Confidential to Lynne C. - no, now that he's all puffed up like a bonobo about not having to scour the want ads for "escort" jobs (at least for the next four years), I have *no* idea of how I'm going to get that man to ever wear pants at the dinner table again! It was one thing when it was just us, two warring spoons and a tin of Dinty Moore on the couch in front of Crossfire, but now I don't know if we can ever show our faces at the Foggy Bottom Wendy's again. I've told him time and time again that just because vinyl is wipeable, that doesn't mean it's stain-proof, but does Mr. Droppy-Trou listen to l'il ol' me? That happens about just as often as often as Mr. Senator Keyes meringues to the cast recording of La Cage Aux Folles that Mr. Senator Frank gave him for Kwanzaa.
How do you keep Mr. C. from bare-derrierre-ing all over the davenport?
Posted by Virginia at November 4, 2004 12:02 AM | TrackBack