My brain feels like a Jane Austen novel. It’s prim, proper, wary of roguish cads who seek only to damage my honor. There should be a trifle somewhere, and someone should play a piece on the piano and be called accomplished. It sounds nice. There is no trifle, though, so the whole thing kind of falls apart.
I am very tired. I didn’t sleep like a normal person should, and I am too old anymore to not feel it. I could get used to the schedule that I am halfway into. Sleeping during the worst of the evil bright known as daylight. Waking in the night to cook and write and do things that would be meaningful. Kind of like a vampire without the pointy teeth and desire to look at the people around me as food sources.
So I’m not going to get not get on that schedule. I am awake. Sort of. If you define awake as having your eyes open and being roughly able to stumble from room to room. And make semi-coherent statements that involve pointing and looking pitiful.
BUT… It was worth it. It was an awesome day. I would do this same thing again in a heartbeat. I would do this same thing every day. What did we do? It’s a secret. If you ask nicely we might tell you. Until then, you have to suffer with intrigue and piqued interest, or just say, “Meh. Whatever.” Either way.
Of course what this all boils down to is that we have an excuse to not be in the kitchen tonight. It is a guilty pleasure. I know you’ve done it whether you’re willing to admit it or not. We had McDonald’s. I had a Happy Meal. It had apples instead of fries so that made it healthy, right?
It’s actually hard not to go to McDonald’s sometimes. It’s across the street. We could walk there (except that it’s so so so cold outside & walking would imply clothes that are not my Santa crawfish flannel PJs). Again, that whole having to get dressed part is a reason for not heading down the street to Soul Fish or Restaurant Iris or any of those great places to eat all over town. With the McDonald’s you don’t even have to get out of the car. The give you “the look” when you pull up in said PJs, but you still get food. And there’s Coke. Sweet, high-fructose corn syrup laden, caffeine rich Coke. I am a bad bad person.
I am also disturbingly five years old inside. I got a toy! And Paul didn’t make me eat my food first, so I like him better than my mom. My toy shoots things. I have shot them at cats. Cats do not appreciate Happy Meal toys. I also got my little cheeseburger. Plain. No onions, no pickles, no mustard, and no ketchup (because ketchup on a burger is an abomination and you will not convince me otherwise so help me god). There’s a special thing about my cheeseburger. It’s probably OCD and a cry for help, but there’s the perfect bite.
The perfect bite takes planning. You have to look at the whole burger to find the place where there is the exact amount of bun, cheese, and meat-like substance. But once you have identified the bite, you don’t eat it. You turn it around in it’s little yellow wrapper and start from the other side. The perfect bite is a reward. You have to save it for last. You have to savor the moment. Sometimes it works that way. Sometimes you get thwarted because you end up being too full for the perfect bite. Paul and I have both learned this the hard way with real food that doesn’t come in a wrapper. And yes, Paul does it too. He’s not as, well, particular about it, but it’s mostly the same thing so I’m not completely crazy, right? Right?
So, I have had my perfect bite and my toy and my Coke and my apples. I have settled into my comfy chair for a nice session of Buffy. And so, happily, thus ends my tale in which I am useless.