Q: Which Lynnette is the funnest Lynnette to hang out with?
A: A-few-margaritas-into-the-night Lynnette.
Q: Which Lynnette is the funniest Lynnette to hang out with?
A: Bed-time-after-a-long-day-at-work Lynnette.
Over the weekend I was driving behind a Volkswagen. “C’mon, Passat!” I said impatiently. “Or Jetta? Babe, is it a Passat or Jetta?” I couldn’t make out the word emblazoned in chrome on the rear of the car. “Jetta,” Lynnette said. “You can see that?” I said incredulously. “Yeah…” she said.
Then, two nights ago, we were lying in bed and – inspired by this debatable model of VW – something of a paradox occurred to me. When neither Lynnette nor I have contacts in, I have far better eyesight. She’s basically blind without the aid of corrective lenses. However, that seems to shift dramatically when both of us are wearing our prescribed lenses. I don’t understand how this is possible. I never went to eye doctor school.
When I posed this question to Lynnette, she was already in bed, it was kind of late (for us), and she was playing Tsum Tsum. Obviously, her mind had been dulled to a spoon’s edge. She replied “Maybe you don’t try hard enough,” but she started laughing before she even got the sentence out. I was laughing too. “What the hell does that even mean?” I said, again, incredulously.
One of Lynnette’s worst habits is that she’ll mentally drift out of conversations and never return. To throw people off the scent, she has honed her mind and mouth to reply simply when cued to do so, such as if someone stops talking or if the inflection at the end of a statement rises, indicating a question. She does this to me. She does this to Madison. It is a bad habit that is a source of frustration, but also joy for me because it leads to the best kind of shouting matches with Mad.
Madison: But you just said I could!
Lynnette: No, I didn’t.
Madison: You did!
Lynnette: Did I?
Me: Yeah, you did.
Lynnette: Oh, sorry. You can’t.
Madison storms out of the room.
Don’t get me wrong. I don’t mean to pile on Lynnette. She has to deal with her fair share of bad habit from my side. I am lazy. I can remember who played that one guy with the guns in that movie with the asteroid, but I can’t remember to take out the trash before I leave for a softball game. I make puns. Bad puns. Bad sexual puns. When I think about how bad they are, I consider it a minor miracle that she still tolerates me. She never takes me seriously, and really, I can’t blame her. I have this bedroom voice that drops down low (wait for it, it’s coming) when I tell her something I like about her. I am sincere in the compliments, but they probably sound stupid in that voice, so I get it. I don’t think she should avoid kissing me, though. It’s hard to sarcastic kiss. Even I haven’t mastered that yet.
I wanted to take a picture of Lynnette wearing the earrings, but she had already taken a shower and thus was unavailable for photos (Read in bedroom voice: I don’t know why, tho, ’cause you always look good to me, girl. Ain’t no make up gon change the way I feel about you, yo.). I settled for the one of Mad. Anyway, I was on the toilet scrolling through my Instagram feed and came across this picture Lynnette had posted while I was otherwise occupied. Well, the original caption, in part read #MetsIn2016. I could not contain my anger. From the throne of Higaland, I replied as captured in this photo. When I emerged from my domain, Lynnette was lying on the bed laughing. “Dude, how you gonna skip the entire 2015 season?” I said. She kept laughing. And through her shallow gasps for air, she kept repeating “I jinxed it, I jinxed it, I jinxed it.”
Lynnette knows the depths of both my love of the Mets and my irrational superstitions. She appeared as Nero, fiddling while the Mets’ unborn season crumbled ablaze around her. She knows this infuriates me. But damn it, I love it. I love her.
“I so sorry!” she said. “I so tired!” she said. Bed-time-after-a-long-day-at-work Lynnette is the funniest Lynnette.