Me: Sometime we should go out on a date that requires real dressing up, in the sense of you wearing a suit. Or doesn't require it, but includes it. Plus dzing.
Me: Your perfume.
Steve: Oh, Dzing! Not "Dee Zee-ing".
Steve: I was like... "Demilitarized Zoning"?
Me: That would be "dmzing".
Steve: MORE FOOL I.
Me: Which smells like napalm.
Me: Old napalm. Indeed.
We occasionally have the old-fashioned kind of conversation, too.
(As I said in a voicemail when we were trying to coordinate our activities from across a bay on this recent trip: "You need to call me so that we can discuss this with words. From our mouths.")
On this occasion, I am clanking about in the kitchen: "What's 200 degrees Celsius in Fahrenheit?"
"About 400." (hem, hem.) "392, specifically. You can figure it out exactly, because it's 1.8 times 200, plus 32. It's super easy to go in that direction. Harder going the other way."
"What? How am I supposed to remember 1.8?"
"Well, boiling is 100, compared to 212 in Farenheit. So you just offset by 32 degrees because of freezing, and—"
(Psh.) "'Fahrenheit is really great; multiply by 1.8.'"