You Can't Waste a Good Stomp

Because I have a paper on aneuploidy syndromes, which is due in a mere few hours, Funky is on autopilot. Please enjoy a tale from my archives of not-yet-published drafts for just such an occassion. Yes, the pretzels are old, but they are NOT stale.


My husband approached me in the kitchen and asked, "Are you yelling at me?"

I replied that no, I was not yelling at him. I was yelling toward CadiBug in an attempt to get her to stop yelling INTO the phone.

LoveBug says, "Are you sure?"

I replied that yes, I was sure.

"But I heard you say, 'The electrician is here, stupid.'"

I'm not sure how he got that from, "I can hear you from across the house!" but apparantly he did, and additionally, he thinks I would call him 'stupid' for no reason.

This led to a discussion of name-calling. Have I called him "stupid" ever? Well of COURSE I have, but only in jest (or in the privacy of my own brain when he really pisses me off).

"Yeah, that's what I THOUGHT, but there was one time you called me an 'ass'."

Well, I did NOT do that!

"Yes, yes you did. The night I drank too much tequila and you caught me staring at that chick's boobs, and I denied it even though I knew it was true and I got mad and stormed out of the room and slammed the door. I heard you say "ass" and I remember it clearly because I remember thinking, "Oh my god I've really pissed her off. That's what she used to call her ex-husband!" And so I know you've called me names in anger before."

So I ask him, well if you knew I was pissed, why didn't you come back? Why did you keep going?

"Because I'd already stomped out of the room. You can't turn around and waste a perfectly good stomp."

Well that's just retarded, stupid!


And some people think relationships are hard work. Hmpft.


This is Funky, and that is all.