[dropcap]I[/dropcap] was watching a ballgame, when Jamie decided that she wanted to initiate an engaging conversation regarding the protocol of responsible recycling.
I did my best to pay attention to the relevant points she was making, but the game was on, and it’s not easy for me to remember which wastebasket glass bottles go in, and which one AOL CD ROMs go into.
I have, however, devised a list of responses that allow me to participate in Jamie’s vehement arguments without having to remove my attention from the critical eighth inning. With my finely-crafted automated phrases, it’s virtually impossible for my wife to detect that I am being lazier than the guy who designed the Japanese flag.
“Did you put glass in the recycle bin?” she asked.
“That sounds fantastic honey.”
“I asked you a question, did you even hear me?”
“You are not fat.”
“What?”
“Real girls aren’t perfect, Jamie, and perfect girls aren’t real.”
“You’re not listening, mute that game.”
“There’s no such thing as good carbs honey.”
Jamie walked over to the sofa, and opened up a forty-pound can of whoop-ass, beating me over the head with an empty box of Triscuits. I leapt off the couch, holding my battered head in my hands.
“Hey, why did you beat me over the head with a Triscuit box?”
“Because I can’t figure out how to work the safety on your rifle.”