The Old Timey Days.

"I am awed by the fact that in our collective history, in the old timey days, our ancestors had to walk three miles in the snow to the nearest phone box in order to ask the operator to connect them to catalogue sales in order to place an order."

"Umm, I guess so."

"It is true what they say, everything old is new again. Time is a loop. Or, and bear with me here because I'm about to lay some heavy on the moment, is it that we are repeating our doomed history?"

"...What?!"

"I know. It's shocking. But we have to view the past through lenses, am I right? Is it good that I'm following in their footsteps, or will it bring about a world war? Can we ever really know? What if I've just set something into motion that I will regret later on?"

"Are you okay, ma'am?"

"I'm not going to lie, I am on a lot of painkillers and I just watched a bunch of episodes of The Walking Dead. *long pause* These boots are going to be workhorses through the zombie apocalypse, right?"

"I have your order confirmation number now. Thanks for shopping with Sears."

J'accuse.

Picture this. We're sprawled out on our bed in the coolest part of the house to escape the early summer heat. That is the polite way of saying we were lethargic and sweaty. Oh, magical words!

Anyway. We're both quietly entertaining ourselves on our tablets and all of a sudden B flies into a rage. Full on zero to sixty, and I am blinking rapidly trying to figure out what he has discovered I've done now. I'm not going to lie...I am an ask questions later kind of woman, which means that I normally get a lot of angry phone calls once the media gets wind of my shenanigans. Because every single person I know is a fucking tattle-tale. That is beside the point.

So in among his ranting, in which he is calling me many unflattering names and frequently uses the word hypocrite, I discern that he is actually levelling a very serious charge at me.

He has accused me of cheating.

At which point my standard confused-but-understanding demeanor in these types of "What have you done?" moments is replaced by an overwhelming desire to kick his junk up into his ribcage. Cheating? Oh FUCK no.

We yell. We curse. We slam a lot of doors. There are a few angry tears. At that point, I decide enough is enough and I take a drive to calm down. When I return home I find him on my laptop with my tablet nearby and upon questioning his choice of activities (paraphrased), he tells me that he is checking my browser history. When I offer to open up my email so he can further invade my privacy, he looks at me like I'm completely nuts and tells me that would prove nothing and then reminds me that he expected this sort of thing after our wedding.

At this point I stop mid-protest and Things Are Starting To Click. This is the third time he has brought up our wedding. His dismissal of my email just doesn't make sense. And, looking back, I notice that he has always used certain terms and phrases, while avoiding others.

"Err....you don't think I am having an affair at all, do you?"

"What the hell are you talking about? Of course not. I was talking about Crazy Formula."

I present to you, dear reader, Crazy Formula.

"This is over a GAME?" The wedding comments sink in fully now as the day of our wedding was the day I finally admitted to counting cards. Surprising absolutely no one, this does nothing to mollify me. "YOU ARE THE BIGGEST ASSHOLE EVER."

"It took you two minutes to figure out the last puzzle!! I watched you! It took me SEVEN FULL DAYS to get it! You can't blame me for thinking you cheated."

"AT NO POINT DID YOU STOP AND WONDER WHY I WASN'T TYPICALLY SELF-RIGHTEOUS ABOUT BEING SMARTER THAN YOU?"

"Hey. You're not smarter than I am."

"I AM SO! I AM THE SMARTEST PERSON IN THIS ROOM AND PERHAPS THE BUILDING. PROBABLY. AND YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELF."

And that is how we found ourselves arguing very loudly and at great length about the argument. Which, I'm told, is finally fucking meta.

Raise a glass. Err...a bottle.

There are going to be insane amounts of people drunk tonight on expensive Islay scotch and making massive donations to charities in Africa that put young girls through school in tribute of the life that was. We're going to miss you something fierce, old man.

Game of Thrones the married way.

"Is Sean Bean the good guy in this? I think there needs to be a flashing bar at the bottom that lets viewers know right away if he is a good guy or a bad guy so I can concentrate on the plot and not whether or not he's going to stab someone in the back. Or front. If he's going to stab someone, I sort of need to know ahead of time. If I write HBO a letter, will they have time to add this in for the next episode? I can't be the only person on the planet wondering about this right now. A flashing bar would resolve this for a lot of people."

"How hard do you think it would be for me to get my hands on a dire wolf pup?"

"Oh. Well...dire wolves aren't real. So, pretty hard?"

"...hm."

*long pause*

"I don't know what to focus on anymore. My crushing need to know if Sean Bean's character is ultimately a bad guy, or if you just googled dire wolves to see if they exist or not."

"Don't ask questions you don't want the answer to."

"I'm going to forget this conversation ever happened. I like to believe I have some respect for you left."

"Says the guy who definitely wasn't listening to Taylor Swift this afternoon when he thought I was napping."


Note: I haven't read the series all the way through, so please don't spoil it!

Finish him.

This made every single bone in my body squeal in delight.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I need to pull out my MK soundtrack and crank it to 11.