Widowhood, goats and the fear of sweaters

One of the things I most love about my husband is his wit. It's ever present and our moments together can and often have quickly become outrageously hilarious. Laughter is an ongoing constant in our marriage. Familes seem to have or carry on the same characteristics that attract you to your spouse, I think.
Jeff has the same wit as my dad. Give him a word, a line... and they're off running with it. My mother was equally as witty and I am no slouch in the department either. My adult children and grandchildren also have this trait-- so our times together are memorable and we can also start a conversation with Remember When? then roll with it until we're collapsing into fits of unstoppable laughter... it happens a lot with us.
All of this to preface a conversation that Jeff and I had yesterday afternoon that began seriously enough and then just dissolved into me laughing so hard I couldn't stop... for a few moments. The conversation is still making me laugh today.
Jeff and I were sitting on the living room sofa, late yesterday afternoon, actually early evening, thanks to the time change, pondering dinner.
Around dinner, our conversation drifted into various other topics like... books.
I was describing to Jeff Joyce Carol Oates, A Widow's Story, a memoir vs. Joan Didion's a Year of Magical Thinking.
Both are gifted writers and yet I couldn't wait to get over JCO's book while I wanted to linger with Joan.  The difference being is-- of course, that each woman creates her own widowhood experience.  Joan's is probably closer to how I would handle it whereas JCO is so vastly different from me.
JCO spouse was her buffer; she lost her coping abilities, or what little coping abilities she could handle on a daily basis. He shielded her from everything; she didn't like anything bad, he would not mention these things to her. She had no children. The running theme after you get into the story is that when she was home she didn't want to be there. When she was with friends she wanted to be home. And the constant thread of being able to overdose with cache of pill available in her medicine cabinet was repeated ad nauseum in each chapter.
I teasingly said to Jeff that by the end of reading this book I had almost become an agor-i-phobic... not wanting to leave our house. It was nice to leave her world.
Jeff said he understood. Then that mischievous appeared on his face that told me he was about to run with something that would make me laugh.
You do?
Yes. I am angora-phobic (this line was delivered with a straight face).
Angora-phobic is not the same as agor-i-phobic, I replied.
No it is not.
So, angora-phobic, would be....?
The fear of goats!
I burst into laughter.
You're afraid of goats?
Yes.
Jeff, you're not afraid of goats, I say laughingly.
I cover it up well.
I almost never become afraid when I see them now.
I bust up laughing.
Going in for the kill, Jeff barely able to keep a straight face concluded... although, sweaters scare me.
Because?
Of the angora yarn...
We both start laughing so hard it takes us moments to pull it all together.
Well, my fearless little goat herder, let's go for pizza, I suggest. I'll beat back any wild angora sweaters that may want to attack you...