A close call this weekend. Sunday morning I foolishly said to E.S., “Hmm. My [insert body part of your choice] are a little sore.” He looked and said, “Well, you have a little bruise here and another little bruise here. Where’d you get those?”
I panicked. I could hardly say, “Oh, those are left over from when a stranger bit me at the orgy I went to on Thursday.”
Luckily I was able to divert his attention with pie (strawberry-rhubarb again), and by the time we were done eating it, I had managed to get dressed, thereby removing the bruises from sight and mind. Whew.
Mild-mannered neurotic by day, Slut Boy by night. It’s just all too exhausting.
Clearly what’s called for is a Golden Girls marathon.