We were discussing our holiday gift exchange last night, the way we do. Analytical but cozy. Good natured bickering over budgets and surprises. I’ve procured the PERFECT gift for him. It cost one dollar. Therefore I am the Queen of gifts and he will never ever top me so he shouldn’t bother unless he is willing to go to an actual salon and get a haircut.(oh god please)
Just as I was mentally reminding myself how cute and sweet my husband is, and how I’m really the dorky one in this relationship (please see yesterday), he caught himself on fire at the stove.
“You don’t have to write about this, you know,” he said dejectedly as I struggled to remain upright and catch my breath.
“Oh god! My brain hurts! How can I write about our 6th anniversary of me being dorky tonight when you just CAUGHT YOURSELF ON FIRE!”
“It wasn’t a BIG fire, you know.”
He’s right; the flame was tiny and doused quickly. All that remains as evidence that it happened at all is a little spot of charred shirttail and a shard of his fractured dignity. And this blog post.
It was his jumping back from the stove, squealing “ack! Ack!” while frantically whacking himself in the crotch that made the whole thing blog-worthy.
He probably wishes I’d go back to talking about Hugh Laurie’s ass and leave his flaming crotch alone.