The other day, Brett was sacked out on the couch watching TV.
I had been running around doing laundry, dishes, and whatnot (how does whatnot take up so much time?). I was upstairs – upstairs, I tell you - and the man I married yelled up the stairs.
“Babe, could you grab me a soda?”
Mind you, he is maybe ten feet away from the refrigerator while I, on the other hand, am on a completely separate floor.
Sometimes, instead of being snarky (or submissive – ha!) the theatrical side of me wins out.
I couldn’t help myself at that point. I rushed down the stairs and threw myself over his relaxed body.
“Oh, my darling! Please, please do not get up! I could not LIVE with myself if you had to serve yourself. Oh my baby! “
My husband, who at first was thrilled I had suddenly draped myself all over him, looked confused, “What?”
“Don’t! Oh, don’t get up! Allow me – Nay, permit ME to serve you!”
I sashayed the ten feet into the kitchen, popped a top of Coke, poured it over a mug of ice, and served it to my husband.
His eyes were sort of wide, as I stood there awaiting his reaction.
“Thanks,” he said, settling back down, still looking at me suspiciously out of the corner of his eyes.
Satisfied I had made my point, I went upstairs to finish the laundry.
About two hours later, we were getting ready for bed, and he looks at me like a light just went on.
“Wait, were you being sarcastic earlier?”
I KID YOU NOT!