Waking Up Dead

I recently had our pool water tested.

“Your acid level is high,” the lady behind the counter said after running the water through the mad scientist looking contraption they use at the pool place.

“I wouldn’t let anyone swim until you get that under control,” she said.

“I swam this morning,” I told her.

She shrugged her shoulders and looked at me with a scrunched up “sucks for you” face.

When I told hubby the story, I said, “So, if I wake up dead tomorrow, you know why.”

No response. He famously doesn’t give much credence to the water testing process of these places.

Later that day, he came out of the bathroom waving a bloody Q-tip.

“Either I have a cut somewhere in my ear, or I’m dying,” he said.

“You can’t be dying,” I said. “I told you I may be waking up dead tomorrow.”

He looked at me with his “I am married to a crazy woman” expression.

“They’ll never know what happened to us,” I said. “It’ll be another Gene Hackman and his wife situation all over again.”

This launched us into a crazy dialog about forensics.

“They’ll figure it out,” he said. “They’ll find the printout from the pool place, and then they’ll see the bloody Q-tip in the trash.”

“Besides,” he said. “Your brother has seen every episode of Forensics Files at least fifty times, this will be a piece of cake.”

“Okay, then,” I said, ironically satisfied.