Articles in “Strange Conversations”

And with the departure of my parents, back to your regularly scheduled programming: a conversation about Lego Star Wars.

ME: I keep committing treason.
NICK: What do you mean?
ME: Well, Queen Amidala stands too close to me. I keep hitting her with my lightsaber.
NICK: I don’t think you can commit treason against Lego.
ME: Really?
NICK: I don’t they they have a suitably sophisticated sense of the protocols and processes of government.
ME: Don’t they?
NICK: Well, they’re only plastic.
ME: But then why would they have queens?
NICK: Um . . .
ME: I see a flaw in your Lego theories.
NICK: Very possibly. They’re only embryonic. But I did study under the masters.
ME: Like Lego Angela McRobbie?
NICK: More like Lego Michel Foucault.

Driving into Indooroopilly:

MY MOTHER: This looks so American. So strip joint.
ME: Strip mall?
MY MOTHER: Joint. Mall. Either, really.

SCENE: Top of Milton Road, after the rain.
DURATION: Three minutes. (I checked and double-checked this.)

MY FATHER: Well, the cars aren’t moving at all.
ME: No, because we’re coming up to the Hale Street entrance.
MY MOTHER: “The hills are alive . . .”
ME: Mother.
MY FATHER: There must be some busy road feeding into this.
ME: Yes, Hale Street. It leads to the main road to the Sunshine Coast.
MY MOTHER: “Oh, the buzzing of the bees in the cigarette trees, and the soda-water fountains . . .”
ME: Mother, I know how to make it look like an accident.
MY FATHER: We’ve been stuck here for ages!
ME: It’s been three minutes, and we’re almost at the lights.
MY MOTHER: “Champion, the Wonder Horse!”
ME: Ack!

Notice Nick’s conspicuous silence throughout this.

My mother is an inveterate completer of other people’s crosswords and jigsaws:

MY MOTHER: Well, give me the clue.
ME: No.
MY MOTHER: Oh, go on. Go on!
ME: No.
MY MOTHER: But look what I’m using for a bookmark!
(Holds out a ticket for my graduation ceremony last December)
ME: So because you came to my Ph. D. graduation, I’m now obligated to let you finish my crossword?
MY MOTHER: Yes.
ME: Forever?
MY MOTHER: Yes. So I don’t feel (pause) inadequate and (pause)—I’ll think of another word in a moment. Useless! That’ll do.

As I pick up a newspaper from the back verandah:

MY MOTHER: That’s yesterday’s.
ME: I know. I was going to read the comics. And, anyway, I haven’t done yesterday’s crossword.
MY MOTHER: And then you can check if you got it right in today’s paper.
ME: I know! Immediate gratification.
MY MOTHER: How many letters?

Because my mother is turning out to be something of a hit on the blog, I thought I’d add my favourites among thirty-two years’ worth of conversations (well, slightly less than thirty two, practically speaking).

It’s not that my mother is daft, it’s just that she doesn’t always pay attention.

On a long car trip:

MY FATHER: This cassette’s getting very crackly, isn’t it?
MY MOTHER: Well, those trees we’re passing under are probably interfering with the reception.

When I coaxed her out of a dinner party to admire the blue moon (by the popular use of the term, meaning the second full moon in a month):

MY MOTHER (gazing up at the moon): That’s lovely, dear. Now. Where’s the other one?

On a trip to the Snowy Mountains:

MY FATHER: The Snowy River is very low, isn’t it?
MY MOTHER: Well, I imagine it’s low tide.

And my all-time favourite, during the 1996 Olympics:

MY MOTHER: Michael Bolton won the 200m sprint.
ME: I think that’s highly unlikely.
MY FATHER: I think you’ll find that was Michael Johnson.
MY MOTHER: Don’t be ridiculous. Michael Johnson plays basketball.

My mother has always been quite politically engaged (especially on issues such as unions), but less savvy on new technology. These two traits met spectacularly in a conversation last night that made Nick laugh and laugh:

MY MOTHER: And, of course, people are turning against Malcolm Turnbull these days, because they say he spends too much time Twattering.

Except for the Shakespeare-related strange conversation from Christmas, I rarely post the odd conversations I have with my mother, because, as I mentioned in the thread linked above, there’s something about her tone that I can’t get right on the page.

(This, of course, being the mother who used to refer to her Maltese terrier Polly as her “child substitute.” When we pointed out that she does, in fact, already have three children, she’d respond, “Yes, but Polly is the child I wanted.” I think I could make a pretty good case to DOCS on that conversation alone—if I didn’t tell them that Polly later accidentally drowned while my brother and I were taking the dogs for a walk.)

In this instance, we were talking about the fact that my sister, who believes that education is a lifelong process, is now taking French classes. She now tends to speak in French on the phone: Nick nearly hung up on her the other day, because he had no idea who she was.

My mother’s English-schoolgirl French, though, is a little rusty:

MY MOTHER: So, I want to respond in French. And I said to your father, “What would I use? Tu?” And he said, “No, vous. Tu is the familiar form.” So I said, “Well, she is our daughter. How familiar do we need to get?”

ME: Right, I’m going to hide this copy of Secret Diary Of A Call Girl before my parents arrive.
NICK: Yeah. What would be worse: your parents being offended or your parents wanting to watch it?
ME: Um, my parents wanting to watch it? Obviously?

I mean, is that not a daft question?

ME: Friend was complaining (Note: playfully complaining, I hope) that I hadn’t updated the blog today.
NICK: Fair enough.
ME: I updated four times yesterday!
NICK: Well, you have an audience now. That makes a difference.
ME: Oh, god. You mean I have to update more often?
NICK: Treena . . .
ME: ‘Cause it’s a personal blog, and I thought . . .
NICK: Treena, put the bunny down.
(Pause)
ME: Pardon?
NICK: Had a bit of a Con Air moment there.
ME: I wouldn’t hurt a bunny.
NICK: No.
ME: Do you think of me as John Malkovich?
NICK: Yes.

ME: Why are you so wet?
NICK: Because it’s hot.
ME: No, but your hair. Why is your hair so wet?
NICK: Oh, that. Because I had a shave.
(Pause)
ME: Honey?
NICK (distracted by moving objects on the screen): Yep?
ME: Your beard’s on the front, you know.
NICK: Yep.
(Pause)
NICK: What?

A direct sequel:

ME: Oh, you have nothing to complain about. I blog about how mean I am to you all the time!
NICK: Really?
ME: Yes! In fact, I just blogged about how mean I was to you!
NICK: Did you? I shall go read it. No, I won’t—we’re spending time together. I shall read it on my iPhone.
ME: No!
NICK: What?
ME: That is actually worse.
NICK: I don’t get you.

You see, I just don’t have much sympathy left after a seriously horrible day like today, especially when I’ve carved out some time for just relaxing . . .

NICK (bangs his knee on the desk while getting up to spend time with me): Oh, god—ow! Nick have hurty pain death!
ME: Well, it wasn’t really death, was it?
NICK: Well, no. Not really.
ME: And the pain was a bit deserved . . .
NICK: What?
ME: For cutting into my time.
NICK: What?!
ME: My leisure time.
NICK: Oh. Well, fair enough.

He’s far too nice for me, sometimes—bless him.

(And no comments along the lines of “Well, yes,” thank you!)

A strange conversation that is more a strange monologue:

At half-past four this afternoon, Nick sent me the following message via instant messaging:

Just realised i had a clothes peg still stuck to my shorts

That man is a source of constant delight to me.

ME: Being irritated with people for no reason seems to be my default at the moment.
NICK: For you, you mean?
ME: Yes, darling, for me. Hence the possessive pronoun. That “my” tends to tell you who owns the default.
NICK: Yes, I see what you mean.

Nick’s default, on the other hand, seems to be “taking his life in his hands.”