The Irony of it is

When the guest in room one, my fianceeic Gaetana’s son Michael, checked out of Hotel Lipton to spend a week away from the madness, we immediately got another reservation.

I asked Guy to take the day off from work to change the sheets and otherwise prepare the room.

Turns out I’m not funny every day.

With the regular housekeeper choosing job over family, I changed the sheets and headed to my sister’s house to retrieve my mother. The drive from Stamford to Mount Kisco a cellular dead, which makes productivity impossible along the way. The frustrating inefficiency making the drive seem longer than its minutes.

It Seemed Shorter, Going

During the Jeep ride returning home with my mother, ”Ma” shared that I have a habit of twisting my beard around my finger.

Not quite smoking or nose picking, but a bad habit worthy of my efforts to repair.

I immediately found it ironic that the woman who taught me that it was rude to tell an old lady to keep her opinions to herself, was now the benefactor of that advice!

Later that night mom complained that, “The house smelled like pot.”

“My house, my rules!” I reminded her.

My mother more likely finding the irony this time around.

Where'd They Go

Data from the platforms I post on, and my sister, confirm that if you're not a paint dealer, you often drop after the punchline.