Bravo.
“Honey, I’m going to tell you something that might make you mad, but I want you to keep a level head about this,” I said to my wife.
She kept sipping from her wine glass, which was magically full all the time.
“I’m listening,” she said.
“I was really funny in cooking class last night,” I admitted.
She looked pissed.
“Lee, do we have to have this talk again? I need you to tone down the funny in cooking class. When women find out that you’re charming and you can cook, they might steal you from me. And I can’t have that happen.”
“Wow,” I said. “You looked really angry, but you were surprisingly level-headed in your answer.”
“I have to admit, I did think about throwing this wine glass on the floor to break it, but I remembered last time I chipped the hardwood floor.”
“You also got glass shards stuck in my foot,” I said, trying to jog her memory. “I got thirty-nine stitches, remember?”
“I loved that wine glass.”
“I couldn’t play tag in the backyard with our son for two weeks?”
“The way it cupped the wine. So elegant.”
“I almost had to have my foot amputated?”
“I named it Joan Jett because it was the only thing keeping me from being a Runaway from the life I’ve built around you.”
“If I recall correctly, the reason you got mad at me was…” I trailed off.
“…you forgot to DVR Real Housewives of Atlanta,” she said, the rage returning to her eyes. “I missed the one where one of the housewives was rich and got mad about something no one in the middle class would get mad about! UGHHHHHHHH…”
By the time the glass was in the air, I had already dialed 9-1.
