Scarlet Letters

I'm not sure how I became management. The division of labor in our house is thus: I cook the food. Man washes the dishes. Boy dries and puts away. This is perfectly equitable, though there is the occasional sigh and grouse when dinner is over and I vanish back into my office while they go clean the kitchen. Today there was additional grousing, because I had baked a batch of chocolate chip cookies for my Relay for Life team. They're fine with cookies; not so fine when I tell them they can't eat them. MAN: Why do you like to torture us? ME: Because it's fun. MAN: You could have baked two batches of cookies, one for the Relay team and one for us! ME: I am going to bake two batches of cookies, and they're both for Relay! BOY: We should go on strike! ME: You have no cause! Back to work! Then I went into the bathroom. When I came out, I was faced with this: If you can't read them, the signs say, "ON STRIKE. NO COOKIES NO WORK." They beg...

ME: Tonight is KFC. I am not cooking. Kitchen is closed, I am on strike. HIM: You can't go on strike. ME: Can too. Mother's Day. HIM: You are not part of the union. You are management. ME: I am not! HIM: Management is not part of the union contract, woman. ME: Don't call me woman! HIM: Only union members can go on strike. ME: I do not recall signing a union contract, sir. HIM: You did. You just don't remember. ME: I would remember. HIM: I distracted you. ME: Uh huh.