Throwing stuff at the internet to see what sticks
Thursday, June 19, 2003 Check Out My Shorts
Last night Trash kissed me goodnight, pulled back, and looked at me with a mixture of curiosity and revulsion. One of her hands reached out to gently fondle my left eyebrow. Then I felt an abrupt yank and I went into a brief, involuntary half-scowl, which immediately gave way to a voluntary full scowl of considerably longer duration.
“Ow,” I remarked.
“You have this eyebrow hair,” she said.
“Yeah, I figured.”
“It’s, like, two inches long, and it curls upwards…”
“I get those some—Ow!”
“It’s creeping me out.”
“Okay, I’ll snip it in the morning.”
“It’s going to keep me awake.”
“How? By tickling you?”
“Lemme try one more time.”
“Okay, but you have to actually pluck it this--Ow!”
“Did you get it?”
“Fine, I’ll go snip it. Jeez.”
Downstairs in the bathroom, I considered Aqua-Netting the hair to my forehead and going back to bed that way. But that would have led to me just coming right back downstairs again.
* * *
Trash’s favorite meal is Penang Curry with Mock Duck from Chiang Mai Thai. It’s an evil-looking, green-orange, coconut-milk-based brew that loyalty to my wife prevents me from describing accurately. A couple of times a month, we’ll get a takeout order in a clear plastic container. Mixed with rice, it’s enough food for three or four meals. Not least of all because I won’t touch the stuff.
It’s also handy for bringing in to work for lunch. Except that within minutes of its placement in the fridge, it separates out to this multi-layered horror that looks like it’s been in there since the last good episode of Xena: Warrior Princess. When you stir it up, it immediately returns to its marginally-less-scary form, but Trash’s coworkers don’t know that. All they know is that they went to get their lunches and there’s this vat of something that, again, loyalty to my wife prevents me from describing, and they’ll start arguing about whose turn it is to don the hazmat suit and get the thing out of there with a pair of Simpsons-opening-credit tongs. Never mind that it wasn’t there yesterday; the very fact that anything that was once edible could have attained this state of matter at all indicates that it occupies some kind of highly localized temporal anomaly and it must be disposed of before it gets to the end of the universe and drags their Hot Pockets™ with it.
Then one or two or three o’clock rolls around and Trash is left in the break room going, “Who ate my lunch?” Then they all fall over each other trying to take credit for rescuing her from what she’d been planning to put in her mouth.
She brought a drum of the stuff for today’s lunch. I meant to write her a note to stick on the container:
***DO NOT THROW***
IT’S SUPPOSED TO LOOK LIKE THIS.
But I forgot. Instead, she made a circuit of the office, Penang in hand, going desk to desk to inform each one of her colleagues that she’d appreciate it if she could actually get to eat her lunch today. Some might argue that food that requires such measures is probably not worth the effort. I want no part of that argument.
* * *
Cataloging the Failures
“Why do we have so many catalogs? I was only gone five days.”
“I saved them for you.”
“Are we going to do some shopping?”
“Yep. Ooh, honey, look at that outfit! It says, ‘Cheap whoo-er.’”
“Yes, it does.”
“’Buy our clothes, cheap whoo-er.’”
“What about that?”
“You know, it seems like a perfectly nice, normal outfit, and yet…”
“Exactly. I just don’t think the slacks and the sweater go with the O-face.”
“How do you even find your way in and out of that thing?”
“The green one? I don’t know, but I’m sure it helps if you’re a cheap whoo-er.”
“Oh, are we done now?”
“But there’s still pages and pages of quality skankwear.”
“Yes, and I’ll look again, when I’m a cheap whoo-er.”
“Keep me posted on that, okay.”
(Kiss, followed by look of curiosity and revulsion. See above.) posted by M. Giant 3:48 PM 0 comments