When we first started dating, my (now) husband, Poseidon (he formerly prefered to go by "Zeus"), for some (or many) reasons came to the conclusion that I must be an alien. I can't say for sure why, but his convictions remain strong, and he often makes comments about my alleged extraterrestrial heritage. I finally feel obliged to acknowledge his pseudodoxy that I am from a distant galaxy, yet to be discovered by mere earthlings; however, he accepts me anyway (and for this I'm grateful...or should I say, "And for this I'm grateful?").
Last night while watching television, we were having some discussion, on what, I don't recall, but he looked at me and said, "You were released from your vial too soon, weren't you?" He then asked me to tell him all about the portal to Middle Earth because he heard it was somewhere in West Virginia, and I am originally from West Virginia and an otherworldly oddball, so I must know, but I had no idea what he was talking about (has anyone else heard of this "portal" to Middle Earth in WV?).
I play along with the alien bit, because frankly, I've been programmed to do so, and I don't want to blow my cover or 'they' will beam me back up into space (or down to Middle Earth). I simply told him that I was not released from my vial prematurely but that I had lost my instruction manual early on and had to wing it.
This seemed to satisfy his need to remind me that he knows where I really came from and I might as well be honest about it, like he's going to turn me in to the CIA, or NASA, or whatever incompetent agency handles E.T.s these days. Turn me in? Seriously, who would remind him to set his alarm clock every night (I have to do this every night)? Who would buy his bagels and organic yogurt every week? Who would do the laundry...oh, wait, he does the laundry. So, when the mothership decides I've collected enough data and they come to take me home, Poseidon will starve, be late for work everyday, but at least he will have clean shirts.
I'll... be... right... here.