Last night, as we were drifting off to sleep, Hubby and I got into a deep discussion.
Politics, you ask? Religion, perhaps?
No, we were discussing whom we would use as our one and only phone call if either of us ever ends up in jail.
Hypothetically, of course.
You see, I’m pretty sure Hubby would call his oldest brother, the Cluer (called such because he tried to use “cluer” in a Scrabble game and I challenged him because I don’t think there’s a term to describe one who clues.) Years ago, when Hubby passed the CPA exam after studying diligently for months instead of taking me to the movies/dinner/drinks, the first person he called was his brother.
Instead of calling the love of his life, the woman who encouraged him endlessly, believed in his abilities, and sang his praises to anyone who asked about his whereabouts, he called his brother.
His most recent excuse is that “we were barely dating then.”
Um, it was 1998. We had been dating for four years. I’m sorry, but if you’ve seen my in my skivvies and/or hot rollers, WE’RE DATING.
Furthermore, I find it odd that Hubby would propose marriage later that same year to someone with whom he apparently only had a casual relationship.
. . . but I don’t hold grudges.
So we’ve established that Hubby’s phone call from jail would be to his brother, and naturally Hubby assumed my one-and-only phone call would be to him.
|See? Look! Cute outfits . . .|
“I’m not making any phone calls,” I announced.
“What? You have to.”
“Well, I might order a pizza or something,” I responded, “but I’m not calling you to come get me.”
“You can’t order pizza from jail.” Because, you know, he knows all about what’s allowed and what’s not. Pfffft . . .
“I’m not calling anyone. Are you kidding? Three meals a day that I don’t have to cook, a bed I don’t have to share, and lots and lots of quiet time.” It sounds lovely, no? Maybe Martha could come back and we could knit stuff. Or I could get my law degree!
“How would you pass your time?” he asked, no doubt because now he’s worried I’m gonna go shoplift or something.
“Give me my Kindle, my blanket, and my teddy bear and I’d be a happy girl."
“I’m pretty sure they’re not going to let you take your Kindle. Besides, aren’t you worried you’ll become Big Bertha’s b*tch?”
“Um, I’m pretty sure if I have to share a cell with someone, I’D be the Big Bertha of the two of us. Give me a nice Meth addict and leave me the heck alone.”
You’ve all had this SAME conversation at some point, right?
Now who do I speak to about the dress code, because I’ll wear orange if I must, but I’m NOT wearing horizontal stripes.