In open public places such as banks, cinemas and hotel lobbies, Other Half and I often have mild debates. These range from simple disagreements regarding the proper way to pronounce "yoghurt" (I maintain that yo-gurt is the correct way, not yog-hurt. Let's face it, just because the consonants are there doesnt mean we should pronounce them all, right?) to slightly more intense arguments about who last did such-and-such and what sort of bribe it will take to get either of us to do certain chores.
Me: I'll give you a backrub for fifteen minutes if you clean the kitty litter tonight.
Other Half: Make it twenty.
Me: (weighing the pros and cons) Okay, twenty minutes but I also want you to make me a cup of tea afterwards. These hands don't work for free.
However, sometimes these naive beginnings lead into darker, more amusing territories. Thus it was, when I was innocently squeezing bread in the supermarket to ensure it was fresh (I mean, really, who wants to buy a stale loaf?) when Other Half rolled her eyes at me for what seemed like the fortieth time that day.
Me: No, seriously, what?
Other Half: It's just...do you have to manhandle the bread like that?
Me: What do you mean?
Other Half: Other people are going to come here after we've gone, and they're going to see a row of squashed bread, because you've been... (she struggles for an appropriate word that will encapsulate her feelings of resentment on behalf of the violated bread) massaging it.
Me: (indignant) I'm not 'massaging' it! I prefer to think of it as a gentle caress. (continues stroking loaf)
Other Half: Congratulations, you've ramped up the creepiness factor by a million.
Me: I'm fondling it now. Look. FONDLING.
Other Half: Well, you fondle away. I'm going to the dairy section.
Me: Pick me up some yo-gurt!
Other Half: (mutters unintelligible curses as she sweeps off)
Me: (still stroking loaf) Heh. I love grocery shopping.
You might like to know, since I've been blogging about it for weeks, that the house move is almost complete. It has nearly killed us, quite literally, on a couple of occasions (notably, trying to move two massive wooden bookcases up a flight of stairs that was never built to accomodate such stupid ideas. Even the hilarity of me shouting "PIVOT!" like that classic scene with the couch in Friends did not ease the pressure of balancing a heavy piece of furniture, rather painfully, on our faces and fingertips). However Other Half and I are still having conversations like the following:
Author note - we have three small bins in the old house. One red, one transparent white, and one black. They are all roughly the same shape and size, so I find it hard to pick them out in memories.
Other Half: (considering) We should leave two bins behind, because I think the house came with two. So which bin should we take?
Me: Um.. how about the one I didn't throw up in?
Other Half: Okay, yes. Wait, which one was was that?
Me: (helplessly, eyeing the bins) I don't know.
Other Half: (sighs) Want to flip a coin?
I don't want you to think I'm some kind of weirdo who enjoys throwing up in the household receptacles. I don't have a checklist of bins to throw up in. It just so happens that I've had food poisoning twice in the past year and both times, the only thing close to hand was one of the aforementioned bins. If I'm being honest, the first time it happened I was so sick I couldn't even get off the bed, so I simply sprawled over the edge and vomited onto the carpet (I figured that I would deal with the mess afterwards, when I felt less like my internal organs were battling each other for overall supremacy of my body) - which Other Half remedied by pushing a bin gently under my face and shouting "Aim! Aim!" In the circumstances, it's the best advice she could have given me and I'm grateful for it.