I emerged from my basement lair yesterday afternoon to see what My Darling B was up to, and found her at the dining room table, shredding pork she had cooked in a crock pot. Pulled-pork sammies were on the menu for the evening meal.

“Smells good,” I remarked.

“Thank you,” she said, looking up at me. Her eyes tracked immediately to the wicked case of bed-head I’d been afflicted with ever since I got up that morning. “Ewww, you haven’t showered yet.”

“Yeah, but it’s okay,” I said. “I showered late yesterday, so I’m good.”

“Not after you’ve been gone to bed, you’re not,” she explained. “After you go to bed something happens, so you’re not clean any more.”

The bed makes you dirty. Well, this is news to me. She didn’t say what it was precisely that happens in bed that makes you dirty, and it was no use asking. I had to take her word for it.

“Okay, are you going to make me sleep on the couch if I don’t take a shower?”

“Never mind the couch, you’re not even allowed to sit at the table.”

I was in the shower less than five minutes later. Didn’t want to miss out on those pulled-pork sammies.