We don’t use the “C” word in this house.

Yesterday MysteryMan and I were working out the logistics of having a bigass piece of replacement glass delivered to the Memorial House. Apparently glass delivery isn’t like FedEx delivery. You don’t just sign and have them drop off the package on the doorstep. Oh no, you have to participate in the actual delivery process. On any given day I’d probably look crosseyed at the delivery driver and say “I paid $50 for you to drive that 6 miles down the street and now you want me to lift, what?” But at some point during out logistical discussion, MysteryMan lets an exasperated sigh and says “But you can’t do it!”



Hey look! There goes my head rocketing off my shoulders, propelled by the overwhemling force of my fury.

Listen, you can use any of the swears (even the really bad ones) and none of them come close to offending me. But telling me I can’t do something? Here’s a tip. Don’t.

I went right over to the house, and what’s that? A piece of glass the same size and shape as the one someone told me I couldn’t move with the help of the delivery driver.

And here’s little old me, all by myself with nothing but my fancy work clothes on, and… would you look at that?

The window fairy must have moved that thing with her magic wand. Oh wait. Girls can’t do that kind of stuff.

The moral of this story? Never underestimate the lengths a woman will go to prove a point.

… and the “C” word was never uttered in their house again. And they lived Happily Ever After.

The End.

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