The Flowers Made Me Suspicious

My husband got up early (okay…earlier than usual) this morning, drove to the store, came back with a million ingredients, and cooked us all a big Southern breakfast. Biscuits, grits, eggs, sausage, even orange juice. Nice.

He cleaned out my car. He folded laundry. He played with the kids outside so I could write two articles I had to get finished. He wiped down the counter tops.

Okay, I know what you’re thinking. He’s done something wrong. Hell, that’s what I was thinking too. And since I did get a new car two weeks ago I immediately ran outside to see if he had smashed it by mistake. Nope.

ME: (making a squinty face) Why are you being so nice to me?

HIM: What?

ME: Should I just repeat myself, or are you stalling for time?

HIM: I was stalling. But now I don’t know what you mean. I’m not being nice. I’m just being normal.

ME: No, your version of normal is to fart really loudly and then yell at the dog. Why are you being really nice?

HIM: Well…

ME: (more squinty looks…I’m gonna wrinkle if he doesn’t quit stalling.)

HIM: You’re leaving for three days and I just thought I’d be extra sweet.

(Author’s Note: This is where I almost felt bad. Yeah, I made that noise that you just made in your head except I did it almost out loud, the noise where you go, “Awwwwwww.” Almost. Because he made the mistake of continuing to talk.)

HIM: And since you’re flying on a plane, I thought I should be really nice in case your plane crashes and this is your last day here.

ME: (blink…pause for effect) That is so seriously screwed up.

HIM: No, it’s not.

ME: It is too. You’re being nice so I can remember you as being really nice IN CASE I DIE???

HIM: Well, you won’t remember. You’ll be dead. I’ll remember, so I would want to remember that I was really nice to you the last time I saw you, and not all schmucky.

ME: (blink.)

HIM: What? Who wants to live the rest of their lives knowing the last time they saw their wives, they forgot to put the toilet seat down and she fell in? You could try giving me a little credit here.

ME: Seriously? You just made my death turn into All-About-Youville!

HIM: Well, you won’t remember that either.

(Author’s Note: Once again, I wish this post had been some bizarre made-up conversation that I dreamed in my head after mixing lattes with Red Bull, but no. It happened. And I am flying on a plane to go to BookExpo, so you should probably be really nice to me.)