Those that know me well, Nick included, would probably not describe me as a brat. But that might change, I’ve found Nick can be pushed into a spanking with a little bratting. Last week we were discussing supper ideas and I mentioned I’d like a pizza from Wally-world. Their pizzas are pretty good and since Nick would be coming right by after his appointment later and I thought he could pick one up.
Later that day Nick called and growled into the phone, “You better enjoy this pizza.” By that time I’d forgotten I’d even asked for one. Seems he went it, grabbed the pizza and just had time to get in line before the sky opened up and torrentially rains began. Being a man, he wasn’t going to wait it out and ran through the torrent to the car. Now we’re talking some rain, folks.
When he arrived home I heard some uncharacteristic swearing as Nick neared the door, walking in nearly dripping, carrying a soggy pizza box he snapped, “Get the pizza.”
The end of the soggy pizza box had come opened and the pizza had slipped out onto the carport (don’t worry it was wrapped in plastic). I brought it in to confront a wet husband with a definite edge to his voice. “The damn thing slid out of the box and when I went to pick it up the drink bottle I was carrying didn’t have the lid on tight and Dr. Pepper poured down my leg.”
I didn’t exactly hurt myself laughing, but I wasn’t trying to hold back. “Doesn’t matter.” I told him, “I’m out of the mood for a pizza any way.”
That’s when he came after me with the wooden spoon. I’ve got to stop being my usual sweet, sympathetic, soothing self and let my inner brat out more often.