I love it when my husband takes my comments about the weather as personal attacks on his character.
Last week, for example, we had just put the kids to bed and were settling in on the couch for one of our favorite activities: watching Snapped.
"Brr," I said, shivering. "It's cold!"
"Oh, yeah?" he snapped, looking at me. "Step outside. It's about 68 degrees colder."
"Um, I was just making an observat--"
"Call me a tightwad all you want. We're not turning up the heat."
"I didn't say we should--"
"Everybody knows it's cold, Shay," he said, cutting me off again. "Put some damned clothes on. You're parading around here in..." Here, he trailed off as we both looked down at my outfit.
"...yoga pants and a sweatshirt...with a long-sleeved shirt underneath," I finished for him.
For a second, my husband was at a loss. I could see the edges of his mouth twitching as if he wanted to smile, but they didn't call him Oscar the Grouch as a child for nothing. Grumpiness won, and he looked back toward the TV as he muttered, "Put an extra pair of socks on. You got all those fuzzy ones for Christmas.
It's all about layers, Shay."