No sense of humor
So, we’re apparently house-hunting now. Wayne and I are so different in so many ways (he’s an electrical engineer and I’m a writer—’nuf said) that I figure I should ask him what kinds of things he’ll be looking for in a new house.
“Well, I like a two-story house.”
Meanwhile, I was thinking a ranch house since we both just hit 50 and we ain’t gettin’ any younger.
“Okay, I suppose we could always install one of those chair-lift thingies when we get older,” I say in a spirit of compromise. “What else?”
“And, I think it should be on a level lot.”
“Aha, so it’ll be easier to mow and take care of?”
“No, there’s always a riding mower. I just thought you could do more with a level lot.”
“…Like, you know, parking junked-up cars there.”
I look over and after what is an agonizing ten more seconds, the dimples show up and he cracks a smile. I relax my tightened forehead and sphincter and breathe freely. You see, I’ve lived with this man for nearly twelve years now. He could’ve been dead serious. I’m just relieved he sees fit to laugh at his own jokes, even if he never laughs at mine.
It’s going to be a longggggg house hunt.