Dairy of a Madman

I hand CL the envelope she’s requested for her re-admission forms to Samford, a southern baptist university (yes, I know that southern or baptist or both are supposed to be capitalized. I just don’t know which, so I’m dropping the cap from both). She notices the return address labels that I’ve printed up, which have both of our names on them over the address.

“It has both of us on there. That’s sweet.”

“Yup.” It is, you know. Because I’m the fucking man.

“I hope that doesn’t give them a reason not to let me back into school.”

“Why — because I used Arial instead of Courier on the label?”

“No, because we’re living in sin.”

I pause — I sometimes forget people actually still think as though we live in the 1600s. And then it hits me. “Nah. You got in before, and you’re a belly dancer.”

“Yeah, I guess that makes me a whore,” she smiles.

“No honey. Baptists hate dancing more than living in sin, I think. So you’re probably in, because more than they hate sin, they love money.

“And also? You making me pay you for sex makes you a whore.”

That such statements don’t start fights with her is just one more reason why I love her.