Please Don’t Feed the Staci Bear

My wife Staci gave me a load of clothes to wash.

She told me to click the “heavy load” button and the “normal colors” button and then pull the little knob out.  As you might tell from the directions, this task did not lie comfortably in my wheelhouse.

Against all odds, the clothes got washed.  She thanked me.

It was a grand success.

That was about six months ago.

Since that fateful day, she has asked me to do it repeatedly.

She no longer thanks me.

Now, the only time I hear from her is if I don’t do it.  Then she gets mad at me.

I conclude from this that when favors are born, they are cute and small and everyone loves them.  Then time passes, and like a group of maturing salmon, they morph into hideously deformed adults called “expectations.”   This is a land where only bad things can happen.  Namely, you die from old age or a bear eats you.

My bear is named Staci.

Like all bears, she can run fast, swim and climb trees, so there is no escaping her.

I’ve learned a very valuable lesson from this:

Never help your spouse.

It’s like feeding the bears.

And it will not end well.