A woman in her fifties should not suffer ice cubes in her shower. This is a rule.
Hubbie forgot to read the playbook, and as I'm shaving my legs, a frigid wave of water hits my back. I jerk, check for nicks, then howl for blood.
"Dammit Rob, I'm too fat to have a sense of humor."
Quicker than snot, he shoots back, "You're too fat not to." The dog slides under the shower curtain and tries to catch my ankle. I go down laughing, but I'll get even. Maybe I'll turn the water off at the source the next time he suds his hair.
Have I told you Rob taught the dog to bite me on command?
Now before you twist your knickers defending me, you need to know, our dog is more mop than wolf, more lively than disobedient, and absolutely as untrainable as my husband.
As the deadly duo streak from the bathroom, I snag a towel and step from the shower. They leave me in peace for all of five minutes but the moment I shove a toothbrush in my mouth I hear a shout.
Simon's front paws hit the back of my knees, my legs buckle and I smack against the bathroom cabinets. "Dammit Rob." White foam dribbles from my chin.
Rob is laughing, the dog is wheeling in delighted circles and I know with absolute certainty that Mom was right. By the time you get man or beast trained, they go senile.