Last night, my husband announced that this was his twenty year class reunion.
Granted, I was tired — up at 5:30 to get to the office, 10 hours of working, driving home in horrible traffic, dinner with the wee ones, my husband and my parents, and I was beat.
Me: You graduated from high school twenty years ago? WOW.
Him: NO. It’s my high school reunion.
Me: Oh, I suppose that makes more sense.
Him: Do you even know how old I am?
Me: Yes. (thinking quickly and doing math — fortunately 1970 is an easy subtraction)
Me: Yes. On Thursday, you’ll be six years older than me.
Him: It isn’t six years. It’s five and a third.
Me: Whatever. Thirty-eight minus thirty-two is six. So are you going to go?
Him: No. But I did find out some interesting things about old classmates.
Me: I’ll bite. Like what?
Him: The guy next to me in the yearbook is now a news reporter in Iowa for W-H-O.
Me: Umm, The Ho? What kind of a tv station is that?
Him: (cracking up and unable to talk)
Me: What? That’s what you said. The Ho.
Him: (struggling to breathe) WHO. Not Ho, W-H-O
In my defense, I automatically dropped the W. It’s like the radio station Jack is WJMK. I don’t even think about the W or the K. But WHO makes much more sense. I suppose. Especially in Iowa, I don’t see a station called The Ho going over too well.