As a birthday present to myself, I bought the complete DVD set of Upstairs, Downstairs, an award-winning British drama from the early seventies. Kris and I have been digesting episodes slowly ever since.
“You know who would like this?” I said after tonight’s episode.
“Not Lisa,” she said.
“Buh. Buh,” I said. “How did you know who I was going to say? And how do you know she wouldn’t like it?”
“I know my husband,” Kris said. “And Lisa and I have talked about this before. She thinks the show is boring. She says it’s like a soap opera.”
“Boring?” I said. “Boring?”
We went downstairs to bake peanut butter cookies before the next episode. I looked out the window. It wasn’t raining. The sky looked almost blue. I was taken aback. “You know what?” I said.
“You want to mow the lawn,” Kris said.
“Buh. Buh,” I said. “How did you know what I was going to say?”
“I know my husband,” Kris said.
Either that or she’s psychic.
(p.s. I finally got the lawn mowed! Just in time to mow it again…)