No means no

Here's the problem with being "pathologically friendly" (a moniker Jeff gave me many moons ago):  People tend to remember you.  And that can get you into trouble.

Last weekend Jeff noticed a small tear in the convertible top of my beloved 12-year-old car.  It's a tiny tear in the very top layer of the canvas, but Jeff wanted to get it checked out ASAP to stop it from spreading.  He took it to the auto upholstery guy who installed the top for us five years ago and the technician took one look at it and said "I told her not to take it through the car wash."  Yep - not only did he remember me from when I had the top installed in 2007, but he remembered our exact conversation.  And he freaking told on me!!!  Dirty rat.  Nobody likes a snitch!

The good news is that they serviced the top for free (but we'll still have to replace it in the next year or so).  The bad news is that Jeff came home and read me the riot act for not telling him that I had been warned not to go to the car wash (which I visit quite frequently) and for "ruining" the top.

In my defense, when the top was new I asked the installer if I could take it through the car wash and he said "I wouldn't do it if it were my car".  That is *not* the same as telling me that the car wash would damage the top.  The correct answer to my question would have been "no".  What he gave me was a vague warning that it might not be a good idea.  Do you know how many vague warnings I get every day?  Tons.  Most of the things I do are "not a good idea".  Doesn't mean they're going to cost me $1,500 (which is how much a new convertible top costs).

Clearly this is not my fault.

The best part of the story is that the loaner car they gave Jeff to drive while they worked on my car was a Mini Cooper.  I would have paid cold, hard cash to see his 6'2" self driving around in a Mini, but he was too pissed at me to drive it to my office so I could mock him.  Guess he doesn't share my affinity for the ridiculous.

Release the Kraken!

Last night featured grilled cheese sandwiches and Peach Martinis in our little corner of Buford, GA.  Because nothing says "get your drink on" like the first weekday after daylight savings time begins.  After dinner we were both getting ready for work and I noticed "Clash of the Titans" was on TV (yet again).  Every time the movie comes on, it raises the same questions:

LAB:  Why do so many movies feature a Kraken?
Jeff:    *sighs* Here we go.
LAB:  I mean, what's a Kraken anyway?
Jeff:   A mythical giant sea creature, which in reality is probably just a giant squid.
LAB:  So when they say "Release the Kraken", they're implying that they have one somehow contained.
Jeff:   Oh, God.  Where's this heading?
LAB:  I'm just wondering what kind of containment system one would use to house a Kraken?
Jeff:  Since they're not real, I assume it's an imaginary containment system.  Which in your world is probably made of Twizzlers. 
LAB:  You just said that a giant squid is a real-life Kraken equivalent.
Jeff:   Which I now regret saying.
LAB:  I'd hate to think they'd just keep them in a Kraken cage.  That would suck.  No wonder the Kraken is so pissed off.

Photo credit: Clash of the Titans movie poster

 Somebody needs a hug!

LAB:  Wouldn't it be awesome if there was some kind of kick-ass Kraken Habitrail?  That way the Kraken could be comfortably contained with plenty of room to exercise.  Then it would be less angry. If I had a Kraken it would be free-range.  Definitely.
Jeff:  I'll make a note that all future Kraken acquisitions will be maintained humanely.  Glad we got that settled.
_________________________________________________________

In other news, Jeff is interviewing for a different position within his company that would put him on a "regular" Mon - Fri daytime work schedule.  Should he be offered said position, he and I will occupy the same space at the same time much more frequently than we currently do.  Obviously, I couldn't be happier about this.  Jeff, on the other hand, has some reservations (I can't imagine why).  I'm practically giddy about all the videos I can show him of Great Danes drinking from water fountains (and sledding!  I can never get enough videos of dogs sledding!).  And we can go to the firing range any night we want - I've got my pink gun case at the ready (although I still haven't had time to get it monogrammed).  And we can spend the whoooooole weekend together.  Every. Single. Weekend.  If you're the praying type, you might want to send up a little prayer for my man.  He's going to need it.

Not that kind of therapy

Further evidence that my friends think I have serious issues:  a couple of days ago I was running late to meet some friends for lunch.  When I got to the restaurant, I apologized in the following conversation:

LAB:           Sorry I’m late, I was at therapy.

Friend 1:    You’re finally in therapy?

LAB:           Yep – I know I waited too long.

Friend 2:    No shit.  Did you tell them about how you freak out when strangers touch you?

LAB:           What?

F1:              And about how many times a day you wash your hands?  It’s just not right.

LAB:           What?

F1:              And about how you won’t touch babies because you think they’re unsanitary?

LAB:           *WHAT*?!?!

F2:              And all that crap about how you think your parents really hated you and just pretended to tolerate you and how now you’re sad that you can never ask them?

LAB:           What the hell are you guys talking about?  I was at physical therapy for the tendonitis in my right hand from when I injured it last year.

F1:              Oh.  Never mind.

F2:              Um.  I was just kidding.

This may be my very favorite conversation of all time.  At least I got a free lunch out of it.