice T's first album. I've heard him talk about Ice T and that album before. So, when he combined to very disparate rappers, I was understandably confused and the mind-reading took a bit longer than normal.

"Yes," says Mark. "Vanilla Ice." Thank god we got that figured out.

Hearing the Auditory

"Hey," I ask Mark as we merge onto 100 southbound, "Is driving with headphones in illegal?"

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I think so. Maybe you can only do it with a permit."

What? I laugh.

"You know," he continues, "It's like being deaf. I think you need a permit to drive if you are deaf because you can't, you know, hear things like sirens and stuff. You can't hear auditory signals."

"That's redundant. Hearing auditory signals."

"What?"

"You don't need to say both hearing and auditory," we approach the carpool lane. "Of course I would hear auditory signals."

"Well," Mark says as we round the corner, "I was just being ridiculous."

"No," I say, thinking about how much I like our little debates, "you often DO say things just to be ridiculous, but I don't think this was one of those times."

A pause.

"Well," says Mark archly, "That's your opinion."

Shit. I got nothing.
--------------------

P.S. If I would have really been on my game, I would have pointed out that EVERYONE needs a permit for driving. It's called drivers license. But, at the time I was distracted with pondering the fact that I drove with my ipod earbuds in yesterday - hence the legal question.

A Hole of What?

So, I'm sitting in my office today waiting for my lunch to finish cooking in the microwave when Ali pops around the corner.

"So," Ali says, "I went to the ortho today." Ali means the orthodontist. We are in a similar orthodontic situation in that both of our mothers told us that they would pay for braces if we got them now. We decided that we could get our braces at the same time thereby lessening the stigma of having adult braces. Ali had an appointment with the ortho today. I have yet to schedule one.

Ali launched into an explanation of her visit. Apparently her ortho work may require three years of braces and jaw surgery. And she has four baby teeth with no adult teeth underneath them.

"So," Ali says in summary, "my mouth is just a... hole of... fun."

Of course, I started laughing IMMEDIATELY. I don't think Ali got what was so funny for a moment. Then she covered her hole of fun with one hand and bent over laughing.

I knew, even as I was fighting off tears, that I would have to blog about it. Hee hee.

______________________________

So, after I posted the above blog I sat in my office waiting to hear Ali start giggling. I always post my blogs on Facebook and I knew she had her computer open out in the office. Sure enough, after about 12 minutes I heard her start laughing. Then I heard her footsteps coming toward my office door.

"Yes," she said as she popped her head around the corner, "I'm laughing at the blog."

"I know," I said.

No One Blogs Like Gaston

Yes, I realize that many of my blogs have a car-conversation theme. This one is no different.

Last night Jared, Annie, Mark and I were on our way back to Goodyear, AZ after seeing the play "The Light in the Piazza" at Phoenix Theatre. As we were exiting the 10 Jared sees the sign that directs travelers to the town of Surprise, AZ. Jared says, "I wonder if anyone ever is confused when asking people from Surprise where they are from? You know:

'Where are you from?'

'Surprise.'

'No, where are you from?'

'SURPRISE.'

'NO! WHERE ARE YOU FROM?'"

(Kinda like the whole "Who's on First bit").

Then Mark says: "I wonder if there is a town out there called Guess Where. Like, Guess Where, Idaho. I should Google it."

Jared says: "You'd probably crash the interent."

I laugh, "Like, the entire internet?"

"Yeah," Jared says, laughing. "Then, Al Gore would pop up on your computer screen and scold you."

Mark, still on the funny-town-name kick, says: "Or Wouldn't You Like To Know."

"So," I say, "Someone asks where you're from and you say Wouldn't You Like To Know"?

"Yeah," Mark says, "Like Wouldn't You Like To Know, Virginia."

"Don't call me Virginia," says Jared. We are ALL laughing.

_____________________________________

A little while later (I'm not sure how this happened) Annie and I were singing "Bonjour" from Beauty and the Beast. Earlier, at the theater, Jared saw a picture of the cast of Les Mis in the program and said it was from Beauty and the Beast. Annie said, no, it's from Les Mis. Later, Annie and I proved conclusively that it was, in fact, from Les Mis. Anyway, we were singing a song from Beauty and the Beast when Jared breaks into the "Noooonnnnneeeeee fights like Gaston..."

"Or," Jared says, "Like Mark said earlier: 'No one blogs like Gaston. No one tweets like Gaston..."

I start laughing REALLY hard. "When did Mark say that?"

Jared says, "When we were standing outside the theater. After I saw the picture of what I thought was Beauty and the Beast."

"So Mark said 'No one blogs like Gaston'?"

"Yeah," says Jared. "And 'No one tweets like Gaston'."

I thought this was HILARIOUS. I said that I was going to blog about this whole conversation. Jared said "Yeah, you can call it No One Blogs Like Gaston." And so I have.

Murderer

For those of you who do not know this, my mom was an English teacher. My mom was MY English teacher in high school. Growing up, I was never allowed to say things like "ain't" or "orientated" or to end sentences with prepositions. My upbringing has made it very difficult for me to ignore any misuse of the English language. Oh, also because I read a lot (A LOT) I have a pretty extensive vocabulary.

We were on 100 southbound about to hit the carpool lane when Mark used the word "intrepidatious" in a sentence. I don't remember what he was talking about, that's not important. What is important (and funny) is the fact he used the word at all and the conversation that followed.

"Intrepidatious is not a word," I said. "Intrepid is a word. Trepidatious is a word. Intrepidatious is not a word."

Mark laughed. "Did I offend your English sensibilities?"

"Yes," I said. "You offended my English sensibilities."

Mark laughed some more. "I am a murderer," he said, "of the English language."

BUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!

I may have just accidentally eaten an entire carton of Ben and Jerry's Chubby Hubby ice cream. DON'T JUDGE ME!!!

In my defense, my freezer was not keeping it frozen. It was melty, on it's way to being warm, dairy soup.

Because it was so melty, I was 3/4 through the carton before I even realized it. At that point it seemed foolish not to finish it off. I WILL be going to the gym tonight... for about five hours...

Liberating Ziggy

Ziggy is our cat. Mark named him after the David Bowie song Ziggy Stardust. Ziggy is hilarious for many reasons. He's a worrier, for one. You can always see the worried expression on his face... like he's constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop... onto his tail...

Anyway, last night I was laying in bed reading. Mark had already gone to sleep. I had the bedside lamp on, otherwise the room was dark. Quinn was sleeping at the foot of the bed. I could hear Ziggy walking around on the floor. His nails make little click-click sounds on the hardwood. Then, I heard Ziggy go into my closet. There are two closets in our bedroom. Mine is on the left. I always leave the doors open (actually, I always leave most doors of most things open, much to Mark's continued dismay). I heard Ziggy doing... something... in my closet. It sounded like he was attacking something. There were sounds as he tried to balance himself on my shoes. I heard his claws scritching on the wall of the closet. I tried to look down to see, but it was too dark. Ziggy is a dark gray cat and he blends well with shadows.

I go back to reading. More sounds from the closet. It sounds like a rhino is in there, not a small cat. I sit up in bed, trying to figure out what is going on. All of a sudden, Ziggy flops out of my closet onto his back. His right paw is stretched up above his head, one claw snagged on a garment hanging in my closet. He wriggles. Think fish on a hook. His back legs and butt flop from side to side, but he remains stuck to the garment. He turns his head to look at me and lets out a seriously piteous meow.

I start laughing. I can't help it. I get out of bed and go liberate Ziggy from the closet trap. I pick him up and transfer him to bed while laughing. Ziggy is indignant. He meows. He seems to be saying "Quit laughing at me." But I don't. I can't. Ziggy tries so hard to be a distinguished gentleman, then gets stuck in the closet.

Of course, Mark woke up because I was laughing so hard. He looks at me. Mark gets this look on his face when I'm laughing hysterically at something that he thinks is only mildly amusing. That's the look I get as I explain what happened.

"I had to liberate Ziggy," I said. "He got stuck in the closet."

Mark sort of grunts at me.

"It was really funny."

He rolls over.

"He was stuck in the closet," I say. One last attempt to get him to understand the hilarity.

I don't think he fully grasped the humor of the situation.

20 Percent

So, I thought it was time - past time, perhaps - for me to post another commute story.

Back story first:

Mark is usually funny, but occasionally he is tear-inducing, can't-catch-your-breath funny. Several years ago, Mark figured his funniness into a ratio. I was talking about how sometimes, with Mark, you have to suffer through a bunch of comments that maybe aren't so funny until you get to that one real gem. I said that the wait was always worth it, because he's come up with some real winners. Mark declared that it was a 80/20 ratio. Eighty percent of the time his comments were poor to average. Twenty percent of the time they were almost-pee-your-pants funny. Mark has pulled out the 80/20 ratio explanation several times. On instance had him explaining the ratio to our friend Jon Auel. I wasn't there, but I guess Mark was particularly "on" at the time. Our friend Jon declared that Mark was 20 percent 100 percent of the time.

Back to this morning:

We were just crossing over Winnetka on our way to daycare. Mark had his hand fisted inside is glove so that all the fingers were empty. He was driving, so don't ask me what exactly he was supposed to be accomplishing with his hand like that. Anyway, he shook his fist at me so that all the fingers waved around.

"Look," he said. "Chicken hand!"

I laughed. It didn't make any sense, but I laughed anyway. I think the delivery was funnier than the actual comment. Also, those flapping fingers were funny.

"It's white meat," said Mark.

I laughed some more. Then I stopped.

"I'm not sure why I'm laughing. That didn't really make any sense. And it's not that funny."

"Yeah," said Mark. "I think it accidentally slipped into the 20 percent. That happens."

___________

Later that same commute:

We were on Hwy 55 driving behind a short bus. I mean, the bus was shorter in length than what you consider to be a "normal" bus. Yes, everyone knows what a short bus is, but I wanted to explain that in this story, it was the literal meaning, not the connotative meaning.

As we followed the short bus around the corner Mark said, "I wonder if anyone drag races short buses?"

"I don't know, honey."

"I bet you could google it."

"You google it. I don't want to google your stupid stuff. I have my own stupid stuff to do."

"But, honey," said Mark. "Our marriage is based on our doing stupid stuff for each other."

Touche.