Snapple Caps 3/7 - Jack/Liz
Part 1
Part 2
#346 The medical term for writer’s cramp is graphospasm.
“Nice to see you working hard, Frank. Don’t you have rewrites to do?” Liz asked as she came into his office and found him lying on the couch with his hat (“wide awake”, ironically) over his face.
“I can’t do it today, Liz. I can’t work,” he replied.
“Uh huh. Why not?”
“I think I have writer’s cramp,” he explained, holding up his hand in a claw. “You’re lucky I don’t sue you.”
“That’s not from writing scripts, it’s from playing your stupid video games at work, but nice try. Come on, Jenna doesn’t want to play one of the Bush twins again, so you have to change it to Chelsea Clinton and keep it funny.”
“Chelsea’s so boring! At least with the Bush twins we could put a beer bottle in her hand and make her do slutty stuff. Are Lewinsky jokes still funny?” he asked.
“No, Frank. You can do this, it’s what you get paid the big bucks for,” she said, urging him off the couch.
#478 Candles will burn longer and drip less if they are placed in the freezer a few hours before using.
“Let’s order in and go to bed early tonight,” Liz said as Jack opened the door to his apartment and let her inside.
“Rough day?” he asked after kissing her hello.
“Frank claimed he had writer’s cramp all day, so I had to rewrite a sketch for tomorrow that he was supposed to rewrite. Do you know how hard it is to make Chelsea Clinton interesting?”
“Lewinsky joke?” he suggested and she rolled her eyes.
“This is why I’m the writer and you’re just the corporate stooge I let think controls me,” she replied as she sniffed the air. “What smells so good? You already ordered?”
“Actually, I cooked,” he said and led her into the kitchen where he had dinner set out on the counter for them along with burning candles.
“You made this?” she asked, as she lifted the lid off of what appeared to be some sort of pasta dish. “Really?”
“I have people cook for me because I’m a very busy man, not because I can’t do it myself,” he said defensively.
“I just didn’t know you cooked,” she shrugged. “I support this part of you wholeheartedly.”
“Sit down, I’ll get you some wine,” he said and she slid onto a stool at the counter. ”I’ve cooked for you before,” he reminded her.
“You’ve made me breakfast, before, yes. That doesn’t make you a chef, it makes you a worthwhile sleepover buddy.”
“I think I have other attributes that make it worthwhile, don’t you?” he asked, his breath on her neck as he set a full wine glass in front of her.
She nodded as he kissed the skin below her ear, “So, wine, candles, cooking for me…very romantic.”
“That was the idea,” he replied as he ran his hands down her arms.
“So you agree with going to bed early, then?” she asked.
“Going to bed early, yes. Going to sleep early, not as much,” he answered.
“An after-dinner back rub may be enough to keep awake a little longer,” she suggested with an exaggerated wink.
He laughed, “You drive a hard bargain, but I think I can handle that.”
#409 Approximately 16,500 people in the U.S. go by the last name Lemon.
“Jack, you do not want to come to my parents’ for Christmas. Trust me, stay here, order in, watch “A Christmas Story” all day on TBS. I wish I could do that.”
“I don’t want to spend Christmas here by myself if I can spend it with you. Besides, being with your family on Christmas will lessen the chance of my mother showing up. Or at least if she does, I won’t be home.”
“But it’s not just my parents and Mitch there, it’s aunts and uncles and kids…a whole lot of Lemons. And it’s not fancy, most of the guys unbutton their pants as soon as they get up from the table before they fall asleep in front of whatever football game is on TV.”
“I can fall asleep in front of the TV,” Jack shrugged. “But I will most likely keep my pants buttoned.”
“Please do.”
#453 Raindrops can fall as fast as 20 miles per hour.
“How can anyone still maintain global warming doesn’t exist? Look at this, pouring down rain on Christmas. Eastern Pennsylvania and it hasn’t snowed once yet. Republicans,” she scoffed.
“Hey,” Jack took offense. “I’m Republican and I believe global warming is a fact.”
“You’re not really a Republican. Don’t forget I know your dirty little secret about stumping for Ted Kennedy,” she reminded him and he pouted.
“This sucks,” she continued. “It’s Christmas! I want to have to be bundled up in a big coat with a scarf, hat and mittens and here I am, outside in a sweater and I’m not even cold.”
“It does…suck. The lack of snow completely ruined my plan,” Jack commiserated.
“What plan? Cross country skiing down the road?”
“No, my plan to ask you to marry me in the snow on Christmas Eve,” he answered.
“Ha. Very funny,” she bumped against him with her shoulder.
He stood up and turned towards her, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small velvet box.
“Not so funny,” she exhaled.
"I realize it's rather cliché, though I suppose it's not as cliché since there's no snow..."
"Jack."
"But I've been trying to figure out how to do it to make it special. I know I've done this many times, but this time, with you, it had to be perfect. I don't know why I thought this was perfect, it's obviously not," he rambled.
"Jack," she interrupted again and he finally stopped talking and gave her his attention. "I don't need anything special. Just ask me."
He took a deep breath and flipped open the lid of the box, and removed the ring, setting the empty box on the railing. He took her left hand in his and slipped the ring onto her finger. "Will you marry me?" he asked.
She exhaled the breath she didn't realize she was holding in and nodded, "Yes, of course. Not because I'm almost 40 and desperate, because I'm not. I'm saying yes because I love you."
"I love you too. That's why I want to marry you."
"Yeah," she nodded. "Let's get married."