I was getting ready to go out after my shower. I have been experiencing extreme stircraziness because of doing a lot of things for Companion and Strudel while he’s had the flu for the past couple of days.

“Oh, man, these pants are too tight already. I just bought them last month.” I tugged and tugged to no avail, hopping around in the hallway while Companion shaved off his three-day growth of beard.

“Hmm,” he said. “Maybe we should go to the salad bar instead of the Chinese buffet.”

“Excuse me?” I said.

Suddenly I could hear the modern Greek chorus calling out in my head: “OH NO HE DIDEN, MAURY!”

“WHAT? Did you just really say that? I’m PMS PUFFY!”

“I’m sorry,” Companion backpedaled. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“Did you just really say ‘Eat some lettuce, fatty?”

“Noooo, I was just trying to make a little joke. I’m sorry.”

“This is like last month when I put on that little nightgown and you told me I looked like I had ‘boob mumps.’ When you say things like that, what I hear is ‘PLEASE UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES SHOULD YOU EVER HAVE SEX WITH ME EVER AGAIN.”

“I’m sorry.”

Poor Companion. He is an adorable, overly-apologetic target for my PMS. I knew it was going to be like this though. He’s always had trouble with the not-enough-lag-between-brain-and-mouth. Sometimes it’s good though, because the first, candid opinion out of his mouth is usually the absolute truth about what he thinks.

I would take this over a vestigial tail any day, I suppose. And now, off to Chinese buffet!