De-moat-ed

There is normally a pile of some kind — a pile of stuff, generally; books and discarded-in-the-night clothing and random bits of things I have been using (like so) — that accumulates into a small mountain on the un-slept-in side of my bed. It serves as a barrier of sorts, though that’s more of a secondary side-effect than a primary intention, and since I am princess of this castle (or Duchess, if you please), my husband calls this mini-mountain of defense my “moat.”

He also tries to clamber over/through/around the moat at regular intervals.

(My response to this is to threaten that if he does not leave my moat alone I will fortify my castle with a dragon.) (I’ve heard you can get the non-fire-breathing variety for like $100.)

Which is what he did this morning, after rousing himself out of bed at the bright-and-early hour (read: NOT early, not even remotely) of 9:00am.

He started disassembling my moat.

After scattering my book pile — which was a bit of a noisy process because one fell on the floor and of course hardcovers make thudding sounds when they’re throw-stacked on top of each other — and generally creating a mess (the moat is NOT messy; it’s just… a pile…), he explained that he was not concerned about my ‘dragon’ threat in the least.

BECAUSE

“It’s my birthday,” he said.

To my rapid-blink, What does that have to do with anything? raised-brow ‘question’ he further expounded with:

“Consider yourself de-moat-ed.”