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.
Tracy: “Are you going to Kim’s baby shower tomorrow?”
Me: “Ugh…you know how much I hate those things. I’ll just send her a gift.”
Tracy: “What possible excuse are you going to have to skip this?”
Me: “I just had a colonoscopy. I’m pulling the colonoscopy card.”
Tracy: “I don’t think that’s a card.”
Me: “I had a camera shoved up my ass…how does that NOT earn me a card?”
Tracy: “Fine, but you have to tell her, because I’m not walking into a baby shower with tales about your asshole.”
Me: “A real friend would.”
Tracy: “A real friend doesn’t text pictures of their large intestine to a group chat.”
Me: “Touche.”
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?
YOU ARE NOT THE FATHER!!!
Caolinn: “I love Neil deGrasse Tyson. If I could choose anyone to be my father…it would totally be Neil deGrasse Tyson.”
Me: (murmuring) “If I could choose anyone to be your father, I’d pick Neil deGrasse Tyson, too.”
Caolinn: “Ummm, you COULD HAVE chosen anyone…and we know how THAT turned out.”
Me: “Will you be my bad hombre?”
Ryan: “Only if you’ll be my nasty woman.”
Me: (Pensively staring at my 4’10” friend….or according to Google…147cm)
Penny: “What?”
Me: “Nothing.”
Penny: “You’re thinking about how short I am, again, aren’t you?”
Me: “I could totally put my boobs on top of your head.”
Penny: *sigh*
(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.
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.
Fisticuffs and Shenanigans 