Articles in “Strange Conversations”

Nick versus the bush turkeys:

NICK (looking out the window): Yep, there they are, the little sods. Crapping all over my garden paths.
ME (not looking up from my marking): Our garden paths.
NICK: Well, if you want to be possessive about it. (Pause) Or non-possessive, I suppose.

NICK: That looks like a decent load of washing.
ME: Really? Because when I put together a load that size yesterday, you said, “It’s too big for the machine to handle.”
NICK: Did I?
ME: “You stupid woman.”
NICK: Now, you sometimes just have entire conversations on your own, don’t you?
ME: Yes. In my head.
NICK: And they bear no resemblance to reality.
ME: Well, I dispute that last statement.
NICK: No, I’m pretty sure I’m right about that bit.

In the run-down to Eurovision semi-final one, a conversation that occurred after I saw a tweet in which Nick declares himself to be “agast. Full of gast, I tells you!”:

ME: Oh, honey.
NICK: What?
ME: Oh, how embarrassing.
NICK: What?!
ME: “Aghast” has an “h” in it.
NICK: . . . I knew that.
ME: Really?
NICK: I was, of course, referring to the Dungeons and Dragons villain.

Which just makes the “full of gast” comment that little more disturbing.

Then I showed Nick the preview of this post:

NICK: You can follow up with “they make tasty eating!”
ME: No, I won’t.
NICK: Why?
ME: You didn’t say that!
NICK: I totally thought it.

I’m sure we had ordinary conversations before I made Nick an Internet celebrity (of sorts).

This is what I get for being lax with my prepositions. And, yes, this is as close as the blog gets to politics.

ME: I don’t need to watch the budget. I’ve already heard we’re being screwed, by Triple M.
(Note: I don’t actually measure my politics according the Triple M DJs. I do listen to their music, though.)
NICK: We’re being screwed by Triple M?!
ME: We’re being screwed comma by Triple M. I left a pause and everything!
NICK: It was enough for me. I can find the tiniest crack and get in to make humour.
ME: But the crack was the point! The comma was the crack.
NICK: Well, then, a reverse crack?
ME: A . . . reverse crack?
NICK: You know. A . . . lump.
ME: What does that mean?
NICK: I don’t know!

ME: These new tracksuit pants must be the most unflattering pants I’ve ever owned.
NICK: Well, they’re just designed for comfort, aren’t they?
(Pause)
NICK: I mean, as long as you’re not going outside in them . . .
(Long pause)
NICK: What? Why are you looking at me like that?

ME: Honey, why aren’t you at lunch?
(Pause)
ME: Or perhaps the question is “Why haven’t you changed your status to ‘away,’ so I don’t get my hopes up and then start talking to no one and then get sad and confused?” That’s a much longer question, obviously.
(Pause)
ME: Now I’m wondering whether I should just keep writing here. Is the illusion of conversation sufficient at this point, even without a response? Or is this just really weird? I’ll get back to myself with the answer shortly.
(Pause)
ME: Actually, I’m wondering whether this is pathological behaviour. Maybe we should get a pet. I could talk to the pet.
(Pause)
ME: Hmm. The more I write here, the more you’re going to be freaked out when you get back from lunch. Though that might be rather fun.
(Pause)
ME: I’m just not committed to this monologue any more. And is “anymore” really one word? I see it as one word everywhere, and it doesn’t trigger the spell-checker. But it looks so odd. Do I look stupid writing it as two words? Or am I just archaic? Or both?
(Pause)
ME: I’m drinking tea now.
(Pause)
ME: Shouldn’t you be back from lunch by now? And if you went to lunch late, does that mean I’m committed to a longer monologue? Or is this a soliloquy?
(Pause)
ME: I wonder what ideological or financial value there is to advertising a penny weekly as an inexpensive monthly journal, instead? The content is still the same.
NICK: Hello!
ME: Honey, you’re kind of extraneous to this conversation now.

Another instant-messaging conversation, in which Nick reveals something of a rich inner life that rivals that of Babe the Blue Ox (or at least the version of Babe in Jack of Fables):

NICK: Fantastico!
ME: That’s not a real word, Nicholas.
NICK: It is in Awesome-land. Which exists inside my head.
ME: Awesome-land? Does Awesome-land have its own lexicon, then?
NICK: It’s all laid down in the Awesome-book.
ME: The Awesome-book also exists inside your head, doesn’t it?
NICK: Of course.
ME: Well, then, how will one be able to converse in Awesome-landese? Unless one is inside your head? I ask merely for information.
NICK: I can translate freely between Awesome-speak and conventional English.
ME: I doubt the veracity of that statement.

While watching a Travis film clip:

TRAVIS LEAD SINGER: Why does it always rain on me?
ME: “Why am I in the boot of a car?” would be a more relevant question.
NICK: Nice scenery, though.
ME: But why is he in the boot of a car?
NICK: Fair question.
(Pause)
ME (shouting at the television): Dead goat!
NICK (shouting at the band): Stop poking it with a stick!

It’s odd how a perfectly ordinary film clip, complete with lead singer bound and gagged in the boot of an old car, can suddenly go to a strange, dead-goat kind of place . . .

And starting midway through the conversation:

ME: That’s a filthy lie!
NICK: Oh no! I’ve been j’accused.
ME: No, you haven’t. That would be grammatically improbable.
NICK: So it goes.
ME: Are you just going to cobble together a series of phrases from languages you don’t speak and quotations from books you’ve only read once and didn’t care for then, and call it conversation?
NICK: It’s what I normally do, so—yes.

Please bear in mind that I am a nineteenth-century scholar before you read further in this one . . .

ME: Ack!
NICK: What’s that?
ME: My new notebook! It has a picture of spooning teenagers inside!
(Pause)
ME: Actually, spooning teenagers probably haven’t been much of an issue since the 1890s, have . . . oh.
NICK: Yes.
ME: So, it’s a whole different kind of spooning these days, isn’t it?
NICK: Yes. Now it’s a lot closer to forking.

What happens when you combine a lack of sleep with instant messaging?

This:

ME: Oh, it’s going okay. Not as motivated to work today as I was yesterday. Life is odd like that.
NICK: Yes, it sure is. I’m having more motivation today than yesterday, oddly enough.
ME: You sucked my motivation away while I was sleeping?!
NICK: Not deliberately!
ME: You’re admitting it?
NICK: Erm, no!
ME: I think you just admitted it . . . Plus why would you “have motivation”? Why do you need that verb plus a nominalisation? Why not just “motivated”?
NICK: Because it is a thing that may be extracted from others when they sleep.

ME: Give us a cuddle.
(Spying something over Nick’s shoulder)
ME: Though why I would cuddle a man who completely disarranged my canisters is a mystery.
NICK: The pixies did it.
ME: The pixies.
NICK: The band.
(Pause)
ME: Frank Black. Frank Black was in my kitchen, rearranging my canisters?
NICK: Yes. I couldn’t stop him!
ME: But why?
NICK: I don’t know, Treen. They’re crazy! College-rock crazy!

ME: Nicholas!
NICK: Yes! Oh my god! What?
ME: What is that on the floor?
NICK: Oh, that’s just shaving foam.
(Pause)
NICK: I didn’t want to bother wiping it up.
(Pause)
NICK: Because it’s on the floor, and with the bending . . .
(Pause)
NICK: It’ll dry up and flake away eventually.
(Pause)
NICK: I’ll clean it up now.

Things you should not assume about geeks: just because your geek/former Goth boyfriend spent his formative years painting tiny models of orcs doesn’t mean that he’s either willing or able to help you manage the perfect French manicure on your right hand.

ME: Could you grab my some tissues? I think I’m going to need to strip this.
NICK: I’m sorry.
ME: No, that’s fine. It’s a little tricky. And you were working with an unfamiliar medium. It’s not like you’re used to dealing with the viscosity of nail polish.
NICK: Well, I did used to use black nail polish.
ME: Well, you should have done a better job, then!
NICK: It was about ten years ago!
ME: That’s not the point. Applying nail polish is like riding a bicycle. Margaret Atwood says so.
NICK: What?
ME: You know how to ride a bicycle?
NICK: Well, I used to do it. I wouldn’t vouch for being able to do it now.
ME: But that’s the whole point of a bicycle! That you don’t forget how to ride it! It’s a proverb and everything.
NICK: Proverbs have never really worked for me, Treen.
(Slightly sputtering pause)
ME: Fine. But that’s going on the blog!
NICK: Fair enough.
ME: And I’m going to ret-con it to make it look as though I included a reference to Margaret Atwood while we were actually having the conversation.
NICK: What?
ME: Well, in The Handmaid’s Tale. Where, even though she’s been living in this post-revolutionary society where women are used as breeding machines, she mentions that the little things come back to you easily. Like how you can’t put the second coat of nail polish on too soon, or the first coat will wrinkle. I’m going to work that in. Then I’ll look intellectual.
NICK: Yeah!

And I did work it in. Seamlessly.

But I still don’t have a French manicure.

And yet another house-cleaning conversation:

NICK (surveying his new desk): There! I think that looks much better.
ME: Well, sort of.
NICK: What do you mean?
ME: Well, there’s a dead moth in that box of CD cases, for example.
NICK: Those things are turning up everywhere!
ME: And I don’t think we need to keep that box.
NICK: What?
ME: The box that the TiVo wireless adaptor came in: I don’t think we need to keep it.
NICK: You keep saying such horrible, hateful things!

Well, I did move in with a man who keeps all his old bus tickets in a tissue box.

And, continuing the theme of “Nick won’t throw anything out, ever,” we had this conversation when I found him carefully storing an empty box on a shelf:

ME: No! Flatten it and throw it in the recycling!
NICK: But it’s such a lovely box!
ME: And?
NICK: We can store things in it.
ME: Such as?
NICK: Paper. And . . . stuff.
ME: Do you really want to find a place for it in the garage?
NICK: . . . No.

Seriously: this man keeps old calendars on the grounds that they’ll be accurate again one day. Before I moved in with him, I didn’t know one could have conversations like this:

ME: What’s that under Walt Simonson’s run on Thor?
NICK: Just magazines.
ME: That looks like a Dick Smith catalogue.
NICK: Maybe. Ooh, Hi-Fi Magazine.

One day, I’m going to be found buried alive under a stack of Dick Smith catalogues, bus tickets, and Batman calendars from 1987.