At last check, Otto was still carrying only about 17% of the vote in his favor on the cookies-and-milk issue. Honestly, I’m surprised it’s that high. And as I emailed several folks as your thoughtful and gag-laden comments rolled in, I think a part of my objection on this issue is the delivery method. It’s the DRINKING of the cookie sludge that offends me. Were he to eat it with a spoon, I would be less bothered. Why? I don’t know. Perhaps because then you’re acknowledging that it’s not a liquid. Drinking chunky things is just nasty.
ANYWAY. Otto is bearing up under the strain of being COMPLETELY SMACKED DOWN pretty well, and he is not a man given to grudges, but I strongly suspect he accidentally-on-purpose planned out what happened this morning.
For one thing, we’re unlikely to have an entire Otto Week, as previously suggested, because he’s just left town for the rest of the week. The jerk.
That, however, is the least of it.
See, Otto was headed off to a conference, and as often happens with these things, he was taking a number of his students with him.
Let’s pause here for a moment to acknowledge a weird little truth: Otto’s students are overwhelmingly female. I don’t know why that is. And according to him, the demographic of professionals in his field skews heavily male once you’re looking at a few years out from college, so how he ends up with a 16-student class containing one lone guy every semester, I have NO IDEA. But whatever.
So, “Otto heading to a conference with a bunch of students” invariably means “Otto going out of town with a group of cute coeds.”
This is actually fine with me; I’m not the jealous type, nor is Otto the wandering type. Plus I’m pretty sure his students view us both as impossibly old and unhip. Chickadee has spent the last day pestering me with, “Mom? Mom? Really, it doesn’t bother you that Otto is going to take a bunch of pretty girls out of state with him? Really, Mom?” Really, child, it’s okay. Sheesh. (Finally I told her that I’d told all the girls about his propensity to drink soggy cookie chunks, and then she stopped, satisfied that any possibility of hanky-panky had been thusly averted.)
So. The students were meeting here this morning to leave their cars and drive off with Otto, and the first one arrived and Otto was chatting with her outside and then—without any warning—Otto walked her back into the house, directly into my office.
Where I sat here, at my desk. In my pajamas. Specifically: a ripped tank top, no bra, and some drawstring pants which are several sized too large, if you must know. Protectively huddled over my coffee. And I also have a giant zit between my eyebrows, for good measure.
“This is my wife, Mir,” Otto said, after introducing her to me. She, of course, was young and pretty and had skin like fresh cream. Also, she was, you know, dressed.
“Nice to meet you,” I chirped. “We are going to pretend I’m not in my pajamas.” She chuckled and said “no problem” while looking decidedly uncomfortable.
Well played, Otto. Well played.