My Sweet

Jim was late getting home tonight, because he stopped to pick up  a few groceries.  We sorted them all out, amongst the craziness of taking call, dealing with a not-up-to-par dog, and trying to correct some chicken piccata that went horribly wrong at about the time I added the capers.  I cam across two Payday candybars -- Jim's favorite -- and tucked them away in his normal hidey-hole, never acknowledging them.

In the middle of a 8 o'clock dinner miraculously saved from over-caperage by a combination of Mrs Butterworth, honey, sea salt, and white wine and orange juice, he suddenly realized he hadn't seen the candy bars since he got home.  I played the innocent, telling him alternately that he must've a) left them at the store, b) left them in the car or c) never bought them at all.  Well, he definitely wasn't buying that.  And for the record, he liked the chicken, proving that yes, Marines will eat anything.  

So, we adjourned upstairs to watch a marathon of Big Bang Theory with the dogs.  Jim announced "I don't want you to worry.  I brought the Paydays up here so we can have them."  He looked, quite frankly, a bit triumphant.  Oh well, at least he planned to share.  There are, after all, some things he doesn't share:  popcorn, Culver's Concrete Mixers, and Paydays.  And frankly, he gets very snarky about the popcorn, but at least that means I get my own bucket at the movies.

At exactly 8:46, he pulled out the candy, tossing me one.  I pointed out that candy bars are 9 o'clock snacks.  He retorted that it was 9 o'clock.  I rebutted with the fact that 9 o'clock wasn't for 14 more minutes and really, shouldn't it be a 10 o'clock snack, since our normal 7 o'clock dinner was, in fact an 8 o'clock meal.  He told me to shut up and eat my candy.

Midway through my snack, I said "Boo, you know we shouldn't be having these.  We're supposed to be taking care of ourselves."  To which my boo, ever the realist, stated quite firmly, "yeah, and I took care of that Payday."