Further Conversations With Dan, Where Once Again, I'm An Asshole

What follows is an example of why my first husband may or may not have left me and why Dan is in no danger of losing me to anyone else:

Last night, for absolutely no reason whatsoever, we had the following conversation:

Me:  *randomly, with absolutely no inkling of what was to come*  "Hey, Dan?  Could you get me a bottle of water out of the frigerator?"

Dan:  "You mean the RE-frigerator?"

Me:  "Frigerator.  Refrigerator.  Fridge.  Whatever.  Could you get me a bottle of water out of it, please?"

Dan:  *because he honestly can't help himself*  "'Frigerator' isn't a word."

Me:  *immediately giving in to my innate need for fuckery*  "Sure it is.  It means to frigerate."

Dan:  "RE-frigerate."

Me:  "'RE-frigerate' means it's frigerating more than once. Ergo, 'frigerate' is a word.  Because it can't do it more than once if it isn't happening in the first place."

Dan:  *over-reacting, per usual, because that's how he rolls*  "Dani, you sound IGNORANT when you say that.  You sound like you really believe that."

Me:  "That's because it's true.  You can't RE-lapse if you hadn't already lapsed.  You can't RE-do something if you didn't do it at least once.  You can't RE-frigerate something that hasn't already been frigerated."

Dan:  *eyes bulging out of his head*  "Please tell me you're kidding."

Me:  *because I'm an asshole, he's an automotive electrician, and I  love nothing more than fucking with him over a subject he knows way more about than I do*  "Of course I'm not kidding.  How can you be a freaking electrician and not know that 'frigerate' is a word?  Did you sleep through that semester?  Seriously, Dan... pull your head out of your ass."

Dan:

Me:

Dan:  *tossing aside his parachute as he prepared to jump out of the airplane* "'REfrigerate'.  Don't be stupid, Dani."

Me:  "I'M being stupid?  Hello, pot?  This is kettle.  IT'S IN THE FRIGERATOR.  I'm so embarrassed for you, Dan."

Dan:  *getting hot under the collar and working himself towards a massive stroke*  "Dani!  Really?  REALLY?  IT'S 'REFRIGERATOR.'  How can you sit there and tell me that you think 'frigerate' is a word?  Oh my God!  Seriously?"

Me:  *having more fun than a fat kid in a candy shop* "Dan... think about it.   "RE" means to do again.  It can't RE-frigerate if it isn't already frigerating.  How can you not know that?"

Dan:  *launching into a hi-tech lecture using fancy words explaining everything I ever needed to know about refrigerators but honestly didn't give a shit about*

Me:  *totally not listening because I was plotting my next move*

Dan:  *finishing... finally*

Me:  "Dude... whatever.  If something is in the refrigerator, it's FRIGERATING.  I'm trying to teach you something here."

Dan:  *having a hissy fit and giving up on me*  "Fine."

Dan:  *leaving the room*

Me:  *waiting a few minutes then following him out, only to totally bust him looking up "frigerate" in the dictionary*

Me:  *laughing like a demented hyena*

Dan:  "You're an asshole."

Later last night, as we were cuddling in bed:

Dan:  *nuzzling my neck and kissing me sweetly on the ear*  "I love you so much I would give up my entire Fantasy Football career to make you happy."

Me:  *long, long, LONG pause*

Dan:  *sighing blissfully, totally lost in the moment*

Me:  *snicker*

Me:  *guffaw*

Me:  *practically peeing myself as I convulsed with laughter*

Dan:  *honest to God completely caught off-guard*  "What's so funny?"

Me:  *dying*  "I love you so much I would give up my entire Facebook career for you!"

Dan:

Me:  *tears*  "I love you so much I would give up SOCKS for you!"

Dan:  *turning red*  "I guess that didn't come out like I expected it to..."

Me:  *laughing so hard I thought my head would explode*  "I LOVE YOU SO MUCH I WOULD GIVE UP EYE SHADOW FOR YOU!  HAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA!"

Me:  *because I seriously don't know when to quit*  "I LOVE YOU SOOOO MUCH I WOULD GIVE UP RECYCLED COFFEE FILTERS FOR YOU!"

Me:  *wheezing and almost dying because I honestly couldn't breathe*  "I LOVE YOU SO MUCH I WOULD GIVE UP GOOD TOILET PAPER FOR YOU!"

Dan:  *giving up and leaving the room* 

Me:  *laughing myself into a pants wetting asthma attack completely by myself in the bedroom*

Me:  *composing myself well enough to get up and follow him into the living room*

Dan:  *looking wounded, butt-hurt, and seriously embarrassed*  "Are you done?"

Me:  *because I totally wasn't*  "I LOVE YOU SO MUCH I WOULD GIVE UP READING FOR YOU!"

Dan:  "You're an asshole."

Lasagna, with a side of Kiss My Ass

I've been procrastinating for two days.  Shockingly, it's gotten me absolutely nowhere.  

I did finally get to the grocery store yesterday, and as I walked in to The Price Chopper, to what did my wondering eye should appear but a giant Halloween display featuring PEANUT BUTTER SNICKERS. Of course, I felt that it was a sign from God, so I snatched up a huge bag of the little suckers and tossed them into my Cart of Doom.  

$106 later I had all the fixin's for the Lasagna Feast Of Fury.  

This did not improve my mood.

Which, naturally, meant I came home and procrastinated some more.

I kept waiting for the lasagna to just cook itself already, for the apples to peal themselves and hop into the dish, singing, for a pie crust to magically appear before me, carried by bluebirds and laid lovingly on top of the apples... 

Nope.

That only happens in Disney films, apparently.  

Dear Walt Disney,

Due to the fact that I was brainwashed by your fluffy films of hard-luck princesses who all manage to live happily ever after and receive constant help, advice and attention from woodland creatures, I have been left with an unrealistic expectation of entitlement.  Where the hell are the goddamn helpful mice and squirrels when I need a lasagna and a freaking pie put together?  

You owe me, Walt.

Love,

Dani

I finally got moving at around 7:30 last night.  I made the pie, I made the lasagna sauce, and then determined I could finish everything else in the morning.

It's now 11:30 and so far this morning I've:

Had coffee.

Dan called (he has been at his parent's house since last night) and treated me to the following conversation:

Dan:  "So when will you be coming down?"

Me:  "I dunno.  I still have to put the lasagna together and shower."

Dan:  "Now what else are you bringing, again?"

(GAHHHHH!  We've only been over this 5473957639 times.  The man is 38.  WTF is he going to be like when he's 50??!!!!!  "Hey, Dani... you're my what, again?")

Me:  *ohhhhhhh so patiently*  "Lasagna.  Pie.  For which I pealed 50 bazillion apples, no lie.  Garlic bread.  Salad."

Dan:  "Do you think that'll be enough?"

Me:  "Ya know?  It's just going to have to be.  Because that?  Is all there is going to be.  So help me if I show up and your mother is cooking I am going to stab someone."

Dan:  *wait for it.... wait for it... you know it's coming...*  "I hope they like it."

Update:  I am finished.  Lasagna + Dutch Apple Pie

"But will they like it?"

Did you say something? I didn't think so.

When women complain that men don't listen, trust me... they're not lying. Men don't listen. They don't. And if you say you have one that does? Then he probably has a vagina hidden somewhere in his anatomy. Listening is not in their genetic code. In the spot where women have the "Paying Attention To What Their Mate Is Saying" gene, men have a "Her Lips Are Moving But No Sound Is Coming Out" gene.

I'm not saying they do it on purpose... In fact, I just made it abundantly clear by using scientific evidence that they can't help it. Geneticists all over the world have done extensive studies on why men only hear what they want to hear and they actually isolated the "I'm Not Ignoring You, I Just Am Not Able To Pay Attention To Anything You Say That Doesn't Involve Sex Or Football" DNA particle. Don't believe me? Then come to my house on any given night and listen to my husband ask me the same questions he's asked me 145,747,839,302 times before and then insist that the subject has never come up and I don't know what I'm talking about.

In his mind, he is the innocent victim of my inability to communicate effectively.

It's a scenario that takes place night after night, on couches, at kitchen tables, and in bedrooms all over the world.

Dan is fairly picky, food-wise. (Which is shocking, considering he looks like he's never missed a meal.) If it isn't something he mother made (Hamburger Helper, Rice-a-Roni, frozen fried chicken, or any large hunk of animal flesh served with potatoes and corn), then he's iffy, at best, and is usually pretty sure he won't like it. (In no way do I blame his mother... she had to cook for the pickiest eaters on the face of the planet. If it wasn't meat and potatoes, it wasn't getting eaten. She has my deepest sympathy.) Over the years, I've introduced him to many different foods that he's never eaten before, and literally every single time I cook one of these "weird" foods, he claims I've never made it. Which I have. Many, many times.

Take today:

Dan called from work, as he usually does, around 3:00-ish. Also per usual, he asked what's for dinner.

Me: *answering even though I knew exactly what was going to follow* "Frittata."

Dan: "What?"

Me: "Frittata."

Dan: "What??"

Me: "FRITTATA. FRITTATA. FRI. TAW. TUH. FRITTATA."

Dan: "Fri-what, now?"

Me: "Fri. Taw. Tuh."

Dan: "What the hell is that?"

Me: "The same thing it was the last 200 times I've made it."

Dan: "You've never made that."

Me: "Yes, I have. It's the egg thingy I make, with ham and cheese."

Dan: "You mean an omelette?"

Me: *remaining calm... I'm a SAINT, people* "If I meant omelette I would have said omelette. It's like a crustless quiche. You like it. I usually serve it with crusty bread and a salad."

Dan: "So it's like an omelette."

Me: "No, Dan, it's like a frittata. Because that's what it is."

Dan: "So is the ham and cheese and stuff inside of it, like an omelette?"

Me: *giving up on Sainthood* "Seriously? Dan... it's a frittata. It's like quiche, only with no crust. I cook it in the oven, cut it into wedges, and then we eat it. Like quiche. Only without crust. Because it's a frittata. I send the leftovers to work with you in the morning for breakfast. We have it probably once a month or so."

Dan:

Me:

Dan: "So what's it called again?"

EVERY. TIME.

We go through the same spiel if I make tamales, enchiladas, fruit salad (I know, right? He can't get it through his head that fruit salad is just cut up fruit. He always wants to know if there's Jello in it. NO, THERE'S NO FREAKING JELLO IN FRUIT SALAD. IT'S CUT UP FRUIT. PERIOD. THE END. GAHHHHH!), chili verde...

It's enough to make me crazy.

I also think it's a good enough reason to smother him with a pillow while he sleeps.

(I kid, I kid... Or do I?)

Here's what I know, with absolute certainty: The sun will rise and set, the earth will spin on it's axis, and Dan will come home tonight and say, "Now, what do you call this again?"

Mark my words.

Love you long time!

After being together for 10 years, Dan and I seem to be running out of conversation.  We used to spend hours on the phone whenever we were apart, would go to bed early just so we could cuddle and talk before drifting off to sleep;  we seemingly never tired of each other or were at a loss for conversation.  There were times that Dan would fall asleep in the middle of our bedtime chats, and he would awaken in the middle of the night and wake me up to tell me good night and that he loved me because he'd fallen asleep before he'd had a chance to say it.  (I know, right?  Sickening.  I lapped it up like a bowl of water sitting in the middle of the desert after being stranded in 120 degree heat with no liquid refreshment for a week.)


We were the "I love you!" "I love you, too!"  "I love you more!" "No, I love YOU more!" couple.  


In a word, we were obnoxious.


Slowly but surely, the bloom began to fade from the rose, he began picking his nose in front of me, high entertainment in our house was defined by how long it would take him to fart me out of the room, and I began taping Snapped! marathons and watching them in front of him to make my point.  We were still the Lovey-Dovey Disgustingtons, just on a less obvious scale.


We went from talking about everything and never getting bored with one another to talking about some things because, well, we're boring:


One of our most popular discussions begins with Dan coming home from work and asking, "Did you hear who died today?"  I will respond with, "Celebrity or real person?"  We can usually expand that topic to mention every person who has died within the past month, year, or decade,  and even on occasion drag out the computer to see if so and so is still alive.  Good for at least an hour of evening entertainment, more if we're shocked that someone who's a thousand years old (like Andy Griffith) is actually still kicking.


Finances are a constant discussion in our house.  I took over paying the bills a few years ago because Dan would get so stressed out by the fact that we aren't the Hilton's or the Rockefeller's that he couldn't handle it.  If we only had enough money to pay our bills and eat, but not enough to fork over for a cruise to Alaska, he would go on and on about how broke we were and how we were all going to become homeless and die.  Since I'd rather do it all myself than spend one minute listening to Chicken Little, he was cut out of the financial loop.  This hasn't, however, stopped him from grilling me about how much money we have, how much money we've spent, what bills have been paid, how much they were, the unpaid balance on our credit cards, oh God oh God we're all gonna diiiiiiiie.... Financial discussions usually end with Dan lying pathetically in bed with his eyes closed and a cool towel over his face and me sitting in the living room feeling annoyed and watching Deadly Women.


Then there's the "What are we going to do this weekend?" Discussion.  It goes like this:


Dan:  "So what do you want to do this weekend?"


Me:  "I dunno... we could go look at old graveyards or antique stores..."


Dan:  *wrinkling his nose and making an "eeeeeeeeehhhhh..." sound, which I've learned means "I don't want to"*


Me:  "Okay, what do YOU want to do?"


Dan:  "Well, you're the one who complains because I always want to go spend the entire weekend with my family, so what do YOU want to do?"


Me:  "I just TOLD you what I want to do.  Obviously, that's not what YOU want to do.  So... we could go to Malone and go to the Almanzo Wilder Museum!"


Dan:  *wrinkling his nose and making the "eeeeeeehhhhhhh" sound*


Me:  "Let's see if we can get into Canada!"


Dan:  *wrinkling nose and making the "eeeeeeehhhhh" sound*


Me:  "Well, what do YOU want to do, then?"


Dan:  "I don't care... we'll do whatever YOU want to do!"


Which is why 99% of the time we wind up doing nothing, or else spending the weekend doing things with his family.


Dan loves the "If you could eat anything you wanted right now, anything at all, without worrying about calories or cost, what would it be" conversation.  (This is what happens when two fatties get married.  We talk about food and like it.)  I will leave out the highlights of this topic, but suffice it to say, Dan really loves Red Lobster.


AND my least favorite, the "Dani, look at __________!" game. This is usually a Dan-ploy which I'm pretty sure he invented to drive me crazy.  It happens when I'm deeply engrossed in a book and he's watching something stupid on tv.  I need to look up from what I'm reading, try to figure out what he's pointing at, and express the appropriate emotion.  I generally fail at 2 out of the 3.  That doesn't stop him, however, once he's on a roll.  This will continue until I say, "Could you just watch your show and let me read my book?" to which he responds, like a 14 year old girl on her period, "Fine, I'll leave you alone.  Obviously, you don't want to talk to me."  (Oh, boo hoo.  Suck it up, you big girl.)


And last but not least, 


Those fabulous conversations that go horribly wrong.  These usually involve Dan, his mouth, and his foot.  Nuff said. 


Ahhh, wedded bliss!  Just for the record, I love my husband very much.  He makes me laugh so hard I cry, usually without intending to, and he is a never-ending font of blogging material.  He always has the best of intentions and is generally a really good sport about all the pointing and laughing I do at his expense.  I'm pretty sure we'll never completely run out of things to talk about, unless celebrities quit dying or stupid shows quit airing on tv.  


We are still occasionally the Lovey-Dovey Disgustingtons, but mostly we're the Pretty Damn Comfortable Boringtons.  Which works for us.  We know we aren't wildly exciting and quite frankly, we don't care.  


Oh, and he's staying the night with his parents tonight, because I folded first in the "What are we doing this weekend?" debate.  Which is fine.  I have a Deadly Women marathon recorded, just waiting for me to watch and take notes.