Trivia

On Saturday, Dan and I participated in campus trivia night. A group of students got special permission for us, two faculty members, to join their team, thus ensuring a totally legit yet underhanded victory. We did win -- $10 cash each and a heap of Good and Fruity licorice! -- but I was useless. Out of ten rounds, the only answer I knew with any degree of certainty was that the Walsh family on 90210 had moved to California from Minnesota. None of my teammates believed me.

On our one-hour commute home, navigating torrential rainfall on I-80, I suddenly just had to have a Coke. Dan was driving. I was so desperate for a Coke that I begged for it by its full name, Coca-Cola. "Dan," I said, "please please please can we stop at McDonald's for a Coca-Cola." It had to be from McDonalds, too. I like their ratio of corn syrup to carbonated water the best, not to mention their straw size.

I'm not proud of my occasional self-serving behavior, but I'm no longer ashamed of it, either. After I was assured of my soda fix, I did some really bighearted stuff. I massaged Dan's neck while he focused on avoiding truck spray and I complimented him on knowing in trivia that the first five books of the Old Testament are called the Pentateuch. (I didn't remind him that he botched an earlier question about Jews and lamb, costing our team a precious point and maybe a Frito Lay Big Grab Bag Variety.) I also voluntarily turned the station when Fergie came on.



We pulled up to McDonald's at 12:01AM. This particular McDonald's closes at 12:00AM. I banged my sandal against the dashboard a few times and yelled into the drive-through order board ("I just want a Coke! Fuck it! I know you're in there because you're mopping!") and then did some light pranayama breathing exercises before turning to Dan and stating, quite calmly, "Now we'll have to go to HyVee."

He mumbled something about "Driving Miss Crazy," but you know what? My amazing boyfriend took me to the grocery store and waited curbside. The late shift check-out dude gave me a stack of 2-liter Coke coupons, too. He must have seen the schizo in my eyes.

When we got home, I ran through the door and into the kitchen and opened the freezer and took out my favorite ice cube tray, the one that makes ice in the shape of duckies, and emptied the frozen duckies into a snifter, and poured myself the most picturesque, fizzy Coca-Cola. I took about three sips. Then I emptied the rest out in the sink. Dan didn't say a word.



Dan and I have been together for almost three years now, living together for more than half that time. Concealing neurotic behavior from the other person is no longer an option. The startling truth is, we wouldn't want to conceal it. I can finally admit to a man that I need the noise machine on high and the fan on arctic blast to get a decent night's sleep. Dan's crazy cards are on the table, too. I know that when he sees a hairball he'll pretend that he didn't, that he'll wait for me to clean it up, and if I don't, he'll step over it for days. Rather than let these hairball detentes go on indefinitely, I've come to enjoy scrubbing the carpet. Somehow it's sweet, another addition to our private, screwball language. He smiles when I say I'll do all the dishes, knowing fully well what I mean is "I'll do all the dishes but the colander." (Come on. How do you clean a colander when it's meant to retain food? Also: Karaoke has impeccable timing. He just hacked up a hairball in my study.)

"Becca's awesome. I'll take a little bullshit if it comes in a package. Those packages are out there." This is what I overheard Dan saying to his college buddy on the phone yesterday, fielding some question about girls. He gave the right answer.