Monday, April 20, 2009

He's His Own Shel Silverstein Poem

Scene: set in our family room, my husband, fully dressed, lays in a heap on our couch. I'm sitting on the end, with his feet in my lap, looking concerned.

Him: "I'm sick." he moans.
Me: "I know." I say, as I pat his feet. "I'm sorry."

Him: "No really, I'm sick." he says.
Me: "I know."

Him: "No really, my stomach feels horrible." he says.
Me: "What did you eat for lunch?" I ask.
Him: "Ummm.... El Burrito?"
Me: "You're kidding, right?" (El Burrito is a Mexican shack that serves up burritos bigger than your head, and incidentally, happens to be located next door to a veterinarian).

Him: "No, but I'm also really, really hot. I can't get comfortable". he replies, indignantly.
Me: "Hmmm..." (now admittedly, it was 90 degrees yesterday, and it was hot. But my husband, who seems to have developed an allergic reaction to casual clothing, is always fully dressed in wool slacks, a long sleeved dress shirt, and wool socks).

Me: "So let me get this straight. You ate a 4000 calorie burrito of questionable meat for lunch, and are now sitting through a heat wave dressed from head to toe in wool. Do I have this right?"
Him: "Oh forget it". (but he did start to giggle).

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