It was a quiet evening for Mr. and Mrs. Authoress, who were sitting together in their living room, one with a lap top (not Mrs. Authoress) and one with a glass of ice water in her hands (not Mr. Authoress).
The glass of ice water slipped from my hands, unannounced, unbidden, as though it couldn't bear the feeling of my palms for another moment. An ice cube skittered across the floor, which brought Mr. Authoress's attention to the forefront.
"What was that?"
"I dropped my water."
"You dropped your water?"
(Why do men repeat things?)
"Yes, I dropped my water!" I began to forage for the missing ice cube while Mr. Authoress got to his feet to inspect the damage.
"Ohhhhhh. It's all over the place!" Really? "You need to clean this up."
That's right, Mr. Authoress. Bark orders at your wife.
I ignored him whilst crawling across the floor to retrieve the errant ice cube.
Mr. Authoress was indignant. "What are you doing?"
"I'm picking up an ice cube."
"Why are you picking up an ice cube? You've got to get this wiped up!"
Struck by the revelation that nobody had ever explained to Mr. Authoress the tendency of ice cubes to melt and create their own little messes, I sputtered a few impatient words of my own (just a few, mind you) and tossed the ice cube into the kitchen sink.
Upon returning to the scene of the crime, I watched in disbelief as Mr. Authoress pulled back the sofa to reveal -- the firmament forbid -- a small pool of water on the hardwood floor. And you know, I was just so grateful that he did it. I mean, it never would have crossed my mind to look under the sofa. I was sitting on it, of course, when I dropped the water. But you know how we women can't seem to think these things through. We need men to bark orders and move furniture for us.
Not only was I able to clean up the water spill, but we've managed to remain married for another day. Goodness knows where we'd be if I had spilled a glass of Shiraz.
Of course, that's Mr. Authoress's specialty. Spilling red wine, that is. Funny, but I don't recall moving sofas and barking orders when he does it. Even though the ratio of male wines spills to female water spills in our house is about twelve to one.
Not to mention his propensity to leave small electronic equipment in his pants pockets on laundry day, drop his Trio into a sink full of water, and release empty wine glasses onto the bathroom tile (two weeks later and I'm still finding microscopic glass shards).
There you have it. Married life in the Authoress household. Have you taken notes?