I got a phone call from Chelsea tonight and she was all upset and crying and blubbering about something that happened between her and her new boyfriend. So, I ask her, “Chelsea, when did you plan to tell me about your new boyfriend? You promised?”
Well, she apologized, said it wouldn’t happen again, blah, blah, blah. I swear, the girl looks 30 but acts like she’s 17.
Finally, Chelsea calms down enough to tell me that she and her new boyfriend had a little too much to drink and ended up, well, you know, her dress ended up with a big stain down the front. I thought she was worried about what would happen if she got pregnant or something, and here she is, crying on the phone over a stain on her dress.
Like I know something about how to get a stain out of a dress? Come on, Chelsea. Put that Stanford University education to good use. What’s your major, honey? Oh, yeah. Chemistry. Then History.
Chelsea is my innocent, over-educated, plain Jane bookworm. I told her, “Chelsea honey, put two and two together. Chemistry. History. What do you get?” And she says, “A way to get the stain out, momma?”
The girl’s got a Master’s degree from Oxford, a six figure salary, and a cushy job doing who knows what, but she can’t count. Dense as a brick.
“Don’t touch that stain, Chelsea. It might be evidence one day.”
Hillaryzilla's Comment Policy: Keep your comment on topic, relevant, worthy, and funny. Or, pick any three. Be pleasant, helpful, and only use your real name. Comments are moderated and will not appear immediately.