Say What?

After thirty years of marriage, my wife

has taken to speaking more and more softly. 

"Your fly is open," she whispered 

at the breakfast table just this morning. 

I was listening through the small end 

of my grandfather's ear trumpet when 

she said "Don’t stick your cereal spoon 

in the marmalade," and "I wish you 

wouldn't call my mother 'Her Majesty'." 

Watching me heap sugar onto my 

Honey Oats she muttered, 

"You're committing suicide by cereal," 

and as I chewed, I thought 

I heard her say "Please don't use the 

kitchen towel to wipe your hands," 

and "For God's sake, quit introducing me 

as your first wife."

When I finally replied, "Yes, dear," 

speaking through the small end of 

the ear trumpet, my words were so amplified

they launched a waterspout right there 

in my cereal bowl, which quickly spun away, 

sending coffee spewing, pulling dishes 

into the air, tearing down sheets of 

wallpaper, knocking my Barcalounger 

topsy-turvy, blowing the front door 

into the street—and our cat, Mugsy, 

he ended up in the neighbor's pool.

So now they're both giving me 

the silent treatment, or maybe not; 

she's taken away my ear trumpet, 

so it's hard to know for sure.