Light Refreshments Served

This morning I was on an important business call, dashing into one room, to the next to find a quiet place to get the information I needed for an upcoming presentation.  The moment I hung up the phone, before I took a breath, the words, “Don’t you dare pee in the sink!” came out of my mouth.

Simple victories.

So I walked into the bathroom to change into my swimsuit, and I estimate it took me approximately two minutes, max, to put it on.  (It should take me 30 seconds, but there’s a lot of sucking in, tucking in, and avoiding eye contact with the mirror.)  When I came out, I caught Hugh, my own little Napoleon Dynamite, in the following scene.  Hugh, in his tighty-whities, because his latest obsession is to dress “like George of the Jungle” had taken my lovely, uh hum, sturdy nursing bra, opened the adjustable straps, fit each leg inside each side, so that the cups would cradle his bum like a hammock, then took the outside shoulder straps (I know, it took me a while to figure out what he did, too.) and wrapped one on the door handle to my bedroom door.  He took a step back and jumped, snapping himself straight into the door with a loud smack.  When I rushed in to see “what happened this time. . . ” he was tangled up in straps, upside down, screaming, partly because it must have hurt him physically, but mostly because he had hurt his pride:  his plan had been foiled!  I would have taken a picture, but he was screaming so loudly and needed me to untangle my mangled bra to set him free.  And going from a Tarzan-like yelp of hope and victory to a crest-fallen scream of defeat (although audibly funny) is pretty sad.