How to Have a Fight in a One-Bedroom Apartment with Your Girlfriend's Dad in Town

I've never been a shouter. You know how some teenagers scream "I hate you!" at their parents? I never did that. Chalk it up to my cautious nature, I guess. Even when I was really mad at my parents, I knew that after I was done being really mad they would still be my parents. So, "I hate you" always felt a little over-kill to me.
The pleasant truth is that I never hated my parents nor did I ever have any reason to. This is lucky and I know it.

Tiffany must be wired the same way because we are similarly restrained in our where-another-girl-might-scream-I-hate-you moments. Last night we had one of those moments.* As most of ours do, it began over a typically teensy thing. I was driving us back from a really fun day in wine country. Tiffany sat shotgun, and her dad sat in the backseat. As we approached the toll booth on the Golden Gate Bridge, Tiffany pointed out that the lanes to my left were for pass holders only, which I had already noticed myself. Since I was headed directly for a cash lane, I responded that I knew that (alternate theory: I responded that I knew that in an angry fashion). We continued our approach in this way until I said in a laughing, aren't-you-silly way "I know, I'm not going to those lanes!" (alternate theory: I said this in a really nasty way) The moment passed. Only it didn't. As these moments have the power to do, it crept back up on us later in our tiny one-bedroom apartment. Whispering so that her dad would not hear, we revisited the moment. Tiffany hissed that I was totally out of line; I spat back that I absolutely was not. Meanwhile, we both kept our eye on the pot of homemade popcorn we were making.

This is what's weird about fighting with someone you love-- whether it's your mom or your dad or your brother or your sister or your partner or whomever--you still have to love them five minutes later. So you make popcorn in the hopes that you'll want to eat it and not dump it over her or his head. Earlier in the day we had talked about making ice cream sundaes. Acting on faith that we would still be in a relationship after dinner, I walked to the store to get the fixings.

When I came back, I got in the shower and politely called Tiffany into the bathroom so we could work through the issue in private (alternate theory: I demanded that she come into the bathroom). Alas, we continued to disagree, and Tiffany left the bathroom madder than she had come in. Likewise, I created more steam in the second half of my shower than I did in the first. When I turned the squeaky faucets off a few minutes later, I could hear that the fight had been disclosed to her dad.** I stared at the fogged-up mirror. Screamed into my towel. Then, what else could I do? I put on my pajamas and went out into the fire.

Would you believe this particular father actually has a calming effect on us both? Soon we were laughing at the ridiculousness of our fight. And, because of my excellent foresight (alternate theory: because I was sneaky enough to use the sundae ingredients as an excuse to leave the premises for a few minutes), we had sundaes to celebrate.***

*Please note, the parties are not in agreement on the following facts.
**Also note, this father happens to be wonderful.
***Note, in conclusion, that all parties agree the sundaes were spectacular.