Less than 24 hours after returning from a quick romantic weekend, my dearest darling, Ryan, was felled by an intestinal flu, so he’s been concerned that he might have given it to me.
Ryan: How are you feeling? Still okay?
Me: Are you texting to check on the state of my bowels?
Ryan: Yeah, I guess I am.
Me: In the immortal words of Ashford and Simpson…still Solid As a Rock.
Ryan: I’m thinking more fiber for you.
Yes, yes, I know…two posts in a row about fucking novelty bedding. It also should be noted that my sweet, brilliant, rational boyfriend goes completely ape-shit nerd when discussing some sort of controversy regarding whether Han Solo or Greedo shot first in the original movies. It has come up roughly three million times.
Me: Liam is spending his first night in his new Star Wars sheets.
Ryan: Do they make those for a queen-sized bed? I’m asking for a friend.
Me: Yes, but would you really be comfortable getting off in front of Han?
Ryan: It’ll be the first time he didn’t shoot first.
Me: Fine, but if you start making ‘pew pew’ noises during climax, I’m going to be super put off.
Ryan: ..
Me: You’re thinking about it now, aren’t you?
Ryan: Maaaaaaybe?
(After I sent him a real estate listing for a huge historic estate…)
Ryan: Great property, and I like the tree-lined drive.
Me: It would be perfect for a dog herd.
Ryan: Dogs? We could just set the children loose among the trees!
Me: I don’t even care if the damn thing is haunted.
Ryan: That might even make it better. Just as long as the walls don’t bleed.
Me: Agreed, I draw the line at supernatural bodily fluids.
Ryan: Wise boundary, you have no idea where those ghosts have been.
Me: Well, yeah, something killed them.
Okay, this is truly pathetic…I mean to post this when it happened in March, so bear with me, and pretend that it’s St. Patrick’s Day, and excuse me for being, apparently, so drunk that I’m just getting around to hitting the ‘publish’ button.
Me: (Sending picture)
Ryan: Lick of the Irish? That sounds like the makings of an excellent evening.
Me: This is why we’re together.
(Five minutes later…)
Ryan: Order whatever you want on it, the kids will eat it.
Ryan: Damn it, disregard, this is what happens when I text you and my mom at the same time. She and I were trying to figure out what kind of pizza to order for dinner.
Me: Just be happy you texted me about pizza, and didn’t text her about your cunnilingus skills.
Ryan: Yeah, nothing kills the mood more than talking to your mom about giving head. That’s the anti-viagra.
Me: That will never be on a Cialis ad.
Ryan: If it were, it would be two side-by-side bathtubs with one of them falling over a cliff.
Matthew: (looking around the bar) “Ohhhh, tonight’s going to be a good night.”
Me: “How can you tell?”
Matthew: “I haven’t slept with a single person here.”
Linney: Dude. Are you ready for me to be online dating? This gem arrived this morning.
Me: W. T. Actual. Fuck.
Linney: Hefty. It’s got…heft.
Me: Better than ‘girthy’?
Linney: Yes. Or ‘pencil thin’.
Me: ‘Slim-dicked wrestler seeks soul mate.’
(Don’t even ask what started this conversation…our texts have a narrative thread that falls somewhere between mescaline overdose and fever-dream.)
Ryan: How would you like a Trump-Cruz ticket.?
Me: I’m sorry, I can’t hear you over the sound of me dying.
Ryan: That’s something you could put on Pay-Per-View.
(A second later…)
Ryan: To be clear…Trump-Cruz, not your dying.
Me: Thanks for clarifying, sweetie. Wait, are you saying my death isn’t good enough for Pay-Per-View?
Ryan: Yeah…I don’t think I can win here, so I’m just going to tell you you’re pretty and hope for the best.
(If you haven’t watched Romancing the Stone, this entire conversation will make no sense, and I demand you rent it immediately. Whoever gets the royalties for that…I don’t expect payment, but a high-five would be nice.)
Ryan: You’re coming over tomorrow night?
Me: As long as you understand that I MIGHT be a germ risk, and that I sound like Kathleen Turner right now.
Ryan: Joan Wilder! THE Joan Wilder! I read all your books!
Me: This is going to be a thing, isn’t it?
Ryan: Yes, yes, it is.
Me: I’m winning the Powerball on Wednesday.
Ryan: Best to start planning now. I suggest permanent Disneyland passes with one of those tour guides that gets you to the front of the line.
Me: And one of those awesome suites as well.
Ryan: Can we just buy an apartment IN the park? Maybe hidden somewhere in the new Star Wars Land?
Me: Only if the kitchen can be modeled after the Millennium Falcon. Only cleaner.
Ryan: Much cleaner. Don’t know what Han and Lando have done on that ship.
Me: Or Chewie! His palms didn’t get that hairy for nothing.
Ryan: ……..
(A series of texts during the Spring Formal I was chaperoning last night.)
Ryan: Did you bring your ruler, so you can measure if there’s room for the Holy Spirit?
Me: If I sent you pictures of the way these girls were dressed, you’d send Morgan to a convent before she hits puberty. I need a yard stick.
Ryan: What is your exact job at this thing, if they’re letting them in half-naked?
Me: It seems to be me walking around, using a flashlight as a method of birth control.
(Thirty minutes later.)
Me: Goddammit! I was right in the middle of the throng, and a fucking Beyonce song came on…
Ryan: That’s going to be the weirdest Worker’s Comp claim in the history of man.
Me: So…much…flailing…
(An hour later…)
Me: We should have made a High School Dance Bingo card for this thing.
Ryan: Has their been an awkward dance battle, yet?
Me: Check. And now two guys have their ties tied around their head.
Ryan: That’s a corner piece. You’re one girl crying in the corner, from a Bingo.
(five minutes later)
Me; BINGO!!!
Ryan: Congrats. The prize is that you have to call her mother.
Me: Fuck!
Fisticuffs and Shenanigans 