Monday, April 23, 2012

Domestic As-SALT. Ah-ha-ha-ha.

So the baby was screaming in the car on the way home, having hit her personal time limit for being out on the town.

I put on the local 80's / 90's rock station instead of the club/dance music station that usually lives on that radio, and she goes right to sleep.

I tell my 80's rock-loving, guitar-playing husband who was in an 80's cover band for 2 years about this, and his response?

"Clearly the child has managed to develop better musical taste in 10 months than you have in 30-plus years."  (Which is unfair, as I love me some hair metal.)

I was cooking at the time of this conversation, so I threw some salt at him.

"Take that!"


"I just assaulted you."

He stared at me for a moment. "Oh. Ah ha. And this is the mind of a mystery writer?"

"It's also the mind you go to sleep next to every night. I'd think that'd be scarier."

He conceded the point, and took the daughter down into the man-cave, I assume, to have a talk about respecting the brilliance of her mother.

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