If I had to live with me, I’d probably be irritated by my little list of rules. But I don’t live with me, so the list remains:
Rule #1. Nobody is allowed to tickle me: ever. I do not understand what in the blazes is so danged funny. Violate this and you’re cruisin’ for a bruisin’.
Rule #2. I begin any uncomfortable statement with a preamble. You not only endure the bad news, but something like, “I don’t think you’re going to like this much.”
Rule #3. People take care of their own pets. This includes all bodily fluids and solids, even outside, day or night, 24/7.
Rule #4. I almost never answer yes-or-no questions. The person asking doesn’t want the real scoop about me. They’re either trying to appease their guilt, or are manipulating me, or both.
Rule #5. Without special arrangements, the kitchen is closed after 8. Under certain circumstances I might serve ice cream.
Rule #6. The right sink stays empty; the left only has rinsed dishes. Evidently this rule is complicated; very few seem to understand it.
Rule #7. If someone hollers from another room, they will be ignored. Note, I do not drop what I’m doing to go answer whoever bellowed. I almost never disobey this rule.
Rule #8. I don’t get the gas tank filled until absolutely necessary. I believe this task should be handled by the male gender, but people tell me that’s unreasonable—so I just wait until there’s no chance of somebody else doing it.
Rule #9. Which reminds me: I do not go to the landfill. I used to do this job—until my friend said, “That’s no place for a lady.” (But I guess even she goes to the gas station.)
Rule #10. Socks left inside-out get washed and folded inside-out. I have only to assume the person likes the pretty design of the inner stitching, so I leave it alone.
Okay, okay: I’m not painfully dogmatic about any of these rules. But when somebody forgets one of them, I often play the rule card. Hey! They were warned!