Rob is a goober. He may not be The Goober, but he is a Goober nonetheless.

Last night he wanted to go out to dinner. He suggested Black Angus (which, in a side note, he and his boss had wondered if this restaurant chain has someone on call 24/7 in case the "G" in their neon signs ever goes out). I didn't want to eat there. I protested all the way to the car.

"You never want to eat at the same place twice," he grumbled. "What's tonight's excuse, 'We just ate there two months ago!'? Bah! Get out of the way, I'm driving."

Note how tenderly he treats me ;-)

As we're heading down the street, he made a wrong turn, as usual. "You turned too early, you have to get back onto 320th," I groused. "At the next light, turn right."

At the next light, Rob was droning on and on about his day. "Heeeeey!" I shrieked, "You're missing the turn! You goober! Now we have to go all the way around the whole stinkin block!" This is not a small block to go around, as it contains along with a supermarket, a couple of strip malls, a car wash and a Walmart, so my shrieking wasn't unjustified. Much.

"Excuse me, I'm telling you about my day," Rob said in an injured tone, going straight through the light. He turns into a driveway of one of the strip malls, which naturally set me to shrieking again since we can't cut through this lot to get to Black Angus and getting back out of the lot would be harder than getting into it was.

As he pulled the car through the lot, he casually pointed to the Mongolian barbecue place and said, "Besides, we're eating here."

Men. Goobers. Rob. He knows where all the buttons are and exactly how I cannot stop rising to the bait every time. We walked toward the door and he admited as much, chuckling the whole way. Some day, I will not begin foaming and shrieking at him. Some day.