Wherein Marc brings kitchen duties back to lesbian sex

There are several tasks around the house that Marc cannot (or refuses to) do correctly. For instance, he knows that even though I love his helpful intentions when loading the dishwasher, I will come along after him to reorganize the dishes correctly. In turn, I am not allowed to participate in doing laundry given my tendency towards shrinking everything to Lilliputian size, whereas Marc has the patience to take things out at proper intervals during the dry cycle. I get distracted, what with having to breathe and blink and all of that. It’s called knowing your talents, people. (Besides being very good at laundry, Marc also excels at leaving standing water on the bathroom and kitchen counters. You would think he was part duck. But I digress.)

So yesterday, he was loading the dishwasher and I made some snarky comment while wiping up the counters after he had sprayed water all over them. And he, with utensil in hand, goes:

“Don’t make me fork you!”
“Fork? Isn’t that a euphemism for lesbian sex?”
“No, that’s scissoring.”
“Scissoring?”
“Yeah, and don’t ask me how that works, because I don’t know. But it’s totally hot.”
Long pause,
“You're going to put this onto your website, aren't you?”

He's sharp, that one.

Part of the running commentary during the VP debates last night

Marc: Well, what do you think of her?
Me: She has nice skin, I guess.
Marc: Yeah...her shoulder pads are irritating me.
Me: Perhaps they help her look more intimidating to all of those Russians she's fending off of her maritime borders?
Marc: It's annoying that she's attractive in this pinched, constipated way.
Me: You'd totally do her.
Marc: True. But only if she didn't talk.

We are intelligent people, I promise. We just have rather stringent requirements where our politicians are concerned. Because while we may be bright, we are also shallow.

On Orca

A friend recently pointed out that I tend to live with things that are in an irritating state of disrepair. She was annoyed because one of the windows in my car wouldn't roll down. To which I replied that the other three DID roll down and why was she being so high maintenance? Was that one window THAT IS IN THE BACK SEAT, NOT IN THE FRONT WHERE SHE WAS SITTING really going to make that much of a difference?

She added that, on top of the window not working, I had also been living without air conditioning all summer, the lighter does not, in fact, light (which is a huge bummer when I want that joint on my way home from work...good thing Kylie carries matches), the gas gauge regularly malfunctions and the radio gets spotty reception. My steering wheel sounds like two copulating whales when I turn it with any sort of vigor and the "check engine" light likes to flash at regular intervals. I think it's festive. She was incredulous that I wasn't the least bit fazed by the fact that my car is held together by little more than duct tape and a prayer and wondered aloud if I was lazy or just insane.

I prefer to think that this proves I would be adaptable in any hostile situation. In the meantime, she can just hang her head out of the sunroof if she's too hot. Rather, she could if it worked.