(Due to my reluctance to shave in winter, my boyfriend often calls me ‘Princess Hairy Legs’.)
Boyfriend: “Whatcha doing, PHL?”
Me: “Oh, so now I don’t even get a full nickname, just three letters!”
Boyfriend: “Your actual name only has three letters…”
Me: “…shut up.”
(I am 29, and was diagnosed as lactose intolerant about 13 years ago.)
Me: “Sure, I’d love to come to sister’s graduation.”
Mom: “Great, we’re having a big family dinner afterwards.”
Me: “Sounds good, but what are you making?”
Mom: “Three-cheese bean dip, macaroni and cheese, and top-your-own ice cream sundaes!”
Me: “Mom, I’m lactose intolerant. I can’t eat any of those things.”
Mom: “Oh, right. I forgot. I’ll make you a veggie dish.”
Me: Thanks, mom. That sounds really good.”
(The day of graduation arrives. My family is picking at cheese laden bean dip, while macaroni is in the oven, baking. I sit down for dinner, and my family all get bowls of gooey home-made macaroni and cheese. I get a cutlet of eggplant parmesan, smothered with mozzarella and parmesan cheese.)
Me: “Um, mom? This is covered in cheese.”
Mom: “I know you wanted a vegetable dish, so I made you eggplant parmesan.”
Me: “Mom, I’m lactose intolerant. I literally cannot eat something smothered in cheese! That was the whole point of you making a separate dish for me.”
Mom: “Oh, you’re lactose intolerant? I forgot.”
(My sister calls dibs on my ice cream sundae.)
(I’m sitting on the couch, as my husband is in the kitchen cleaning up something. His nickname for me is ‘poopsie’.)
Husband: *singing* “You’re a little poopsie, short and stout—”
Me: “Stout?! I’m not stout!”
Husband: “I don’t know what stout is.”
Me: “It’s the same thing as fat!”
Husband: *pause* “You’re a little poopsie short and stout…”
(My boyfriend and I are laying in bed talking. Suddenly he pushes himself up to look at me.)
Boyfriend: “You’re beautiful.”
Me: “Aww…”
Boyfriend: “You could be in a magazine. Except, no, because you don’t wear makeup, so they couldn’t use you to market anything to impressionable teenage girls.”
(My husband and I are having a conversation while getting ready to go out to run some errands. He has just finished getting dressed, while I’m still in the bathroom, brushing my hair and trying to figure out what to wear. Since we have no children, our cat is our child, and we spoil him rotten.)
Husband: “I’m gonna go downstairs now.”
Me: “Aww, but—”
Husband: “But what?”
Me: “But I like talking with you! We were talking.”
Husband: “I’m gonna go find the kitty. Give him loves!”
Me: “Oh. I see. The kitty is more important than your wifey?”
Husband: “He’s fuzzy!”
Me: “So? Does that mean you don’t want me to shave?!”
Husband: “Nooooo!”
Me: “I can be fuzzy, too!”
