And he says: Oh yeah? Well, you do that wrong and that wrong and THAT wrong!
We pout, cross our arms, sit with our backs obtrusively to one another. We humph and harumph. We develop a simultaneous and sudden need to competitively clean the house. Cutthroat cleansing commences. Silence, punctuated by loud sighs and extravagant gestures. Floors swept with violent flourishes. Counters savagely scrubbed.
Eventually, after rubbing mop roughly over hardwood floors until fury fades to fatigue, I think: Damn. I do do this wrong. And this wrong. And, yeah, I totally do THIS wrong. Shit, man, that's just how I am.
Then I sneak a sidelong glance at my husband, ferociously rearranging the refrigerator, and I remember: Shit, man, that's just how he is.
And I say: Oh, who cares if you do this wrong, when you more than make up for it in that?
And he says: Baby, we always knew you were hopeless at that, but damn, you've sure got this!
And then we get along just fine.