Last night. Bedtime. Had battled various bugs in the bedroom earlier in the day and Mr. Squab had to get rid of a spider on the ceiling right above the bed just before we got in. I have a bug phobia.
Me: Can I snuggle with you? (Mr. Squab lifts arm to make the snuggle niche available.) Ummmm … can you tell me a story?
Mr Squab: (rolls eyes) What are you, five? Why?
Me: I don’t want to dream about bugs!! I need some other images in my head!
Mr. Squab: (pause) Once upon a time there was a little boy named Harold who liked to poop in people’s yards …
Me: (snorting with suppressed laughter) What the hell kind of story is THAT? I don’t want to dream about poop, either!
Mr. Squab: You asked for a story.
Me: (pause; can’t help self) Well, what happened with Harold? Why did he poop in people’s yards?
Mr. Squab: If he liked you, he’d leave a log in your yard.
Me: But what did the neighbors say?
Mr. Squab: They didn’t say anything. (long pause)
Me: But … that’s not a story! What happened after THAT?
Mr. Squab: Harold died.
Me: Of what?
Mr. Squab: Constipation.
Me: (nearly helpless with laughter, as is Mr. Squab) Oh, my god. That is the worst story ever. There is something wrong with you.
Mr. Squab: Sweet dreams.