Last night Trevor offered to help my brother "dice" the fire.
He meant "douse", but claimed it didn't matter because "everyone knew what he was talking about". Except both William and I exchanged confused glances before I figured out it out and translated.
Because I am helpful that way. Even after my husband announced to everyone at our football watching party earlier in the afternoon that I was "five foot ten and two hundred pounds".
For the record, I am NOT two hundred pounds. I am well under it, actually. There was a time in recent memory when I surpassed two hundred pounds, but I was very pregnant, retaining water and not thrilled about hitting that particular weight milestone AT ALL.
The part about me being five foot ten, however, is true.
As my brother tried to coach, "You always low ball a girl's weight, Trevor. Always. By fifty to one hundred pounds. You know, just to play it safe".
And, yet, Trevor somehow managed to not sleep on the couch last night. I am still not sure how he pulled that one off, which is why I am blogging about this now. You know, for the future. Because nothing says "I owe you BIG time" like overestimating your wife's weight to a room full of people.
Especially, when said wife has stories that bear an uncanny resemblance to THIS that she hasn't told.
You know, just saying.
(Love you, Trevor)