Four Scenes from Spats with Pär, In Which I Do Not Emerge Victorious

(yes, I do jot down these little squabbles when they're still fresh in my mind. Some fights are 2 fun 2 4 get)

Scene One: A late night supermarket run brings us to the breads section.

"Ooh, must get English muffins," I say.

Pär nods. "Definitely." He reaches for a pack.

"I like cinnamon raisin," I announce.

"Uh huh."

"I notice we're getting the regular kind, though."

"Yes," he says, calmly putting the pack of plain English muffins in our basket.

"Why?" I put my fists on my hips. "Because you're bigger than me?"

"No, because you always eat like half a muffin and then leave the rest to molder on the shelf forever."

In protest over this unfair assessment, I defiantly toss in a pack of cinnamon raisin muffins. In the course of that week, I eat two of them. Sometime the following month, I am forced to throw away the greenish remains of the pack.

Scene Two: A guestroom at a hot springs spa where my aunt and uncle have put us up for the weekend. The room includes a tiny kitchen area, which has accumulated several dishes over the course of the two days we've been there. It also includes a nice big bed, on which we're sitting because Pär has volunteered to braid my hair. He does this more for the enjoyment of playing with my hair than for any aesthetic results, and the end product is kind of a tangled mess, but it feels nice while he's doing it. Once he's finished, he apologises for putting all the tangles in my hair, I say No problem, and I stand up to go get a comb. I observe the kitchen sink in passing.

"How would you feel about washing your dishes?" I suggest.

"I do wash them!" he says.

"Oh really! Does it say something to you that I've washed three coffee mugs in the past twenty-four hours, and I don't drink coffee?"

"I like to make a place feel homey," he says happily.

"It's interesting that your idea of 'homey' means having lots of dirty dishes around. That explains some things about our apartment."

"Three mugs isn't a lot."

"No, but it's every mug you've used since we've been here. You haven't cleaned a single dish."

"I like to have a certain level of dirty dishes, and I waste no time reaching that level. Once we have enough, I clean."

"It's nice to have goals, and achieve them."

"That's right! Besides, look who's talking -- you're the one with your clothes all over the floor!"

This is true, and I must flail around wildly to come up with a retort. "Well at least I know how to braid hair!"

He widens his eyes in mock outrage. "Ohhh, such a blow to my masculinity!"

Scene Three: Pär has come down with a cold. He is lying in bed, racked with coughing fits.

"I'm going to give you some cough syrup that will help," I tell him.

"I don't need cough syrup," he rasps.

"You're coughing like a mofo. That's not doing you any good."

"What kind of cough syrup is it?"

"The right kind. It will help make you cough less and make your coughs more productive. Mmmm, isn't that a pretty phrase." I waggle the bottle enticingly.

"I don't want it."

"Yes you do. Trust me, I know what I'm doing."

"Let me read it," he says. I hand him the bottle and he reads it. "Ah! It's a cough suppressant! Yes, that's what I want."

"Here you go," I say, handing him a spoon. "And from now on," I add, "you should save time by just doing whatever I say, because I'm always right."

"No."

"Yes!"

"No!"

"Respect ma authoritay!"

"No!"

"Respect ma authoritay!" I repeat, shaking a fist at him.

He just smiles cheerfully and gives me the finger.

Scene Four: Lying in bed late at night, Pär decides he is ravenously hungry and craves some toast. He describes to me in loving detail exactly how he would eat it: two pieces with butter and cheese in between. After listening to him go on about this at length, I finally snap.

"Just go make the damn toast."

"Maybe I will," he muses. He remains in bed. We move on to other topics of conversation, but it becomes clear that he is too preoccupied with his toast imaginings to think about anything else. I get exasperated.

"Go make toast!"

"It's none of your business whether I make toast or not!" he says. "Stay the hell out of my toast!"

"I can't stay out of it," I explain triumphantly, "because it doesn't exist yet! That's the problem!"

There is a confused pause.

"Ha!" I shout. "You are confounded by my logic!"

"Uh..."

I deflate, sighing. "No, I know I lost that one. My logic was spurious."

"Your logic is like Kirk's logic," he says, "and mine is like Spock's. Mine is actual logic, whereas yours is just... very vigorous emphasis."

I cannot argue with this, because it is true.

He does end up getting out of bed and making his toast, though.