So last night, I’m in bed about to go to sleep, when the following conversation occurs.
Mrs. Ahab: Honey, can you wash the sheets tomorrow?
Mrs. Ahab: Oh, and there’s a black spot on the (bright yellow) comforter. If it doesn’t come out and it’s some kind of gun/oil/lube stain…(her voice trails off, leaving the threat to be inferred by me, which is a lot scarier).
Me: Uh…okay, I’ll take care of it.
Mrs. Ahab: I can’t think of anything else it could be. So it had better come out.
Me: Yup. (trying to act calm)
See, in my head, I’m having a panic attack, because I do practice magazine change drills over the bed, but never with lubed up mags and certainly not over the yellow comforter…I think.
Anyway, if I don’t post tomorrow, it’s because I’m dead.