Imagine an easy chair. It’s brown, striped, not too big, not too small, and sitting in our upstairs bedroom. Never, and I really for serious mean ever, have Joe or I sat in that chair. We have never used it for its purpose, of housing our bottoms, because it has been, since day 1 in our home, covered with assorted clothing. Periodically, Joe will go through and hang up all the shirts, pants and bras that have been tossed from my body onto that chair and for a brief moment, possibly two, we get to view its soft and cushie seat. But then *snap* it’s gone. Because it’s nighttime and I just got undressed.
Two days ago, as Joe strode in the bedroom and glanced at where the chair should be, he stopped short and stared at the impossibly high mound of clothing, a good four feet above chair level. “What?” I asked. He said, “I’m going to get the camera. This is something that everyone should see. I’m going to post it to my blog.” And then *poof* the pile magically disappeared and we all lived happily ever after. And the pile was never seen or heard from again because I learned my lesson and always hung up my clothes. The end.
Actually, I asked him not to and very thoroughly explained why him doing so would damage me physiologically for years and he couldn’t live with the guilt. He promptly apologized and suggested we make flash cards of all our innermost feelings and meet up in an hour to powwow. Our marriage was strengthened and now we always hold hands.
Actually, I quivered my lips and let a large, single tear gently fall from my right eye while pouting, ‘You just don’t love me.’ Joe then fell on his knees, crying and asking me for forgiveness. I let him squirm for a bit and then laid my hands on his head and blessed him. We never spoke of it again.
Actually, I threatened him with the loss of a limb, a small limb, if he ever made such a rash suggestion again. He knew I meant business, so he ran out and got me a Chai latte and gave me a foot rub for the next two hours.
Actually, I batted my eyelashes and moved my shoulders suggestively and asked if there was anything I could do to change his mind. I can’t tell you the end of this one, but suffice it to say, we both have large hickeys in the shape of Texas, his on his neck and mine on my thigh.
Actually, I told him I would sort all the socks if he would promise not to. And then he hung up all my clothes. Dude, I had the worse deal, let me tell you. Two huge baskets full of dirty, holey, sometimes crunchy boy tube socks. I had to go through and touch them all, about half of which I picked up with two fingers, pinky extended, tossing them directly into the trash bin. The entire time I had the EWWW mouth on my face.
And that’s the truth.