You're just trying to flatter me. Stop it.

The Rocket Scientist is not particularly enthralled with my new music. He really did not like Cee Lo’s “F*** You,”* and was only slightly more interested in the bowdlerized version. He liked Adele okay, but did not seem to be as smitten with her as I am. He liked “Gunpowder and Lead” by Miranda Lambert the first six or so times he heard it, but then wondered aloud rather snarkily if it was becoming an anthem for me, and was I trying to send a message? He thought Mumford & Sons' “Roll Away Your Stone” was depressing, although he agreed with me about the banjo.

 “Okay, you might like this one,” I said, playing “Just The Way You Are” by Bruno Mars. He smiled. “That's great. I know what that’s like.I deal with that all the time.”

Yeah, right. I have to stop rolling my eyes; I don’t want them to stick this way.  

*The man very rarely swears. He is consequently married to me, who swears like…. fill in whatever noun you like here. The sailors I have worked with frown terribly on “swears like a sailor.” In the short time I was an attorney, the blue streaks were all coming from the litigation side of the office, so when the sailor objected, I switched to “swears like a litigator.” The one litigator I told that to seemed distinctly unamused. So, I swear like… whatever. An Australian, maybe.