Articles in “Strange Conversations”

As a follow-up to this incident, I’ve just put Paul Robeson’s “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” on and shouted to Nick, “He’s behind you!”

Nick, who was washing up, nearly broke a plate.

I thought it was hilarious—I’m still laughing—but Nick’s in the kitchen muttering, “Oh, very bloody funny.”

In my own defense, though, he did keep me awake with his snoring until 4 a. m.—literally: I noted the time carefully, because by that point I was thinking of the future in terms of the inevitable police reports and a verdict of justifiable homicide.

ME: You are very annoying.
NICK: I can’t help that.
ME: Yes, you can.
NICK: You are very annoyed by me. I can’t help that.

That’s exactly why I tell my students not to use the passive voice as a weapon.

We’ve had Nick’s father around for dinner tonight—as we usually do on Thursdays—so we ate unusually early, to let him get to his 7 p. m. French class.

This meant I was in need of coffee much earlier than usual—and I turned to Nick to provide it.

I explained that I’d had a cup this morning, but only a weak one, and had been too lazy—alternatively, too busy—to make myself another pot during the day. This put me at least two cups behind my usual quota.

We compromised, in that Nick promised to make me a cup, but not until Specks and Specks started.

So as soon as that began, I was tensed in anticipation of the forthcoming coffee.

But I couldn’t smell the heavenly aroma of fresh-brewing coffee.

So the following conversation ensued, about fifteen minutes into the programme:

ME: You haven’t put the coffee on, have you?
NICK: I have!
ME: But it’s been fifteen minutes! Where’s the coffee?
(Honestly, I’m not an unpleasant person—just lazy and coffee deprived.)
NICK: It is on!
(Leaves the room, at which point a long pause ensues.)
NICK: Bugger.
ME: Yes?
NICK: It was on the wrong element, would you believe?

I would believe.

And I still don’t have a cup of coffee.

But I suppose it’s a small price to pay for being to lazy to make it yourself.

It’s been a night of strange conversations.

When I got a little worked up, and Nick suggested that listening to Rage Against the Machine probably wasn’t helping my mood, I switched to “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.” Nick was standing right in front of me at this point, but the following conversation still ensued.

NICK: Jesus!
ME: What?
NICK: Oh, it’s coming out of your computer. I thought it was coming from behind me!
ME: You thought Paul Robeson was behind you?

A strange night, but not that strange.

Tonight’s bizarre conversations.

This one was held while I was looking for the nail clippers on the kitchen windowsill.

NICK: Oh, what have you found?
ME: The nail clippers.
NICK: Oh . . . wow.
ME: Well, you were the one who suggested it was an exciting find! I was just looking for the clippers.
NICK: I like to bring a sense of wonder to life.

And later, while Nick was doing the washing up:

ME: I’m going to give my Mam a ring. Will you pour me a glass of wine?
NICK: I’ll try, but I’m very busy and important.
ME: Pour me a glass of wine, or I’ll give you busy and important.
NICK: Oooh.
ME: That wasn’t a euphemism! Well, it was, but not in the way you think.

We’re really a very happy couple. Honestly.

ME: Could you fight off a mountain troll?
NICK: I could try.
ME: O . . . kay.
NICK: You can’t ask for more.

Of course, as a feminist, I should be able to fight off my own mountain trolls. But since I can’t even remove a spider from a bathtub, I’m sanguine about my chances with a troll.

Nick and I have been watching 30 Rock, which led to the following conversation.

ME: You really fancy Tina Fey, don’t you?
NICK: Yep.
ME: But she’s nothing like me!
(Long pause.)
NICK: I love all humanity!
ME: The correct answer is ‘No, honey, she’s exactly like you.’
(Pause of about ten minutes.)
NICK: And you both wear glasses.

Sure, anyone who knows me will suspect a degree of hypocrisy in my answers. (Did that coughing noise sound suspiciously like “Lord of the Rings,” or was that just me?)

But in my defense, I am really tired.

The following conversation is even stranger than the one I just posted.

NICK: So, I thought I’d just cook the corn tonight, not the green beans. I’ll save those for tomorrow.
ME: But I need the green beans—they soak up vodka.
[Note: It is a long weekend. And, anyway, I’m onto wine now.]
NICK: Maybe vodka is made out of beans.
ME: I don’t think so—it’s a grain alcohol, I think. You know, made out of grain.
NICK: Like potatoes.
ME: Potatoes aren’t grain; they’re tubers.
NICK: It’s not a . . .
ME: If you say ‘It’s not a tuber,’ I will have to kill you.

Nick and I have had a number of strange conversations over the past few days, including one at the end of which, when I playfully suggested there were tensions in his band Thrice-Damned Fiend, he said to me, “Steady on there, Yoko”—a comment for which I still haven’t fully forgiven him.

But my favourite so far is this:

ME: What’s that strange rumbling noise?
NICK: The world—it quakes in my presence.
ME: How much vodka have you had?
NICK: Not as much as you.

He was right—but it was still a bit rude.

Nick’s given up on making me stop posting these conversations, so I’m going to continue them as an ongoing series—because, frankly, Nick and living with Nick are hilarious things, and everyone should get to enjoy them.

This one took place after Nick came back from buying dinner and was getting changed.

ME: (swearing for some reason.)
NICK: Don’t swear.
ME: What?
NICK: Don’t swear.
ME: (unable to keep myself from smirking.)
NICK: I’m just saying.
(Pause)
NICK: Bugger, I can’t get my shirt off. Help! It’s stuck! (Ripping sound.)

I’d be lying if I didn’t say my next action was to laugh and laugh.

If it makes it better, he didn’t rip his shirt badly. I just liked the lack of association between his assumption of authority and his inability to remove a shirt.

And it takes a fair bit to make me laugh on a day when I’m once again regretting getting my belly button pierced in my distant, barely rebellious teens.

After a highly convivial Doctor Who night, Nick and I are both feeling a little tender. We were committed to another event today, but when we rang up to get directions we found that it had been cancelled.

So, with the unexpected gap in our schedules, Nick is planning on downloading more of the Sam and Max episodic video game, and I’m reading another Stephenie Meyer book.

(I should be finishing my marking, yes—but werewolves are more compelling right now.)

But the conviviality of last night might explain the following conversation, held while Nick was trying to put together a load of washing.

NICK: Once again, key T-shirts remain elusive.
ME: You just don’t have the skills. Treena has mad T-shirt-finding skillz. [Yes, I occasionally speak of myself in the third person. It’s perfectly normal. Shush.]
Pause
ME: I’m sadly domesticated. I don’t want mad T-shirt-finding skillz. I want mad ninja skillz.
NICK: Ah, well—you have to work for those.
ME: Hey! I worked for my T-shirt-finding skillz!

Still, you don’t get quite the same kudos for being able to regularly locate a Penny Arcade Photoshop Hero T-shirt as you do if you just flip out and kill people all the time, do you?

I haven’t had time to update lately, because I’ve been buried under an enormous pile of assessment.

I did start a rambling post of snippets I’d found amusing over the years, but then forgot half the ones I’d wanted to write about.

I’ll finish that one soon.

But I did have this conversation with Nick this afternoon. (Nick, on that note, wants me to change the name of this blog to “Life with Nick,” but I think that’s a little narcissistic on his part.)

Ever since I read a newspaper article that defined Generation Y as people born between 1977 and 1992, I’ve been teasing Nick about being Gen-Y—while I, as the (slightly) older woman, get to be the much cooler Gen-X.

I was teasing him about this again today.

ME: Well, you’re Gen-Y, of course.
NICK: I’m not sure I accept that.
ME: Well, it said so in the paper—from 1977 on.
NICK: Yes, but these things tended to happen later in New Zealand.

I thought that was a clever comeback from someone who identifies his country as slightly delayed.

A slightly cranky conversation (on my part), from which Nick emerges with the honours:

NICK (reading): You see, if you know a lot about the early history of Microsoft, you can kind of see the emaciated corpse of various early designs . . .
ME: Honestly, can we stop with the purple prose?
NICK: Well, I’m sorry, Mrs Pellucid.

(As a kind of payment for allowing me to blog this conversation, Nick has insisted that I add, as an addendum, the fact that I’ve just sat here muttering, “Shift button. Shift button. Do I have a shift button? Oh—it’s the one with ‘shift’ written on it.”

I’ve had a heavy marking load this past three days, as a result of taking a break from my work when family came to visit, so I was exhausted when Nick arrived home. Being the attentive partner that he is, he offered me a glass of wine.

NICK: I think you deserve a glass of the Semillon Chardonnay.
ME: Well, that and the fact the that the Semillon Chardonnay is the only screw-top bottle in the fridge.

There’s something to be said for a partner who considers your needs above his own convenience.

Mind, this Semillon Chardonnay is lovely.

Happily watching a movie on a Saturday night, I ended up having the following conversation.

ME: Why are we watching this movie?
NICK: What?
ME: They just blew that guy up after chopping his arm off!
NICK: Well, they blew all the other guys up as well.

Somehow, I don’t find that an mitigating factor.