If It's Not One Thing, It's My Mother: Cold Front

Wow! Just when I thought it couldn't get more bizarre on the other side of Cosmopolitan City, I had my mother tell me about her weekend. Yikes. Her story, like many others, shows how very, very hard men are to train. Properly.

Ward and June, tired from having moved into their new digs, decided to kick back and watch some telly. In true form, my technologically-challenged father, Ward, broke the television in the family room. According to my mother, the tuned-in and tormented June Cleaver-Blogshaw, Ward walked into the bedroom, stole the remote from her hot little hands and turned on a movie about war (zzzzzzz!) that he'd already seen. June asked him if he remembered that he'd already seen that movie and he said he did remember (the cheek!). June stormed out of the bedroom and was forced to re-watch Come Dance With Me (an old Richard Gere/J. Lo vehicle that no decent person should be forced to watch once, let alone twice). She was so pissed that she slept in the guest bedroom and didn't speak to Ward until the next day.

Ward, having perhaps clued in earlier, feigned ignorance the next day... June asked him if he knew why she'd slept in the guest room the night before (ahhhh, passive aggressive questioning - an oldie but a goodie!!!). Ward responded that he must have been snoring. Wrong! June asked him what he might have done the night before that would have pissed her off (passive-aggressive, indirect and hostile!). Ward, predictably, had no clue. June threw her hands up in despair and advised him to "f*ck off and die."

The moral of the story? There isn't one. This is simply an observation that, after 35 years of training, my father is just as clueless and my mother is just as harried as the were when they got married.