Converstations are Not Based in Reality

We’re driving to get some ink for the printer and we’re discussing the day.  (BTW, this is after I had a MONSTER of a migraine that left me unable to communicate beyond, “No” and “Fine.”)
me: So, let’s say that you had a customer named “The Major Deal.”  Where would you file their paperwork?
him, thinking for a millisecond: With other “M”s
me: Yeah, okay… so I file in “M” and someone else files in “T” and I got lectured about how it should be filed in “M”, which I stated that I do, and someone else moves them to “T”.
him, confused: Why would you even file that in “T”?  “The” isn’t even really a word in that case.
me: I know, right?!  Then, the mis-filer says in a boisterous voice, “‘The Major Deal’ starts with “The” and gets filed under “T”.”  I just shook my head because (sing song) It’s not my problem anymore!!!

We get ink and being part of a buyers program, we get a free ream of paper.
me: Wow, a nine-ninety-nine value!  Free!  With your purchase!
him: Paper costs that much?!
me: Um, yes… I mean, you can go to an office supply store and get it for like $3-$6 a ream.
him: Wow, I didn’t realize…
So now, I can see this scenario in this head…
“Presidential Candidate Mr. Mak, the People think that you’re out of touch with the cost of living.  Please, tell us, how much do you think a ream of document-quality paper costs?”
“Um, like, a buck-fiddy?”

We stop and get gas and money as it’s the last “BurritoMobile” day for me and I’m dealing with a major salt craving.  Stupid PMS.
me: Say, can you take me out for ice cream?
him, astounded: WHAT?
me: I’m not saying you have to get any.
him: I don’t really care for ice cream.
me: I KNOW.  We’re already in the truck, I’m just asking you to take me there.
We arrive at the ice cream stand, along with most of the Orchard Park JV Volleyball team.
him: What are you getting
me (BTW, I hate this question… are you making my Nerds Avalanche?  No.): What are you getting?
him: I think I want a Nerds Avalanche.
me: Bastard!  That’s what I’m getting!
him: And one of those cotton candy dot things.
me: AND?
him: yeah.
me: I thought you didn’t want ice cream.
him: …

Earning my Keep

him: So if you could do me another favor…
me: yeeessss?
him: Can you see when we, and by ‘we’ I mean ‘you’, can get Bailey into the vet?  She’s overdue and I’ve been going crazy…. just living the dream over here [at work]…
me: By ‘dream’, you mean ‘nightmare’, right?
him: Exactly.  Plus, I got you flowers AND an iPod.
me: I know.  I was there.
him: Speaking of which, can you track those for me?

What Makes One Proud: Male vs. Female

This morning I was on a roll.  I was out of the house early (early enough to stop at Tim Hortons in fact) and was ready to tackle the day.
Sadly, my Trailblazer was not.  Luckily, my long suppressed mechanical inclination kicked in and I checked my idiot lights.  Ah, the battery light.
Confused about why my battery would be weak (as my truck is like, 6 months old) I placed a call to Steve.  “Um, yeah, so do you know where the charger is and how do I use it because my battery is dead.”  Stupid voicemail.
I find the charger (having wedged myself in between the truck and the storage credenza), read the directions and start charging the battery.
Meanwhile, I enjoy a breakfast of Healthy Heart Smart Start and get a load of laundry in.  Making the best of a bad situation I guess…
Battery charged, I make it into work without incident.  I email Steve to let him know to ignore my message, crisis averted.
He calls.  “So, what happened?  I didn’t get your message?”
“(rehashing of events).  I knew what to check, what to do AND I didn’t cry!”
“I’m so proud of you!”
“Wait.  So you’re more proud of me knowing how to jump a vehicle then you are of my donating blood?”
Matter-of-factly “Well, yeah!”
“You make no sense to me.”

Meant for Each Other

Having about 4,000 better things to do last night (dishes, laundry, clean the cat box, take B to PetSmart for a nail clipping, vaccuuming, etc.) I decided to scan a crapload of old pictures onto my PC and start yet another project I won’t finish.
Steve’s getting the house ready for having  his bowling team over and (I think) he’s kind of expecting me to have seat cushions done by then.  That’s another issue all together.

Sorry about that.

Anyway, he comes upstairs to check on progress.
Him: How goes it?
me: It goes.
Him, looking around: Uh, what are you doing?
me: Going through old pictures.  Look, here I am before my junior prom.
Him, frightened: Ah-ha.
me: I wore a bowling shirt all day until I had to put a dress on*.
Him: I knew we were destined for each other.

* In high school (gag) I had a real identity problem… I didn’t really have a set fashion sense and often dressed in oversized/men’s clothing.  I guess I could get away with it because I was so cute (wink).  I think the only other time I dressed “girlie” was when I would wear a plaid skirt with honeycomb leggings, combat boots, my “Sin” nin shirt and a dog collar necklace.  Yeah, so Stephanie who may look very together nowawdays was not always so.  This is a long footnote.

The Potential of Sheer Delight

As faithful readers know, I’m amist my neurotic cleaning phase.
Steve and I have had the same round about discussion about the metric ton of weights in his basement.

Let’s set the way-back machine for 2003.
Steve and I have moved pretty much all the stuff we wanted from my house and almost all of the stuff that his parents basically threw in the back of his truck.
Nary a visit to the [eventual at this point] in-laws passes without mention of the weights in the basement, which are Steve’s, and which need to find their way to our house.  Like, yesterday.
Eventually the weights find their way into our vehicles and rather then setting them in say, the garage (which is so much closer to the curb then the decided upon location), he decides that the basement would be a much more fitting location.
And not just the basement, but the complete opposite side of the basement.
“I’ll set them up and use them!”  he proclaims.

Flash forward to 2006 (or was it 2007?)
I have decided to take a dance class which requires me to fit the basement with a certain apparatus, shall we say,  and the only place to put this item is in the back room of the basement; where the weights are.
I now move the metric ton of weights across the basement floor and tell Steve that the weights need to go.
“You used them!” he defends.
“Pushing them across the basement hardly counts as usage.”

Flash forward to March 2008
“Can I get a Bowflex?” he asks.
“No.”
(round robin conversation about the practicality of a Bowflex, including, but not limited to: useage, fitting it in the basement, time required to use and where it is going to go.)

We I have been trying to get these things out of the basement for as long as they’ve been in the basement.  We’ve had two takers on them, but the pile of metal remains.
One of our friends was over last night and asks about them.
“If you get them out, you can have them”, I sputter before Steve can object.
“Bu-”, he tries to interject.

Fingers crossed, perhaps they will be gone by this time tomorrow.
If the two other people would like to, everyone may wrestle, shirtless, to see who gets the weights.
I’ll even judge.

Flex Appeal

A little known fact about me: I am an arm girl.
I love arms.
Few things turn me on more then the well sculpted bicep of a gentleman; of course, “the hip indent” trumps all, but that’s for another post.

Steve, in all his quirkiness (and cavities), has this habit of eating candy right before bed.
Last night, I’m already laying down, watching Futurama, when he comes in doffs his shirt, sits on the edge of the bed and picks up the large bag of Skittles from the night stand.
Eating a few at a time, the TV basks him in a blue glow.

me: uuuuuuggghhh, must you flex your arms when you eat Skittles?
him, smirking: Uh, yeah.
me: but why?
him: They’re heavy.
me: they’re Skittles.
Him, flexing: yeah.
me: you’re going to turn into a Skittle.  They’re like your new favorite food.
him: yeah… Skittles and Chicken Wings… SkittleWings.
me: that’s just gross.  Wait, so do you form the chicken wing out of Skittles and then fry it or do you use the Skittles as a condiment, like blue cheese?
him: Condiment, totally.
me: This conversation has gone too far.

He flexes another handful of Skittles into his mouth (while the voice in my head screams that you CAN NOT eat a handful of Skittles at a time, they need to be grouped together in like flavors and acceptable combonations), lays down and promptly starts snoring.

Importance in Perspective

him: Doesn’t the TV look really dark?
me: Yes.  It looks darker then it did  last week when I told you that it was looking dark.
him, after fiddling with the contrast and researching the problem on the internets: I guess we get a new TV then.
me: Merry Christmas to us.
him: Oh, and I think the blower is going on the furnace.
me: How so?
him: It’s squeeking but I think we should be okay for this winter.
me: Wait. Wait.  Wait.  So you’re saying that you think it’s more important to replace the TV then it is to replace the furnace?
him, laughing: Yes.

The logic of the male mind will never cease to amaze me.