Having dinner at a frat house

There was a heavy sigh. “Dude,” My Honey began, “move your plate closer to you.”

“It is,” the Bandit insisted.

“No it isn’t. If your plate was closer to you then you wouldn’t have food all over the clean tablecloth.”

I took a sip from my glass and tried to stay out of it.

“What difference does it make?” the Bandit asked. “The tablecloth’s already dirty.” Ooooh, the Bandit was playing fast and loose with his bed time.

Uh oh. My Honey’s eyes were getting rounder. The Bandit really should be watching for warning signs. “It wasn’t dirty when I put it on the table. Ten minutes ago.”

My son speared a noodle and some sauce covered meat with his fork directly off the table cloth. I think I actually heard his father’s teeth grinding. I avoided eye contact. Sassy was oblivious. She was concentrating on separating the casserole into different categories: veggies, noodles and evil meat.

“Dude, you’re like a pig.”

The Bandit shrugged. “That’s how I roll.”

And then he spilled his milk.