You don’t need to hear how I smeared peanut butter* on the back of my head. No, you really don’t: the act is so much more prosaic than the result. Telling you would just spoil it.
What you should hear is The Fella’s telling response to it.
Just surfacing softly out of sleep, he turned to me. I murmured “Good morning, monkeybaby, how di— oh, crap, I just got peanut butter* in my hair!”
Without a pause, he nodded sagely. “Of course you did.”
Though this particular event is unprecedented, you see, the spirit of the event has become quite familiar to him in the almost two years we’ve lived together.
*I’m not sure why I said “peanut butter” instead of the more accurate “cashew butter”: whether at the moment of exclaiming I actually forgot it wasn’t peanut butter, whether I thought his sleep-addled brain would stumble over the notion of cashew butter, or whether my internal comedy writer, who never rests, instinctively knew that peanut butter was funnier… which it is.