strawberry shortcake, blueberry pie

"I love you."

"I love you too."

"Just wanted you to know..."

"That's nice."

"...that if Jean Reno ever comes by, I'm so sleeping with him."

"...what?"

"But I'll still love you."

"Um."

"It's just, you know. Jean Reno."

"He's French."

"Jean Reno!"

"So you love me, but you'll trade me in for a French guy."

"Oh, or Johnny Depp."

"Great."

"He's not French."

"So you love me but you'll throw me out if Johnny Depp or Jean Reno come by."

"I won't throw you out. You'll just have to learn how to share."

"Uh huh."

"I love you."

"I'm getting that."

"Oh. Or Alan Rickman."

"Alan Rickman?"

"I love Alan Rickman."

"He's old!"

"He's hot."

"Great."

"I love you too, though."

"Any characters in Lord of the Rings you want to sleep with as well?"

"Oh--!"

"Never mind."

"--Viggo--"

"It's going to be a crowded bed."

"I love you."

"Yeah."

"It's good that we're in a relationship where we can laugh."

"I'm not laughing."

"You are. Inside."

"And you say you love me?"

"I do!"

"I'm so lucky."

"Yay!"

"So why are you biting me?"

"Oriental flavor!"

"Great. Drool."

It has been cold lately in California, which is to say that the elements have actually taken an interest in the concept of "Winter," if only long enough to provide us with Seattle-quality deluges and small kamikaze drivers that I'm vaguely convinced are all Asian -- though the police claim that they're not.

In Da Home dat Ghetto Built, much excitement was inspired by the Guy's discovery that the pilot light had gone out. It is not an exaggeration to say that it was colder than an icicle teat in our apartment; I would have had chattering teeth, except that the chill had actually sucked the air out of my heaving bosoms, which weren't all that distended with bounty to begin with, if you get my drift. At any rate, the collapse of my torso's primary support structure did some odd things to my mouth, which resulted in it being unwilling to open for any reason, no matter how useful. Things like breathing.

It's an interesting side note that when the temperatures get too low, small, two-dimensional noses like mine actually collapse into themselves, as though the only thing that kept them inflated was a mixture of warm oxygen and ambition.

So. Back to pilot light. The two of us college-educated incisor-sharp minds stood around the furnace closet and poked at it, fiddling with knobs and listening to gas hiss. We couldn't figure out where the pilot light was. The Guy had a guess. He wasn't sure. We found one of those barbeque lighters and flicked it at assorted objects in the furnace, hoping one of them would catch fire.

Now, the logical mind would be wondering: if you don't know where the pilot light is, how do you know it's shut off? While we're at it, if you don't even know where the pilot light is, what makes you think it's a good idea to play around with gas knobs and open fire?

These are good questions.

At any rate, after thirty minutes or so of freezing, in-retrospect-suicidally-stupid-but-hey-we're-Asian monkeying about with the furnace and gas pipes and, you know, OPEN FLAME, the Guy decided to go out for long matches and broccoli.

The story ends with the furnace exploding and all of us dying, but that's a little depressing so we won't go into that now.

"You know who else I'd sleep with if I had the chance? Colin Firth."

"Okay. His address might be a bit hard to get a hold of."

"He's not Jean Reno, but he'd be cosmetic."

"Uh huh."

"I love you."

"Yeah. Nice save."

(Added note: Flamingo just reminded me about Hugh Jackman. How could I forget Hugh Jackman? Must add him to the list. Will inform the Guy tonight. Hugh....)