Jack & Anita

“Hey, Anita,” I said to my wife as she walked into the kitchen. “How’s your sister?”

“Fine,” replied Anita. “She noticed the new earrings you got me for my birthday.”

“Oh,” I said. “What’d she have to say about ‘em?”

“Oh, she said ‘Those must be real diamonds.’”

“Yeah,” I smiled. “But how could she tell?”

“Because,” smiled Anita, “She said no one buys fake diamonds that small.”

“Ouch,” I winced.

“Speaking of gifts,” she said. “Why aren’t you wearing that new belt I got you?”

“I dunno,” I said, cracking open a tub of yogurt. “It’s kinda flashy. I don’t really like being too flashy.”

“It’s brown,” she remarked.

“Maybe if it was dark brown,” I said, dropping a handful of raisins in the yogurt. “Besides, I like my belt.”

“But look at that thing,” she laughed. “How many holes have you poked in it with a screwdriver?”

“I dunno,” I shrugged. “I haven’t really been keeping count.”

“Five?”

“No, more like seven,” I corrected her.

“How’s tomorrow’s blog post coming?”

“I gotta killer idea. I’m gonna go on a hilarious crazy-mad rant about things I hate like teeny-tiny serving sizes and fat people in little scooters I was gonna call it ‘The Jack of All Tirades’…”

“Don’t quit your day job.”

“Hey, I think it’s pretty good…”

“No, I mean we just got our property tax bill,” she replied. “For God’s sake, please don’t quit your day job.”