After twenty-two years of relationship, Michael and I have learned quite a bit about communicating with each other.
Not that we've perfected our methods, you understand.
But we have figured out a few things that work for us, such as me learning to not attempt to discuss important issues while there is some significant soccer game on the FoxSoccer channel. And Mike has learned that I don't find jokes funny while I'm in labor.
Hurray for us.
But every now and then we have a miscommunication event that takes on a level of significance.
For example, this weekend.
I asked Mike to turn unplug a certain kitchen appliance. And he complied.
Except that was a slight hitch. You might even say that he got his wires crossed.
Which meant that Sunday dinner turned out like...this.
And those black sticks? The ones nestled next to that former plump pot roast?
So I guess Michael and I still have some refining to do with our communication. Our Crock Pot Communication, to be specific. Because our present level of comprehension when it comes to discussing the Crock Pot is just, well, a crock.
(My apologies for the particularly bad pun...I just couldn't resist...)