Time to don my heels and pearls and apron--Mr. D had his annual poker party last night (part of a round robin in the winter months). In my perfect imitation of Donna Reed, I prepared dips and cocktail wieners, laid out napkins and plates. I set up the card table in the basement and vacuumed the floor. Eighty-three gazillion balls, bats and gloves were stashed out of sight. The boys and I had church last night, so we weren't even around to be a distraction as the game got started.
At 1:00 a.m. after the last bets were collected and the players went home, Mr. D came into our bedroom. Snap. He turns on lights. Clank clank jangle clank. He dumps his winnings into a jar full of change. Swish swish shhhhhhswish. He takes off his nylon windbreaker and wind pants.
"I'm trying to sleep here," I growled at him through clenched teeth.
"Sorry. Did I wake you up?" he asked.
I come home and slip into bed with the stealth of a Ninja after book club every month, but Mr. D comes to bed making all the racket of a gang of five-year-olds charging into Chuck E. Cheese. Is there no justice?
No. At 6 a.m. I got up before the children and got them ready for the places they go while Mr. D slept. I noted the missing chairs from my kitchen table, but assumed Mr. D would bring them back up from the basement.
My father has a saying, "when you assume, you make an 'ass' out of 'u' and 'me.'"
I returned from depositing children and passed Mr. D in the garage. He was on his way to work.
"Thanks for last night," he told me.
"No problem," I answered.
I entered my house to see the chairs still missing. I walked downstairs to find:
1) five sauce and dip-stained paper plates
2) three dozen empty beer bottles
3) trays of hardened cheese and leftover crackers
4) a crock pot plugged in, scorching the remains of the cocktail wieners
5) my kitchen chairs
6) cards and poker chips strewn across the table
Silly me! I assumed he'd pick up after his own party, after all, I helped set it up. Obviously he assumed I would pick up after him. And Mr. B is having his buddy over to play this morning in the basement (AKA disaster zone). So, apron? Check. Dish rag? Check. High heels donned for several trips up and down the basement stairs? Check. Cheerful smile of a housewife happy to help? Check.
I'll use this memory to fuel myself when I spar in karate class tonight.