And then he pulled my ponytail and knocked my books out of my arms

My husband came in from work late this afternoon, looking wrecked. It was one of those days, apparently, when people disguised as ACTUAL CAR BUYING CUSTOMERS came to the dealership to stand by the new Camaros and tell the salesmen, who were standing there silently plotting murder, all about the Camaro they had back in '68 or '74. Or '79 or even '83. Whatever.

"Dude, what a day," he said, coming into the kitchen and plopping onto a chair, a haunted expression on his face. "Camaro, Camaro, Camaro, and no, stupid, your 2002 Silverado with enough miles to have traveled to the freaking MOON and back is not worth $15,000."

I've heard this kind of thing before and carried on with dinner. "Do not call me 'dude,'" I said absently, stirring.

"Dudette, what a day," he began again without missing a beat. "Camaro, Camaro, Camaro...."