Articles in “Strange Conversations”

ME: Well, all cats are psychotic, and most of them are neurotic.
NICK: What?
ME: It’s our own fault.
NICK: Hmm?
ME: I said it’s our own fault.
NICK: Yes.
ME: I love these discussions we have. The free and easy exchange of ideas . . .
NICK: It’s the cut and thrust I like.

After watching the Iron Man 2 trailer. (Which is here. You should watch it).

ME: And what I love in this? Tony Stark is such a complete show pony.
And they really play that up.
NICK: Yeah. He’s a totally awesome character. They’re really nailed the core of the character.
ME: They have! Wait and see. You’ll see what I mean. And is that Mickey Rooney?
(Pause)
ME: No! Mickey Rourke. Damn. Shut up.
NICK: What?
ME: Don’t mention the Mickey Rooney comment. To anyone. Ever.
NICK: Oh. I didn’t even process it.
ME: Well . . . it never happened.
NICK: My lips are sealed.
ME: No need! It never happened. It was a mirage.
NICK: Indeed.

In which I explain why it’s Nick’s fault that I had nightmares, and nothing to do with that creepy episode of Warehouse 13.

ME: Yes, well, I had nightmares all night and, when I got back from the loo at 2 am, you were cocooned up on your doona, despite the heat, so I blame you for the nightmares.
NICK: Well, that could be my fault, yes.
ME: You must have been generating an enormous amount of heat.
NICK: I have to stop doing that.
ME: Yes.
NICK: Maybe I should put in a thinner doona cover. Not cover. You know. The inside bit.
ME: Doona?
NICK: Yeah.
ME: Idiot.

The kind of conversation you have at midnight, when the relative humidity is at 75% and you’ve just thrown half-a-dozen soggy peppermint teabags into a bin that, as it turns out, is lacking a bin bag:

ME: Honey?
NICK: Hmmm?
ME: You really have two options.
NICK: What are they?
ME: You can remember to put bin bags in the bin when you empty it . . .
NICK: Or?
ME: Or I can smite your ruin upon the mountainside.
NICK: Is this a time-sensitive offer?
ME: Well, I’ve been asking you to remember for nine years.
NICK: I’ll think about it. I don’t want my smite ruined.
ME: No, I won’t ruin your smite, I’ll smite your . . . oh, go back to sleep.

My mother versus my novel.

MY MOTHER: So you have one copy for Jack.
ME: Yes.
MY MOTHER: And one copy for Hamish.
ME: Yes.
MY MOTHER: And one copy for Leigh.
ME: Yes.
MY MOTHER: And one so you can see what it looks like.
ME: Yes.
MY MOTHER: Well, you could have one for Jack and Hamish to share, one for Leigh, and one for me.
ME: I could have, but I didn’t suppose you’d be interested.
MY MOTHER: Why not?
ME: Well, you’ve never read anything else I’ve written.
MY MOTHER: Oh, but those were only Ph.Ds.
ME: Yes, I can see how that might be boring.

ME: I have been so very bad about keeping up with the washing up, haven’t I?
NICK: Well, I wouldn’t say I’m a judgemental man, Treena.
ME: No, that is very strongly the flavour I’m getting from this conversation.
NICK: So I wouldn’t say bad, precisely . . .
ME: Sweetie, anything you add at this point would just be over-egging the pudding.

NICK: Then we can have chocolate-coated almonds.
ME: We still have chocolate meringues.
NICK: Eh, you can have those.
ME: Didn’t you like them?
NICK: I liked one of them.
ME: Which one?
NICK: The first one.

In which Nick derails the (ironic) conversation about how he’s the worst boyfriend ever.

NICK: Do I deny you lovely things?
ME: Yes.
NICK: When?
ME: Sometimes I ask for things, and you say I can’t have them.
NICK: Well, tigers.
ME: I’ve never asked for a tiger.
NICK: Okay, then. Marmosets.
ME: Marmosets? When did I ask for a marmoset? I don’t want a marmoset!
NICK: Well, such things, anyway.
ME: So, I asked for something “such as” a marmoset, and you denied me?
NICK: Yes. Penguins!
ME: I can’t help but feel that this conversation has taken a strange turn in the latter half.
NICK: That’s what I do, Treena. I shift the terrain. And then it becomes my field of conquest.
ME: . . .

NICK (falsetto): “When you wish upon a staaaaar . . .”
ME: (incredulous stare)
NICK (falsetto): “Makes no difference who you aaaaaare . . .”
ME: (incredulous stare)
NICK: What? What are you looking at me like that for?
ME: Can you explain what just happened?
NICK: Do you really want me to explain?
ME: Yes.
NICK: Or would you like me to preserve the magic?
ME: Where’s the magic in you singing “When You Wish Upon a Star” while you put the washing up away?
NICK: Look, it’s a subtle magic.

Another instant-messaging conversation:

ME: I need coffee. Can you perfect your teleporting skills in the next five minutes? And teleport home? And make me coffee?
NICK: Pretty sure I can’t. Though I would dearly like to.
ME: Really? That’s pretty defeatist.
NICK: I know. I’ll try really hard for the next five minutes to do it.
ME: Excellent. And then at 2:25 pm I’ll make my own coffee, yeah?
NICK: Yes, I think you need to plan for the possibility that I won’t be able to manage it.
ME: Try some sparkling lights and some kind of bugle effect, so I’m not startled when you appear behind me.
NICK: Oh, OK.
ME: Well, I’m just saying.

I swear, this conversation actually took place this morning:

BALANCE BOARD: Good morning, Treena!
ME: Good morning, Balance Board.
BALANCE BOARD: Were you busy yesterday?
ME: Well, more “slightly hungover” than “busy,” but in a manner of speaking, yes.
BALANCE BOARD: Do you remember what you told me last time you put on weight?
ME: . . . No.
BALANCE BOARD: You said you hadn’t been exercising!
ME: Did I? Well, that seems plausible.
BALANCE BOARD: If I remember correctly, you said that the time before, too!
ME: This is getting a little creepy, now.
BALANCE BOARD: Let’s make sure it doesn’t become three times!
ME: . . .

ME: You’re not playing Arkham Asylum.
NICK: I need to push through the emotional trauma of the Scarecrow level.
ME: It’s not fair.
NICK: What’s not?
ME: That they should put such a level in your video game.
NICK: I know! There I am, having an awesome time being Batman and totally wrecking people in the face, and then suddenly I’m darting from place to place and being scared! I can do that in real life.
ME: Except for the darting from place to place.
NICK: Well, yes.

In which the Wii Fit rules our household with a fist of iron:

NICK (from the living room): Treena!
ME: Yes?
NICK: The Wii Fit is asking me about you!
ME: What does it want to know?
NICK: How I think you’re looking. Slimmer, more toned, fatter . . .
ME: What are you going to tell it?
NICK: Well, you’re not looking fatter.
ME: You could say “more toned.”
NICK: That’s what I was thinking.
(Pause)
ME: Well, what did it say?
NICK: It said. “Excellent! You shouldn’t be shy about telling her that!”
ME: It didn’t accuse you of lying?
NICK: No.
ME: Well, that’s a relief.

And in which Red Dwarf is rudely interrupted:

NICK: Hang on a minute.
(Random banging noises and some shouting.)
ME: Honey? What’s happening?
NICK: Well, I certainly hope that possum doesn’t choke on the remains of the roast chicken it just dragged out of the bin.
ME: I can tell that, yes.

NICK: I’m fascinated by your last Twitter update.
ME: It’s all true.
NICK: I need more information!
ME: No. It’s all there: I spent part of the morning pretending to be John Rhys Davies and hitting things with a shovel.
NICK: Just in the house in general? Or playing a game?
ME: Wouldn’t you like to know?
NICK: I really would!