I went with Fuzzy to his office tonight so he could pick up a wire labeler he needs to bring with him to San Jose on Monday, and was caught off-guard by the quality of the tile in the reception area. It’s lovely river-rock tile with blue-grey grout, and I commented, “That would be fabulous in our bathroom.”

Fuzzy glanced at it, the way geeky guys do, and said, “I guess,” which from him means, “Yes, I completely agree.”

“Speaking of the bathroom,” I went on, “When you come home, I want to go looking for shower faucets. I hate ours. I’ve hated it since we moved here, and I really want a better control, and a hand-held shower head.”

“We’d have to break into the shower wall,” he said. “I don’t want to do that.”

“No,” I said, “I don’t think we would. The plumber didn’t have to when he came to fix the leak two years ago. We just have to pick something with a splash plate that matches the existing hole.”

“That may be hard. This house is funky.”

I gave him my best, you’re-going-to-wish-you-hadn’t-said-that look. “Sweet boy,” I said, using a phrase I picked up from a piece of fanfic in which the lead character used it sarcastically to warn her partner that he was being anything but sweet, “we live in a tract house. Yes, the neighborhood has five models instead of one, and yes, they’re all landscaped and painted a little differently, but I’m fairly certain all the parts are standard.”

He changed the subject at that point, deflecting my lecture on which of us worked in real estate finance for half her life, and instead asking, “So are you up for Japanese food?”

You know, planning a bathroom remodel seems less important when there’s a plate of sashimi and tempura in front of you.