The Chattering Class
My husband has some handyman work to do with the floor tiles. It’s a tedious job so I said I’d help him get it done by a certain date. (Prepping the floor for a real professional to come in and do stuff.)
Claus was moaning and groaning about it and trying to be a champ by kindly declining my help for a couple days. Finally, when he realized the job was bigger than expected, he capitulated and accepted my offer.
“This is going to be great! We’re going to be hanging out all day working on the floor tiles!” I chirped, trying to make the best of it. “We’ll get to talk for hours and catch up on all kinds of stuff!”
He managed a wan smile and said weakly, “Yeah.”
Oh. Now I get it. He wasn’t turning down my help to be nice to ME.
I was set to report from a candidate’s headquarters for primary elections. I was making dinner conversation and talking about my live shots being allocated to only two minutes per hit this year.
“’Cuz I can talk longer. Much longer,” I complained.
This isn’t the same, but with the right partner, I can talk for hours on end. Mari Fran and I used to fill the three-hour car ride from Roswell to Santa Fe with unbroken conversation.
“Boy, I know,” Claus replied. Why do I get the feeling he’s using sarcasm?
“We’re not called the chattering class for nothing,” I said.
“I figured that out 18 years ago,” he said with a feigned sigh.
THIS MAN. One day when I figure out how to give someone the silent treatment, he’s going to be sorry.