I am really sorry about that time I slammed your head in the door.
I KNOW you saw me go out to the garage to visit the beer fridge. And we both know that the pantry door and the door leading into the house from the garage are on a collision course. For this we can thank a lazy architect. But still, when you saw me go to fetch my cerveza, you chose this time to open the pantry door to get, oh, I don't know, chips, I'm guessing. Whatever it was, it was clearly eluding you, because you crouched down and stuck your head into the pantry, right about the time I returned with a cold one in hand. I opened the door, simultaneously felt and heard a thud, followed by a string of profanities. Once both doors were closed, there you were, rubbing your jaw and glaring at me.
This is the part where I start laughing, because I picture your jaw jangling from side to side, like a cartoon character. I know I should not laugh- insult to injury and what not. I should have also probably refrained from participating in the following exchange:
ME (laughing): You KNEW I was going out to the garage to get a beer. Why did you open the pantry and stick your face in it?
HIM (not a yell but close): Why do you have to throw the door open to come back in the house?
Well, he should know this. We've been married for 10 years and anyone who's lived with me for that long should know I do things with gusto. My steps are a 3-foot wide stride, I take 10 minutes to tell something that should take about 30 seconds (back story! you need the back story!) and I fling open doors.
Really, I am sorry about that incident. Seriously, ignore my smile. It's just that even just to say, "I'm sorry I slammed your head in the door," makes me laugh, let alone picturing your ears squished between the flour and the over-the-door spice rack.
Oh, and I also owe my son a fake apology. I am SO sorry that I started laughing during story time last night.
For whatever reason, it irritates my six year-old profoundly when I laugh. Also, when I sing or dance. Perhaps he has a latent Pentecostal streak?
Like a lot of ostensibly lighthearted activities, story time is an activity he takes very seriously. And his recent declaration that we should read "only learning books" has only added to the museum-like atmosphere of the evening reading ritual. Some of the "Eye Wonder" or "Ask Me" type books are pretty damn dry, frankly. But last night's description of ancient Roman culture was booby-trapped with funny. Because the editors of this book included a section on the bath house. I know I'm childish and perhaps slightly perverted, and that bath houses were indeed an important part of daily life in the Roman Empire. I also know not everyone who taps their feet in a men's room stall is soliciting sex, and not all nurses are naughty, etc., etc. But when I think bath house, I think of hedonism. And I'm not the only one, evidently, because Daddy's snickering, too. The book went on to describe these bath houses as "a place where people gathered to meet new people, socialize, and to chat with friends." "Wow, really?" smirks my husband. "That sounds sort of like the Internet."
I can really get incredibly tickled (read: slaphappy) or incredibly irritable in the final push to the finish line that is bedtime. And on this particular night it was the former. And with my own personal party pooper demanding that I stop laughing, now, it was several minutes before I could regain my composure, if you call call my normal demeanor "composed." Seriously, kid, I am sooooo sorry for the comic relief.
I am, really.
You can click here for a post from the olden days about my inappropriate laughter involving my dog humping another dog.



