The not-so-silent-treatment

This past Sunday was our one year anniversary.  Unbelievable.  But I'm not going to gush about love and puppies and hearts.  Not just yet.

Now that J and I live together, we see more of each other than ever before, obviously.  And possibly more important than that, we see so much less of just ourselves.  Every minute not spent at work or the gym is spent together at home crammed into 700 square feet.  Perhaps due to these facts,  we had a stupid little argument last night (the best kinds of arguments).  About our dogs, nonetheless.  And as there's barely an empty cranny to squeeze yourself into when you're trying to give your partner the silent treatment, we have to coexist.  Silently.

Amidst all the avoiding of eye contact, busying ourselves in opposite rooms, I decided to go to bed.  Since J quit smoking he's been using several teeth whitening methods, and the ones he's got now make him look like he's wearing two football mouth guards.  He can't talk when he's wearing them and they make his lips pooch out like a monkey.  He was ready to make up, and I was ready to hold on to my point for just a little while longer.  Since he couldn't speak to me without dribbling whitening liquids all over his chest he decided to use my computer as a messenger, typing his message into a Stickies note and then making the Mac read it aloud to me.  Since this has become one of our favorite new ways to torture the dogs, it only took about two seconds for me to burst out laughing.  I dare you to stay straight-faced when your computer says to you, "I need to get a new suit because my current one gives me muffin top.  And all my ties are worn out and wrinkly like an old man's nether regions."  After several minutes of computerized conversation, we were laughing hysterically and unable to remember why it took a stupid robotic voice to make us forget that we were even arguing in the first place. 

Tonight after the gym I met J at the mall and he picked out the most amazing suit.  In my dad's words, he looked sharp.  If the invterviewer were a woman (it's not) he'd be hired just walking in the door.  As we were leaving the parking garage tonight in our separate cars, J went through the cashier's lane first.  I pulled up to the window still digging through my wallet searching for cash.  The cashier said, "Oh, don't worry, miss, the gentleman in front of you paid for your ticket."  And that's something I don't need any robot to remind me anytime soon.