Sexy Sexy Talk

Bee and I are definitely a couple that has inside jokes.  Honestly, if you're with someone long enough, how can you not?  You get to the point where certain things make sense only to you and your significant other, and that's OK.  It's actually a good thing, because mundane things can remind you of your unity.  And -- call me old-fashioned -- but I happen to think that at least a little bit of unity is important in a relationship.

If I really think about it, I would postulate that about half of Bee's and my inner jokes stem from conversations or events that occured within our first few months of dating.  Which makes sense, when one considers that those are the crucial getting-to-know-you times; when you're drunk on new love -- or at least the possibility of it -- and giddy from lack of sleep due to your mutual inability to leave each other before 2 a.m. 

Love and slight hysteria: two ingredients that are more than enough to make any occurrence either incredibly significant or incredibly hilarious.

Once, a month or two into our relationship, Bee and I were lounging in our usual spot (his couch) at our usual time (somewhere between 10 p.m. and midnight) with our usual giddy light-headedness, and I asked him to tell me how he cooked a certain dish.

I'm not sure if it was from tiredness or from a need for total concentration but -- whatever the reson -- Bee was speaking incredibly slowly.  And quietly.  Actually, almost intensely.  This last trait, I now know, is something Bee frequently does: he'll speak in a very serious, dramatic way, but only about the most undramatic of things.  In this case, his subject just happened to be spaghetti sauce. 

"Well, you see," he started quietly, "you begin with the . . . tomatoes."

"OK," I yawned.

"Then," he nearly-whispered, "you blanch them in a pot of boiling water."

I nodded.

"And after you peel them," he continued, his whisper becoming emphatic, "you add them to some olive oil, onions, and . . ."

I waited, breathless for whatever nugget of wisdom he was apparently about to impart.

". . . garlic.  And basil.  And a bit of --"

(I was on tenterhooks now)

"-- crushed red pepper."  He licked his lips in fond memory.  I watched those lips closely.

"After that," he continued dreamily, "you add some . . . sausage." 

My God, the man was practically purring.

And that's when his style of speech began to strike me as funny: when the dramatic pauses and intense tones about a banal topic of conversation made the entire conversation that much more ridiculous.  So I started to giggle.

Bee, recognizing the absurdity of the situation, did as I now know he will always do: he hammed it up.

"And then," he moved closer to me on the couch and murmurred seductively into my ear, "you . . . simmer it!"

He knew I loved the sound of his voice, so he did his best to make it particularly low and provocative.  Nuzzling my neck as I shook with silent laughter, he continued on.  "Once it's simmered for several hours you --"

I tried to match his seductive tone, but without much luck.  "Oh God, what do you do?" I snorted in a not-so-sexy fashion.

"You ladle it into . . . " he slowly teased, drawing me ever closer . . .

His whisper was so low as to be barely audible.  ". . . into individual.  Ziplock.  Baggies."

Before I totally lost it, I managed to sputter, "Oh, YES!  Talk domestic to me!"

At that point we both burst into laughter.  The kind of heady, exhausted laughter that is verbal for only a minute, then quickly degenerates into silent spasms that go on and on and on until you're both spent, clutching your ribs and crying on the floor you somehow slid to.

All of this means, of course, that we've never looked at spaghetti sauce in the same way.  And we never speak of Ziplock bags: for now and forever they will be Individual Ziplock Baggies.  And we never request that our partner talks 'dirty': we only want to talk 'domestic'.

These are things that sometimes creep into our married life, reminding us of that time when we were first getting to know each other.  Which is why I think inside jokes are so important: they keep things fresh and keep us connected.  And, most importantly, they remind us of why we came to love each other in the first place.

Today was our 83-month anniversary.  I gave Bee a history book on the Aztecs, because I know he likes that sort of thing.  He gave me this:

Isn't he the best?