Sunday, November 9, 2008
Things got pretty desperate this morning in my epic and pitiful quest for breakfast. I pulled myself along the carpet, foaming at the mouth, speaking in tongues, until I became too weak to speak at all. With my deteriorating mental acuity, I likened myself to Smeagol, scrambling about on all fours, skin sallow, hair falling out, scavenging hopefully for a dead fish under the computer chair or perhaps some maggots on a bookshelf. But my hunting prowess leaves a lot to be desired, and I totally struck out.
Todd got up and set about his weekly mission to pawn all the rotting fruit onto us, and today he started with pears (perhaps my least favorite fruit). Nevertheless, no Smeagol in her right mind would pass up any food at this point, so I snatched it away and ate it crouched in the corner, hissing at anyone who neared. "It's a wonder," I thought, "that Todd just got up and started peeling fruit. I never would have thought of that."
The pears gave me just the boost I needed to commence my extended weekend ritual cleaning extravaganza. We're talking bleaching sinks, mopping the laundry room, cowering under the computer desk to wipe down those dusty atrocious cords, taking toothpicks to offending crevices, wiping down cupboards and baseboards (is anyone else having an orgasm?). One of my dreaded chores is changing the sheets in the master bedroom Todd and I share alternatingly. The mattress is really thick so one has to pull the corners of the sheet as if s/he were Hulk Hogan to make it fit and it typically makes me sweat, which really pisses me off. So I was just stripping the bed down to its nakedness when T appeared and said, "Hey, I'll make the bed if you'll cook this bacon." In an instant, thoughts of greasy splatters sullying the stove top I just cleaned emerged, and I blurted out, "No way." But then, as I fumbled with the bitch of a fitted sheet, I remembered that B bakes her bacon. With one percent guilt for cheating, I told Todd I would in fact accept his deal, and I put the bacon in the oven. Twenty minutes later, having forgotten all about it, vacuuming away, T rescued it from being burned to a cinder and we basically swam in strips of delicious perfection until we hurt. Much like Scrooge McDuck swam through his money. Bacon has always been a real dilemma for me because it's splendid (right Gab?), yet messier than a motherfucker, which is not worth it for me. But today I outsmarted it, and what a delectable coup that was.
I just hope T has another deal for me at lunchtime...