Sometimes he likes me, but most times I am the person to yell at when he messes up. This is the phone call I just received, at work:
"I have a question."
"Have you seen a wood head (note: golf speak) anywhere around the apartment?"
"No." (Because no, I haven't).
"I left it on the washer or the dryer."
"I haven't seen it. Did you check underneath, or maybe behind them?"
"No! They wouldn't be there."
"Did you look under your desk? In the corner of the closet? On the floor?"
"No! I left it on the dryer."
"I've never seen such a thing."
"Kritta, dammit." (As if I'm LYING, and actually, that wood head? I STOLE IT. And then? I sold it on eBay for $180. And that money? It's going to buy me a flight to Vegas where I'm going to marry an Elvis impersonator who doesn't lose his wood heads!)
I'm so sure he's going to "dammit" me. What the Hell do I want with a wood head? He's lucky I even know what a wood head is. A wood head! Seriously. I can't believe we just had this conversation, and he believes I actually know something of this piece of crap and am so conniving that I'm not going to tell him.
He's lucky he won't be home when I get there.