On Strike!

"Traffic was terrible."

"Well, it's too late for you to expect me to cook dinner." Newsflash! When was the last time the woman cooked anything? What she meant was, she was too lazy to drag her fat ass into the kitchen to throw something into the microwave. "You'll have to go pick up some takeout."

Too tired to protest, I was about to ask her whether she wanted pizza or Chinese when the daughter came into the room. Her pierced navel was prominently displayed between her belly shirt and low-cut jeans. "I need the keys to the Acura," she said impatiently.

"Take your father's car."

"No way! You can't expect me to be seen in that piecer!"

"I don't blame you," the wife said. "It's embarrassing to be seen in that heap, but we're lucky to afford one decent car on your father's salary." She swiveled her guns back onto me. "Why don't you give her your keys, and you can take my car to pick up dinner. And while you're at it, you can pick up some groceries that we'll need for the weekend. My mother is coming to visit for a few days."

I knew what that meant. The last time her mother decided to visit for a few days, she camped out in our spare room for a month. "I'm just beat," I protested. "Can't you go to the store tomorrow?"

"I have tennis tomorrow morning, and then I have to get my hair done."

"Daddy, the keys? Now?" No pleasantries, no please, just give me the keys.

I handed them to the daughter, who disappeared instantly. "When does your mother get here," I asked the wife.

"Saturday afternoon. You'll need to get all of your junk out of her room." By her room, she meant my den, and by my junk, she meant a project I was working on for the office. I started to protest, but she was just winding up. "Try to do it tomorrow night when you get home. I have a long list of jobs for you to take care of on Saturday morning."