“Honey, could you make me popcorn this time?” I asked without looking up from my crochet project one night last week… “I don’t know where the popper is,” he claimed, but I knew Francis often feigned ignorance to get out of doing things…
“Honey, could you make me popcorn this time?” I asked without looking up from my crochet project one night last week… “I don’t know where the popper is,” he claimed, but I knew Francis often feigned ignorance to get out of doing things…
For my husband and I, there is one event that launches us into a passive-aggressive battle of wills like no other. It happens infrequently, but when it does, it causes palpable tension that leaves us both leafing through the yellow pages for a good attorney, just in case…
I don’t grunt. My knuckles don’t drag on the ground. I don’t wear animal skins. I feel no cravings for capybara meat or palm nuts. I’m not suffering from intestinal parasites, at least that I know of. And I don’t have the urge to beat my husband, Francis, over the head with a club…Well, maybe sometimes…