Scenes from a marriage:
The husband: I'm gonna light the grill. Is the chicken ready?
Me: Almost. Hey, I haven't been able to light the grill the last couple of times I've tried. Is that ignition thingy broken already? What the fuck?
The husband: I dunno. It worked last night. I'll check it out.
[A minute or so passes. I rinse and season chicken. The husband is out on the deck, making fire, like a real man. He comes back into the kitchen.]
Me: Did it work?
The husband: Yes. It works fine.
Me: Well, what the fuck?
The husband: . . . Did you turn the propane on?
Me: . . . .
The husband: . . . .
Me: . . . No.
The husband: Well, see, you have to turn the propane on -
Me: Shut. The fuck. Up.
[We don't have cable, so we usually end up watching Hulu or Netflix or DVDs. Every once in a while, we'll watch something on one of the regular channels that come through the air.
The other night, it was The Hardy Boys.]
Me: Oh, my god, they're driving a Rape Van.
The husband: This acting is terrible. Is that Valerie Bertinelli?
Me: Yes. Parker Stevenson looks as good as I remember.
The husband: You know what we should do?
The husband: We could totally make this into porn.
Me: . . . .
The husband: Just hear me out. You can leave the show as it is - wooden acting, terrible plotlines, cheesy dialog. They've already got the porno music; you just add in sex scenes.
Me: . . . .
The husband: Seriously. I mean, listen to that dialog. And Valerie Bertinelli as some multiple personality chick, where one of the personalities is a crazy biker? This writes itself.
Me: Are you kidding me?
The husband: No. See? Right there, where they go off to "take care of it," even the Hardy Boys could get some guy on guy action. Wouldn't you like to see that?
Me: ARE YOU KIDDING ME? NO! I mean, Parker Stevenson, sure, but not Shawn Cassidy.
The husband: It's a gold mine.
Me: I seriously doubt that. The acting is terrible.
The husband: I need new pillows.
Me: I just bought new pillows a few months ago.
The husband: These pillows suck. They're too flat.
Me: I purposefully asked and checked on pillows to get you pillows that would be comfortable because you sleep on your face. Those are the pillows.
The husband: I don't like them. I need new ones.
Me: Well, go get them.
The husband: I can't go get new pillows. I don't know what kind to get.
Me: THE KIND THAT YOU LIKE.
The husband: You're better at picking out pillows. You're the pillow expert.
Me: So even though you hate the pillows I just got you, you want me to pick out new pillows for you.
The husband: Yes. That's the rule. You're in charge of pillows.
Me: You deserve bad pillows.