The other night, my husband, whom we shall call Cadillac, went out on an errand. He unlocked the front door and called out to find where I was. I was on the couch, doing Yahoo Answers, probably one of my favorite pasttimes.
"Go take a shower," he ordered.
Immediately I didn't want to do such a thing. "In a minute." I was answering an intriguing questions about a woman whose husband is obsessed with big-handed women. Are my hands big? I wondered. I ran over to the desk to get a ruler.
And stepped on a dozen roses. Cadillac jumped out of the kitchen. "I told you to take a shower. I was going to put rose petals on the bed."
Boy, I felt bad. I tried to make it up to him, but now I'm worried he'll get some prostitutes. We can't afford the Spitzer kind, though, so they'll have to be the $5 hooker meth whores you can find wandering downtown. Completely my fault.
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