Apparently, a hurricane hit Mark's room the other night, because it was a pig sty. There were dirty clothes strewn all over the floor, along with his comforter, blankets, clean clothes, sweatshirts, baseball gear and his favorite books. I literally could not walk from the door to his bed without stepping on stuff.
"You need to clean this room!" I ordered, and Mark looked at me in disbelief.
"It's fine!" he insisted. He kicked a few things out of the way to clear a path to his bed. "See? Better already."
"No, it's not!" I told him. "It's disgusting! Pick it up!"
Then he opened his mouth and said, "But this is how men live."
I turned to look at him in horror. "Not all men live like this," I told him, but he didn't hear me. He was too busy scratching his bum.
I swear, you can't make this stuff up. I looked at my bum-scratching little cave man, who justified his dirty quarters as an homage to manhood, and I shook my head. I have no idea where he comes up with this stuff.
"And people wonder why I never got married," I said under my breath. "Honestly...I don't think I could live with a grown-up version of you messing up my house and saying, 'This is how men live.'"
I shook my head again and walked away. And said a silent prayer for my future daughter-in-law, if I ever have one. Because she will need all the help she can get to deal with this guy!
No comments:
Post a Comment