Mark and the girls have been gone for five days.
Here’s the thing.
Left to my own devices, I do not cook.
Well, maybe some microwave popcorn, but pretty much no cooking.
In the week or so leading up to the family’s departure, I was still thinking that I might accompany them on their trip. So we let the groceries dwindle . . . no point in buying milk or juice or fruit when it is just going to go to waste. Mark kept announcing all of the things we finished, “That’s the last of the milk! Just one more banana! We’ll buy more when we get back from vacation.”
Personally, I think Mark was trying to influence my decision by hinting that I would starve if I did not come on the “vacation.”
Ahem.
Despite his portents of doom, I decided to stay behind.
Just before they left, Mark offered to go to the grocery store and buy some supplies for me. Like I am a fucking child or something, unable to go to the grocery store and buy food. So annoying. I am a grown woman and the grocery store is less than five minutes from our house.
I looked at Mark, “Seriously? How lame do you think I am? I can grocery shop. I am a grown-up. Geez, babe. How do you have so little faith in my ability to survive without you?”
OK, so they left. They packed their fucking suitcases and they got on a fucking airplane and they fucking motherfucking left. Some small part of me was surprised at this turn of events.
Surprised and annoyed.
Did they not hear the part about how I wasn’t going?
They are just going to leave me here? BY MYSELF?
What . . . the . . . fuck?
It is now five days later.
To review . . . I do not cook and I have no food.
What?
I am a motherfucking survivor, that’s what I am.
I don’t need a grocery store.
Fuck that.
I will show Mark.
I win!
What?
So last night, I dig through the downstairs freezer and find a loaf of tiny dolly-sized slices of sourdough bread. How long this bread has been in the freezer, I have no idea. I have no memory of purchasing this ridiculous miniature food.
I defrost the loaf in the microwave (because I am a grown woman who knows how to get shit done and because I am impatient and because the frozen bread tasted like dog food (not that I would know what dog food tastes like (shut up))).
I lay out five tiny slices on the cutting board and slather them with peanut butter.
Tasty.
I am a motherfucking survivor.
The dogs sit longingly at my feet. I point out to them that we all had dog food just a short while ago (hush) and they cannot be hungry. They sit and stare at me with pleading eyes and slobbery drooling mouths.
I stuff a tiny peanut-buttered bread in my mouth, “Awwite . . . hode on. You can eabh hab a swice.”
I frisbee each of the dogs a miniature piece of bread and wash down my smallish sandwich with a drink of beer.
(If you are thinking here that the only reason I remembered to eat anything at all is because I went to pour myself a beer and realized my stomach was completely empty, you know far too much about me and I love you even though I am also a tiny freaked out).
I sip my beer and eat my tiny peanut-buttered breads and throw the dogs a few more slices of sourdough.
I congratulate the three of us, “Look at us! We are doing great! We have food and we have beer and we are awesome! We are winners, that’s what we are.”
Hmmmm, “Hey, dogs? No more bread slices for you guys. I will need this bread tomorrow.”
The dogs watch me mournfully as I wrap up the rest of the bread and put it away.
Poor them.
“Oh, wait! Dogs, I have a great idea! I have plenty of peanut butter! I will give you some peanut butter.”
They are agreeable.
I take the butter knife and I try to smear some peanut butter on the front left foot of the smaller badly behaved dog Jack. He has no idea what I am doing, but he is overjoyed that peanut butter is approaching. He lunges at the butter knife and flips and whirls and dances and hops and does everything but hold his paw still. I stab the butter knife at his feet, but he is too fucking prancy.
Fuck it. I smack him in the forehead with the peanut butter and sloppily smear, “There. Are you happy now, idiot man?”
Jack is confused but thrilled. There is food on his head!
He dances in frustrated circles, unable to figure out how to eat the treat.
Hee hee!
The well-behaved Labrador has watched this scene unfold, and she is scared.
Her eyes roll fearfully back in her head as I approach her with the butter knife.
“Persie, could you be any more of a baby? What? You think I am going to kill you with a butter knife? Does that even make sense? Have I ever attacked you with a butter knife?”
She cringes and cowers on the floor.
“Oh my god. I am trying to do a nice thing and you act like I am a dog-killer! It’s peanut butter, Persie! Peanut butter. Not death. A treat, you fool.”
She rolls on her back submissively.
“Whatever, dog. Here comes the doom!”
I take one of her front feet and I smear some peanut butter on it.
She sniffs cautiously. Her ears perk up. She rolls back to regular dog position to investigate . . . perhaps this is not death after all!
Persie wags her tail and takes a tentative happy lick.
And then all motherfucking hell breaks loose.
Frustrated peanut-butter-headed Jack comes flying at Persie like he is rocket-propelled. It’s like a cartoon . . . when did he learn to fly? He flies up into Persie’s face and snarls and growls and snaps at the air and at her nose. Persie squeals in terror and tries to get away, but Jack flips in the air and latches onto Persie’s peanut-buttered foot.
And begins to eat it.
Not lick.
Eat.
Full-on teeth and jaw and gnawing sound effects.
Persie is howling and crying and trying to shake the smaller evil dog off of her foot. It was death I was offering! She was right!
Meanwhile, Jack seems intent on eating the entire Labrador, starting with this yummy paw.
I flash horrifically forward to the explanations I will have to offer to the Vet about why my Labrador is missing a leg.
NO.
I wade into the peanut-butter fray.
I grab Jack by the neck and slide my hands up to his jaws as he frenziedly chomps on Persie’s foot. With one hand above and one below, I use all of my strength to pry his jaws open. Success! I lift him into the air by his opened jaws and stare into his crazed eyes, “What the fuck is wrong with you, little man?”
He tries stubbornly to close his jaws on my hands as he hangs.
“Seriously? Seriously? You think I won’t just toss your ass in the oven and call it a motherfucking day? People telling me I can’t cook. I will cook Terrier, that’s what I will do. Terrier on tiny fucking sourdough toast. You think I won’t do it? Try me. Fucking try me.”
I hold him in the air by his jaws and glare at him, “Calm the hell down.”
He sags.
Surrenders.
I win!
What?
