Here’s something lighter-hearted. I’d like a change of mood.
- If I make something that comes before the main course of dinner—an appetizer, salad, you name it—I will refer to it as an “amuse Book” and then laugh hysterically. Every. Time. This has been going on for years now, and you’ll have to take my word for it that it works just as well (or poorly) with a real name.
- When he’s watching TV, I will randomly claim to be something mentioned thereon. Examples from the last couple of weeks include: a strong safety, a boat, captain of the Norwegian national hockey team, and Papa John’s favorite pizza.
- Mr. Book loves scary movies, and they can really get under his skin. Startling him has, therefore, become a real passion of mine. A few months ago, he watched some apparently terrifying movie about an haunted apartment late at night, and then, while he was taking the disk down to the mailbox, I dashed around the apartment turning off all the lights and then hiding. Listening to him come in and then freeze was hilarious, trust me. Of course, I also get good results from just walking up behind him and saying “Boo.”
- This one may gross out the faint-hearted. Late last year, I got two new toothbrushes—one blue and one green—and asked him to pick one out. He picked the green one, adding “Green is for boys.” That busted mnemonic rattled around in my brain and left me totally unsure of which toothbrush was mine when I was staring into the cup at them: “Green is for . . . girls, right? Guh. G-g-g. And blue . . .” When he found out that I had been using both toothbrushes (I got confused!), he was so grossed out that I realized that I had found a new fun game to play. After all, my sisters and I have shared toothbrushes when circumstances warranted: What’s the big deal? We certainly share germs. So every so often, I either use his or pretend to, which turns out to be just as fun.
- I sing. More accurately, I caterwaul. I think he secretly kind of likes it now, but pretends to irritation just to keep the game going; I start to wail (“Carrry on, my wayward sooooooooooon!”) and he rolls his eyes. He complains, but he smiles at me. And these days, Pete gives me a wide-eyed look before breaking into a smile.