Usually we're pretty quiet in the car. I'm cranky in the morning and he's cranky in the afternoon. We've found that it's best not to speak too much when we're locked in a box traveling
When we drive "his" car, he likes to drive to and from work because it's his man machine and he loves it. Well yesterday I was in the driver's seat because I ran an errand and when he came out of work I was still in it so he
As I was driving home, I was feeling pretty giddy because hey, it isn't often I get to drive the man machine on the highway.
The conversation went a little like this:
J: Oh wow, I was going real fast. You're right, this car does ride well, you can't tell.
B: [Nothing. Maybe some crickets chirping.]
J: It probably doesn't help that the position I set the steering wheel blocks out the speedometer. Speedometer. Speedo-meter. Hmm. I wonder if there was a thing called a "speedo-meter", what exactly it would measure?
B: Speedometer is spelled like that but that's not how you say it. Dumb people say it that way. Stupid people call my store all the time (he works for Napa) and call it a speedo-meter. [See why we don't talk in the car? Mr. Cranky Pants!]
J: I know that. I'm talking about Speedos! The man underpants bathing suit things.
B: [Crickets are back.]
J: If a Speedo-meter registered at 80, what do you think that would mean?
B: [If he didn't love his car so much I think he would have jumped.]
J: Do you think it would mean 80 years old? Old people wear Speedos.
B: [Chirp chirp, chirp chirp.]
J: Or do you think 80 would be how many grapes he's smuggling?
B: [Ah ha!] Can you stop talking now?
Later on down the road, stuck in the middle lane with slow people in front of us and in both side lanes...
B: If you gun it you can squeeze in between that car and that car.
J: Yeah but I only register like a 2 on the Speedo-meter.
B: [Rolls his eyes and forces back a grin.] You're not driving my car anymore.