Labor Relations

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 began chanting, "No cookies no work! No cookies no work!" and marching a picket line in front of my office door.

This is what I get for agreeing to marry a union man.

Let me tell you, folks: I crossed that picket line, laughing my ass off, and vanished upstairs. From the sound of things, my hard-line approach to contract negotiations has worked, since the dishes are being washed again. Whether or not my cookies are safe in their airtight container is another story.

What they don't know is that this batch is a tad overdone. It was a little crunchy to the taste.

(What? I needed quality control.)



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