A few years ago, I came home to find my wife disconsolate in the living room.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, taking in the full drama of the scene.
“She said the ‘f’ word to me,” my wife sobbed, rushing to my arms and pointing wildly about the room.
“Who?” I asked, glancing around the empty room. “Who said the ‘f’ word to you?”
“The interior decorator,” my wife said, letting out a huge sigh.
I probably don’t have to tell you the situation teetered on humor. Why, I wondered silently (emphasis on “silently”) would an interior designer have said the “f” word to my wife, and even if it had been said, why would this particular use of the “f” word cause such grief.
“So what?” I counseled sympathetical