My capitalistically manufactured Valentine’s Day was simply brilliant. My Sweet got me a dirty book (gasp!) and a beautiful card in which I was claimed to be his Jesus Christ. Immediately I insisted he refer to me as JC in all further communications. Can you blame me?
Cut to dinner. A fine meal, a horrible waiter, a co-diner falling off of his seat to the floor in a parade of tumbling water and wine and a heart-shaped chocolate desert. My eyes were starry and warm with *love*. Strolling toward the car, hand in hand, I point to the glorious moon and declare it full. “Yes,” my beloved chimes back, “Almost, it’s 98% full.”*
So, of course I kick into my daily-life routine and give him my canned reply that I use in all such situations in order to alert him to his evilly compulsive need to be “correct” in all things factual, sometimes to the detriment of others. “Gee, thanks hon, I appreciate that you corrected that inaccuracy. I am better for it.”
His response: “I’m Just a Wiki.”** Where upon we decided to craft a song immediately to the tune of “I’m Only a Bill.”
Bubber Boo UpdateUbs has taken to the word “no” as if its vocalization is to him breathe. Each instance of use is followed by another and then a belly laugh. The word seems to have magical powers that tickle the boy.
His new nickname: No-no Ha-ha. Please use this while addressing him and, should you wish, JC when addressing me.
Thank you and have a good day.
*Okay, I’ve got to come clean. Earlier in the week, my Sweet had mentioned that 98% of the moon was currently visible and I immediately retorted, “Well, dear, that’s quite impossible as there is a dark side to the moon as well.” I know, bad form.
**Can I mention how much I disdain the evil Wikipedia that has turned my beloved into a brain crammed with facts that must escape all over me like ants annoyingly tickling my skin?
