I sound like
"It hurts to talk," I squawk in a vain impersonation of Mariah Carey's octave range, "I can't talk anymore."
"I've been waiting ten years to hear you say that," Other Half counters.
All this not being able to talk is really throwing a wrench into Other Half’s and I’s scintillating late night conversations. On deck tonight: square roots and their squares, types of proofs, and psychedelic root canals.
We really do have discussions and debates about the most interesting stuff.
Sometimes we sink a little and snicker at pop culture. Baby Proximo was the judge for who could do the best Seinfeld impression while holding a toy bee from B Movie. The baby swiveled his little round head between us as we giggled. I don’t think Proximo has the best frame of reference for judging impressions, but for the record, I won (I’m the ringer.)
Last night we howled at a guy on Charlie Rose who informed us that Barack Obama was “literally formed from pieces of John F. Kennedy and Bobby Kennedy.” “GROSS!” I croaked. “He’s undead?” said Other Half, which really raised Obama in his esteem. Then we spent the next five minutes doing Frankenstein monster impressions.
We don’t like it when people say “literally” and mean “figuratively.”
Sadly, I’ve lost my sense of taste. Other Half is overjoyed, “Finally! You can’t taste food and I don’t care!” I made risotto and I have no idea how it really tasted. I couldn’t test the salt levels, or the cheese levels, or the anything. “You can make food like I like it,” He insists. “What? Like mashed potatoes and a hunk of meat?” I say snidely.
We poke fun at each other’s palates.
(But I do want my sense of taste back; I have a box of Belgian chocolates waiting for me that will just taste like shortening if I try to eat them now.)
We do Valentine’s best when I tell him what I want and he gets it for me.
What did I get him? Only the most romantic present on earth…