"I like how you refer to me on there as 'the Slovak'."
"Do you mean you like it or you want me to change it?"
"I mean, you could call me 'the Stud' or something. Just if you wanted to."
"I am totally blogging this."
Sort of like the time he told me I was free to tell anyone about our, ahem, private life, provided I was sufficiently complimentary.
K brings me a Ferda Mravenec book and insists I read it to her.
"You know, you're really getting a British accent in Czech. I think I can hear it there."
[insert glare and pointed comment about who dragged who to this country]
And then the other day when I was counting from 1 to 10 in Hungarian, and K was repeating after me:
"Hey, her pronunciation is actually better than yours."
"WHY CAN YOU NEVER SAY ANYTHING POSITIVE ABOUT ME?"
But when I felt sick this afternoon, who leaped up from his desk and came home to take care of us? It was the Devilishly Handsome, Raven-Haired Slovak of My Dreams!
(There, sweetie, what do you think of that one?)