Went out to dinner tonite with Rho's cousins, Sandy and Irwin. Her mother and Rho's father were siblings. We went to China Gardens, and the same old problem popped up...I should say popped on. Every time I put on a clean shirt, I inevitably drop some food on it, and since Rho abhors ironing, it winds up at the dry cleaners. They are making a small fortune cleaning food off my shirts. Rho has threatened to buy me one of those silver or gold bibs to wear at restaurants; but if she ever does, it will be cause for divorce. Nah! I can't survive without her. Right now she's paying some medical bills I know nothing about; she has records of medical bills going back to the year 10,000BC. She knows which pills go into my pillbox. I don't know the names of most of them or their shape or colors. Also she's the only one who knows how to take a scooter apart and put it back together. She his committed to memory the route to the dry cleaner. So, if I can't wear a bib, the only solution I'm aware of is that I should take off my shirt before I sit down in a restaurant booth. What else?
No comments:
Post a Comment