This is what it's like in the sack at our house. HOT HOT HOT...
he: now sometimes when I'm accosted and ask for money I get mad. Like really mad.
me: I know. I've noticed that lately. (this IS new, as a few weeks ago he made me drive over a median strip to see if some guy panhandling on the exit of the freeway wanted us to stop at McDonalds for him)
he: if I could just tell who needed it and who didn't, you know?
me: (self-righteously) well, who are we to say who needs things? Life is complicated. Like would you rule out all drug addicts because they might spend all your money on drugs even if what they really need is socks or a pack of gum? You have no idea, you know?
he: I'd always buy someone food if they needed it.
me: (in my head) then go grocery shopping for ME! I need yogurt and bagels and soup and oranges. (aloud) Uh huh. Did you eat my leftover sandwich from lunch?
me: I was fantasizing about what it would be like to wake up in the middle of the night and eat it, but oh well. So anyway, I just hate the invasion of space when someone asks me for money. It makes me feel unsafe and I don't mean just physically. But then, if I really do believe I'm here on earth to serve others (I do believe this, but boy do I suck at it sometimes) then I should have a more penetrable space, you know?
he: ... (officially in a triptophan coma from stealing and eating my delicious turkey sandwich)
You can't accuse us of not having mind-blowing conversations. Try it and my thug man will beat your ass and afterwards give you a Big Mac.
love you and wish you were here for late-night chatting,
p.s. SHAMROCK SHAKES COMING SOON!