My husband and I got into a little tiff today about teasing. He tends to find things that really annoy me and harp on them, so I got a little frustrated and gave him a little speech. The worst part about me giving these kind of speeches is that I tend to do some amatuer psychoanalysis and make simple problems into complex emotional ones. Luckily, he’s known me long enough not to let that kind of thing phase him and promptly returned to perturbing me.
Anyway, after I got slight defensive. He stayed quiet for a few minutes. Like most of these silly disputes, we both forgot about it within a few minutes and sat down to watch some television and pet cats. I had his obese white princess on my lap. She was purring away and in no mood to get up, so I said to her, “I wonder if your owner would get us a granola bar, since I’m taking over his petting duties.” She paid little attention, but he got up and stood in front of me.
In his best manical villain voice he said, “I shall get you your granola bar, but I want diplomatic immunity.”
“Diplomatic immunity?” I asked.
“Yes. It simply means that you have to accept my customs, no matter how different they may be from your own. I will do my best to adjust to yours, but remember, I’m a foreigner.”
I was in no mood to bargain, so I made the deal. That healthy snack was not worth the dancing and proding I later had to endure.