October 18, 2004

Fluffy Sugar-Coated Marshmallow Joy

Preface to this post: Whenever I pass by a display of holiday Peeps in the grocery store, I cannot stop myself from crying out, "Peep! Peep! Peep!" in a high-pitched faux-baby chicken noise, and flapping my arms. The King, who doesn't like candy and thinks Peeps are completely bizarre, laughs at me hilariously.

The actual post:
Last night, the King and I went to Outback Steakhouse for dinner. He ordered a steak, well done. The waitress brought our food, and his steak was dripping blood, completely rare. He sent it back, grumbling and annoyed, and told me to go ahead and start eating. So I did. He was in a pissy mood all through dinner because of the steak issue, and then his cocktail was too strong (yes, you read that right, too strong), and various and sundry other annoyances. He was just being a dweeb.

At the end of the meal, all these various irritations built up, and he snapped at me and said something rude. I was surprised and hurt, and I didn't cry, but I wanted too. We then drove home silently, not speaking to each other.

We stopped at a gas station and he ran in to get some soda. Then we went home. I went to the bathroom, and when I came out, there was a small box of orange Halloween pumpkin Peeps sitting on the coffee table, in front of my seat on the sofa, and the King was standing by them looking very, very sad.

"Those are because I was such a jerk earlier. I got them at the gas station while I was getting the soda," he said. "I'm sorry." And then he grinned, flapped his arms, and clucked, "Peep! Peep! Peep!" I had to forgive him.

And after we made up, we went upstairs and looked at Internet porn together all night long.

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