Vampires and Batman

Me: Hey, what’re you thinking about?

Ed: Nothin’. I dozed off. What are you thinking about?

Me: Nothing. I dozed off, too.

Ed: …

Me (excitedly): And I dreamed about this girl who was wandering around naked at a party and getting attacked by vampires.

Ed: *sigh* That’s weird.

Me: Are you surprised?

Ed: No.

Me: Why not?

Ed: It’s what you do.

Me: Why is that what I do?

Ed: I don’t know. I don’t know why you do these things.

Me: It’s because I’m Batman.

vampirebatman

In the Zombie Apocalypse, I Won’t Be Wearing Makeup

Me: Hey, see those truck trailers on that train?

Ed: Yes.

Me: How would I break into one of those?

Ed: You wouldn’t. They’re loaded so close together that the doors won’t open. Besides, see that giant metal bar across the back?

Me: Yes, but I have to break into one. How would I do that?

Ed: You could try cutting through the side with tin snips. Or a blowtorch.

In the zombie apocalypse, this will be a blowtorch and I won't be wearing makeup.

In the zombie apocalypse, this will be a blowtorch and I won’t be wearing makeup.

[Notice he doesn’t even question the “I have to” part.]

Me: Where would I find tin snips?

Ed: At the hardware store.

Me: Where would I find a blowtorch?

Ed: Same place.

Me: Where would I find the butane to run the blowtorch?

Ed: Not butane. Oxygen-acetylene. In tanks. And probably at a specialty store. Or ask the hardware store people where to get it.

Me: There aren’t any people to ask.

Ed: Then you’re outta luck.

Me: But I have to break into the truck trailer. So I need the blowtorch and the fuel.

Ed: …

Me: I also need a wagon to haul the tanks.

Ed: …

Me: Wanna know why I’m asking?

Ed: …

Me: After the apocalypse, I need to scavenge whatever is in those trailers.

Ed: *sigh* I was afraid of this.

Me: If it’s a zombie apocalypse, I’m going to have to work quickly. So I’ll need that blowtorch.

Ed: Those particular trailers don’t have food in them.

Me: That’s okay, I’m not looking for food. I’m looking for weapons or goods to barter.

Ed: Or you could try a reefer.

Me: Honey. There are zombies. I’m not gonna just sit there and smoke a joint so they can walk up and tear my guts out.

Ed: *sigh* Reefer as in, refrigerated truck. It would have food in it.

Me: How long would it keep?

Ed: Maybe a few days.

Me: No, no, this is months and months after the apocalypse. I’ve already established my base of operations. It’s time to start going after the big stuff.

Ed: Then don’t try a reefer. You’ll just end up with a ton of rotted food.

Me: You know I’m going to blog this, right?

Ed: Yes. *sigh*

I am the Samson of the Sock World

So, the husband got himself a bad ankle sprain at work last Thursday. Two nights later, after he was already half-asleep, I crawled into bed and kicked his sore ankle.

Ed (muted whisper so as not to wake the baby): OW!

Me (muted whisper so as not to wake the baby): Oh no! I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to!

Ed (still whispering): It’s okay.

Me (still whispering): I’m really sorry. I’m wearing socks, so I don’t know my own strength.

Ed (whispering): What are you, the Samson of the Sock World?

(Imagine we whisper the rest of the conversation, because I’m already tired of typing the word “whisper.”)

Me: Yes. Yes, I am the Samson of the Sock World.

Ed: So, if we shave your head, you’ll lose your ankle-kicking sock-powers?

Me: You’ve uncovered my secret. Shave my head, and I’m just like any other mortal.

Ed (whisper-singing a parody of the spiritual “Witness”**): Shave your head with a Bic in my hand and your strength will come like a natural…woman?

Me (whisper-singing): ‘Cause you make me feel, you make me feel, you make me feel like a natural woman!

Ed: Stop that, you’re gonna wake the baby.

Me: You’re the one who started singing.

Ed: Only because you kicked me!

Me: I can’t help it! It was the socks!

Ed: I’m going to sleep now.

Me: If you come at me with a Bic, I’m going to scream.

Later….

Ed: *snoorrrre*

Me: Stop snoring! *kick*

____________

“Witness”, relevant lines at 1:37 – 1:48.

Gettin’ Dirty

Yesterday, the husband worked at digging up the small trees rooted in our flowerbeds. I sat on the porch and watched and kept him supplied with ice water.

At one point, he stopped digging, leaned on his shovel, and said, “You know, for the first time in our lives, we’re living out the divine prediction for male-female roles after the Fall.”

I cocked my head. “You mean, I’m pregnant and uncomfortable, and you’re out here toiling in the soil?”

“Yup.”

I grinned and nodded at the hole he’d dug. “How’s the toiling part workin’ out for ya?”

He grinned back. “I hate it.”

I laughed.

Marital Sock Fetish, Exposed*

So, this happened:

Me: Here, these socks don’t match.

Ed, The Husband: Okay, give ’em to me.

Me: Wait. What are you doing?

Ed: …Rolling my socks.

Me: But they don’t match.

Ed (looks at mismatched socks, looks at Me): So?

Me: So, you can’t wear mismatched socks!

Ed (looks at mismatched socks, looks at Me): Why not?

Me: Because you can’t!

Ed: But I do all the time. Lots of my socks don’t match.

Me: But doesn’t that drive you crazy?!

Ed (pauses): No. They’re in my boots.

Me: How can that not drive you crazy? Don’t you feel that they’re mismatched?

Ed: Um. No.

Me (triumphantly): But you know it!

Ed: For maybe 15 minutes. But then I forget about it.

Me: How can you forget about it?

Ed (shrugs): They’re in my boots.

Me: But there are mismatched socks in your boots!

Ed (tilts head): I’m not looking at them.

Me: There is something wrong with you.

Ed (grins): There’s something wrong with your mom.

Me: There’s something wrong with your face.

Ed: That’s not very nice.

Me: And you wear mismatched socks!

We have a very mature relationship.

*Okay, so not really. I was just trying to come up with a funny post title and have totally hoodwinked you into thinking I was being kinky. Mea culpa.