He calls them my party pants. He's not a fan cause they are aqua and he thinks pants should always be neutral and unassuming. So I came in from walking the pugs and I was wearing my hot pink Crocs. 
As I was kicking them off and closing the door, Jon walked in and I heard him say behind me: "Those shoes go great with those pants. What are you, a rodeo clown?"Then later he treated me to another verbal gem. I had just cleaned the dickens out of my house. Like social worker visit clean. Every room. And our house is good size so that's a big job. And it seems like every time I clean the house he (we interrupt this story to warn you readers of upcoming TMI. If you don't like poo stories avert your eyes!) seems to have to go poo. Then he'll come out of the bathroom announcing that I'll have to clean that one all over again. I warned him this time that I'd kill him if he pulled that again. Well, sure enough he had to go. So he said to me "I gotta go take a $%!#. Which bathroom can I use? Or do I have to go to a rest stop or McDon@lds?"
Ah, that silver tongued devil!
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