Scullery Maid

Marcie was particular about her house. She might let things, say dusting the bookshelf, go. But others, like the kiycjen floor, she had to have clean.

She did not wear her sweats to do her housework. "Too hot," she said when I asked.

She wore her older long skirts, her worn out tank tops and her tight t-shirts that had faded or were stained. She looked very domestic, in a cute way. To add to the effect, she often tied her hair up in a mass on her head to keep it out of her way,

This was intriguing to me. She looked awfully cute down there, scrubbing the floor.

Apparently, though, she didn't feel cute. And as important as cleaning was, she didn't like humor to be injected into her routine.

So when I stood behind her and growled, "Yar, ye fine scullery wench, I've come for your booty," it is not surprising that she took some small offense.

She turned and looked at me from the kitchen floor, slowly, her face beet red and covered in sweat, the little sponge she insisted in using in place of a mop in her hand. She looked at me incredulously, then bit her lower lip and narrowed her eyes.

I suddenly understood very clearly that this might not end well.

"Scull-a what?" she asked, tossing the sponge onto the ground and standing up. "What did you just call me? And you've for my BOOTY? My sweaty, unhappy, housecleaning, mad at you for not helping booty?"

I nodded and tried the cheeky approach. "Yar, I jave."

She gritted her teeth and pointed. "Get out. Now. Out, Frank."

She took my arm by the bicep and led me to the door, practically shoving me out. I stepped on the porch and she closed the door.

Then she locked it, and latched it, and then she bolted the window closed, too.

From inside I heard her say, "Why don't you go play pirate with your friends at the coffee shop and come back when you want to help out around here?"

I looked down at my jockeys and socks. No shoes, no pants, and a Soft Cell t-shirt. I knocked.

Twenty minutes later, we started the Domestic Duties and Roles war.