Scientists are strange. I know. I live with one. To him everything is an experiment — even dinner.
I made deviled eggs — well, I tried — but the only vinegar in the house was balsamic, and it pretty much over-powered the eggs. O.C. took a bite of one, looked at it askance, then finished it.
Me: Do you not care for the eggs?
He: Maybe just a bit too much mustard for my taste.
Me: Maybe, but I really think it’s the vinegar. All I had was balsamic and it’s just too sharp.
He: Oh? [Then he picks up another egg and takes a bite.]
Me: [shocked] What are you doing? I don’t expect you to eat them if you don’t like them!
He: I know, but you gave me new data. I wanted to recheck my facts and better understand why I don’t care for them.
[Oookay, folks, I don’t know about you, but for me, “I don’t like it!” is sufficient enough data to get me to stop eating!]
* * *
I finished writing this post and read it to O.C. He cracked up laughing.
Me: May I post it? Do you mind?
He: [persecuted] Can I say anything to stop you?
Me: [laughing] Well, I didn’t make it up.
He: I know. More’s the pity. [shakes head then shrugs, resigned] Sure. Post it.
Me: I adore you.
He: I love you, too. [very heavy sigh]
He: [evil giggle]