Frank: (Upon waking up on the wrong side of the bed after working 60 hours in one week) Do you think you could do the dishes today?
Me: (Upon waking up on the wrong side of the bed after trying to figure out HTML for Kindle for four hours the night before) Don’t you start with me. I did the dishes every night this week.
*Yes, our bed has two wrong sides. It was a “scratch and dent” deal.*
Frank: It would just take thirty minutes. I mean is it so hard to be neat? You are so messy.
Me: (Bursting into tears) Call me anything, but don’t call me messy. I’m doing the best I can. You don’t understand how traumatic this is.
Frank: No, I don’t.
Me: It all started at summer camp when I was eight.
During the summer, my parents put name tags in my undies and shipped me off every chance they got. So, I can’t remember what particular camp it was, but I remember the humiliation as if it were yesterday. Each day we were responsible for making up our bed and tidying our bunk area before we went to breakfast. While we dined, a crew of counselors would examine each tent. On the best-made bed, they would leave a beautiful harlequin doll. On the cot of the most slovenly camper, they left a ratty hobo. I received the hobo every single day of camp.
Frank: (Trying not to laugh) I will never put a hobo in your bed.
Me: (Examining his faded superhero PJ pants, stained muscle shirt, crazy hair, and sock with a hole in the toe) Too late. Now, you are the hobo in my bed.
the bourbonistA, Promoting Debauchery and stamping out political-correctness one blog at a time.