No one told me before I got married that women love to put their frigid feet under a man's sleeping body. Each night, with uncanny precision, my wife slips her ice-capped feet under my calves, hoping I'm not stirred. Tonight the house loses, and the cold moves its way up my legs to my awakened and less than happy face.
Now that we're both alert, a new noise grips our attention. It sounds like a garden hose set to jet spray.
Outside a college boy sees his opportunity to relieve his straining bladder. "Hey, don't piss on the house-parents' apartment," yells a nervous voice in the night cold. Unfortunately, only a time-machine could remedy his folly. Or a lightning bolt from heaven.
The now-fully-awake Italian woman next to me gets up, eyes aflame with aggression, determined to intervene. I know that look. I saw it once when I compared her to my mother. I think a pillow was thrown. Or maybe a large book.
Living missionally in a college fraternity sounds ...1