Tag Archives: relationships

Feline Battalion: Report!

10 Dec

My cat has launched a war.  I am without ample defense.

I was sitting in the living room when the first strike hit.  It was earlier this week and Dave left town in search of a dream (read: car).  Hobbes lashed out with unhappiness by knocking everything off the top of the fridge.  When I got up to find the cause of the clatter he had disappeared, leaving boxes of cereal and pill bottles in his wake.  He promptly followed up by standing at the front door and caterwauling.  

I should note here that Hobbes gets walks.  Yes, Dave takes him on walks.  I do not.  I refuse to walk a cat and things being as they were, Hobbes was devastated that the human who clearly loved him more was gone from his life.  

I tried talking sense into him.  I tried petting and loving and distractions of all kinds.  I tried meowing back.  But when none of those things worked and his cries grew stronger for my efforts, I thought I might harm him in some deep and violent way.  So instead I grabbed our bottle of catnip spray and soaked him.  He dripped with joy, rolled around, and promptly fell asleep.

Human: 1.  Cat: 0.

But the war didn’t stop there.  When I came home from work yesterday, a box of food that is normally well-guarded and out of reach was blatantly strewn across the kitchen tile.  The food wasn’t even devoured, which shows that it was a display of power rather than a desperate act of hunger.  Without damning evidence, I was unable to determine which cat was responsible and held my wrath for a later opportunity.

Human: 1.  Cat: 1.

In an attempt to wind down from carrying the burden of my corporate chains, I set up my laptop, got some food, and invited the cats to come share in my cozy couch contraptions by the light of the Christmas tree.  When I finally got everything just right I breathed a huge sigh of relief, slouched back into the couch cushion and grabbed my fleece throw made of boiled baby lambs.  But instead of warm, fluffy goodness, my hand plunged into a pile of cat gak.  Hairball. And I had just washed that blanket.

Human: 1. Cat: 2.

Since throwing up on my cat’s belongings wouldn’t do much to even the score, I was without ideas for effective retaliation.   I had given up hope and resolved to hiding in my domicile, terrorized by my bully cat and his gak until Dave could come save me.

Dave returned yesterday with glad tidings of great joy (read: car).  And as he opened the door to greet me, Hellcat darted out the door and into the cavernous halls of our apartment building, never to willfully return again.  Dave, seeing this as an opportunity to exercise good parenting, retrieved him and told him that if he had just waited until Dave was ready, he would have happily taken Hobbes outside.  But since he had to have things on his own terms and be so inconsiderate, he would now have to wait.

Human: 2.  Cat: 2

I’m worried about where this may go.  There are even numbers on both sides now that Dave has returned but he and Lola have yet to officially join the war.  There’s also a high possibility that if Dave expresses support for the humans, Hobbes will obey while he’s around and then take out his wrath on me when Dave’s not here to police him.

This is the next step in my transition to crazy cat lady: the suspicion of mutiny in the ranks.  Last night I heard a cold, lonely cat wailing in the wind and per Dave’s issued protocol, told myself that cats were never intended to be domesticated and that it is only us that makes it such, that it will survive without my assistance, and that Dave will kill me dead if I bring another cat in the apartment.  It was effective after fervent repetition  But when Hobbes gave me the stink eye later on in the evening, I thought of that cold, lonely cat and how it would undoubtedly be on my side if I took it in.

This is how it starts.

How to Be a Good Houseguest

31 Oct

Well, we’re staring down the barrel of November, folks. That means that in what will seem to only be a few short days, we will fly through the holidays season with every moment full of angst, hurriedness, and guilt. I’m so looking forward to it, arent you? So allow me to address a holiday matter before the holidays are truly upon us: How to be a good houseguest.

Being a good houseguest is a crucial skill. Not only do you want to ensure you have a place to stay when you’re away from home so you don’t spend your holidays in a hotel, but you would also like to not completely ruin your relationship with the host. And having had a plethora of folks shack up at my place, I am deeming myself an authority on the matter. Heed my words, oh wonderful and knowledge-seeking followers.

How to Be a Good Houseguest

1) Leave it how you found it.  Doesn’t that seem simple? But that means everything. It means making the bed to the best of your ability before you leave. It means cleaning up after yourself when you put your feet up and have a snack somewhere in the house. It means that if you use their towels or washcloths or anything else they offered you that you give them back at the end of the run and even offer to throw them in the washing machine.

2)  Be gracious for everything.  If they make you food or offer you a drink or got a different kind of bath soap because they know you are allergic to theirs or whatever they may do to make you feel at home, be gracious. That includes eating whatever they are kind enough to make and saying thank you for it.  Hey, if you dont like it you can sneak out on the town and eat something else. Or pack granola bars for such an emergency.

3) Offer to help.  With anything –  dinner, cleaning, whatever.  If there are dishes to be done and some of them have been dirtied by you, help.  Insist on it. Because no matter what the host says, they’re completely and utterly thankful for the helping hand. After all, they’d rather be spending time with everyone than spending all their time cleaning up after them.

4) Maintain. Sure, you were given a guest room for the duration of your stay, but that room is still part of a house that is not yours. So while you should feel free to make yourself at home you should not feel free to live like a complete slob in that room until your departure.

5) Enjoy yourself.  I know all this seems like a lot of fuss and trouble but it’s really not.  Essentially just offer to help here and there and clean up after yourself. Easy peasy.  Remember: above all the host just wants you to enjoy yourself. So kick back, relax, make yourself feel at home (so long as your home is not a nest of digustingness) and enjoy the stay.
And a sidenote for good measure: If you can’t commit to doing any of the above, you should stay at a hotel.  Because there, people are paid to clean up after you, you don’t have to be grateful for it, and regardless of how you live in the room they provide you, you are always welcome to come back again.

Happy holiday season folks. May all our relationships stay in tact.

Shaking Things Up

22 Oct

Our car got totaled yesterday. Dave was driving. He’s fine.

I like to get all the information out in the open real quick. See? All the information you need is right there for you … Everything you could want to know. Your questions have been pre answered.

This comes at an unnerving time as Dave just recently survived a biking accident.  Luckily, as I stated, Dave is fine. But the compounded effect of having a rain cloud the shade of catastrophe over your head is hard to take.

Usually when you get in an accident you can take solace is the fact that it’s unlikely to happen again soon.  So yeah, It’s rough but at least you got it out of the way.

Maybe thats just me. You know. Sally Sunshine.

His bad luck is systematically eradicating ever form of  transportation I have. The car was totaled. So  Two weeks ago the bike, today the car… Maybe tomorrow he can take me out at the knees.

Anyway now I have to do all this big kid stuff with insurance and having a job with no way to easily get to it.   Being an adult sucks at times like this.  It’s these moments that make me appreciate childhood. Or even that period when I didn’t think I was a child but happily lapped pup the privileges of identifying as one regardless.

I think I’m being forced into walking everywhere for the sake of my health.  Nothing else got me exercising so God decided that I can either walk to work or i can be fat and poor.  I can’t imagine a better plan.

So I guess I should be thankful. After all, thanks to Dave totaling the car I have a workout program I have no choice but to stick to. And on the other bright side, at least Dave has been in two accidents and it’s unlikely he’ll be in a third anytime soon.

Maybe I’ll lock him inside just to be sure. 

Wrestling with a Poltergeist

21 Oct

Disclaimer: I am not this tall.

Dave has cursed our apartment with a poltergeist.

“Honey”, he says to me in the car yesterday, “this is the first time in my life that I feel I’m not really celebrating October.”

“What do you mean?  I bought pumpkin candles, we decorated the house for fall, and we have a Halloween party to go to at the end of the month.  What else do you need?”

He thought for a moment and said “more horror flicks, I guess”.

I don’t do scary movies. It isn’t so much a problem in the moment that I watch them – it’s the moments after.   I can’t even watch stupid ones.  I mean, I can.  And I’ll even laugh and not jump in my seat and talk about how it’s no big deal.  But truth be told, when the lights are all out and I hear things going bump in the night, I forget about the poor makeup and special effects and I completely let fall from my head the terrible storyline and the stupid acting.  All I can think about is “Oh my bajeezus.  Freddy is coming for me.”

C’mon, I have cats.  They make terrible security guards.

I’ve started a deal with Dave where I’ll watch the occasional horror flick so long as he checks every nook and cranny in the house before bedtime and promises to escort me anywhere in the dark I very well please.  He must tell me that I’m being silly and that my mind is playing tricks on me.  He must do this infinitely until I stop voicing my concerns because I warned him what would happen if I had to watch a movie.

It appears that by Dave voicing his concern for an underwhelming amount of freakiness, we have been since blessed with our fair share.  Last night as he was leaving for a show, I noticed our kitchen light flickering.  Dave said it was no problem – we have plenty of light bulbs stowed away from that research bus we got on a few weeks ago.  But this was no light-dying flicker.  We left our apartment to an eerie, low hum accompanied by zaps and sparks;  there was an electrical fire sprouting from the tentacles of cords on the pole outside.

Someone called it in and I went to the store to get ingredients to bake.  It seemed like a good time for a cake.

But – rather predictably I suppose – when I came home the electricity was out on my street.  With Dave at the show and me home alone, I got to walk through the creepy corridors of my apartment building in the pitch black.  Pretty amusing given that I left a lamp on so I didn’t have to come home to a dark house.

After I lit every tea light we had and cracked an Emergency glow stick (my favorite part of power outages), I sat in my lemongrass/mulberry/cinnamon bun/pumpkin spice scented dining room and thanked God that my laptop was charged so I could at least write something as I waited.

I looked to the living room, where I threw the glow stick for good measure.  It cast a creepy green glow throughout that made me think of Dave’s wish for October horror.   As I tried to shake off the crazies, I noticed that my window was ever so slightly ajar and a high pitched whistle was whirring through the apartment.

I stayed calm.  I thought I’d make a cake by candlelight and embrace the ways of the Amish, so I called my mom for a bit of direction.  She promptly reminded me that I couldn’t use the mixer or the oven.

I told her my oven is gas but she totally won with the mixer.

So I sat.  And stared.  And breathed in the grassy/berry/pumpkiny/cinnamony air.

That’s when my window fell down.

Like, fell down.  The entire bottom half of my two-part window completely came off its tracking and dove onto the dining room table, where I had a variety of candles lit for my comfort.  I rushed to put it back in place, trying to ignore what this would could mean in the context of Dave’s eerie wish, the power outage, the green glow in my apartment, and the super creepy whistle that wouldn’t go away even once the window was yoinked.

What if I wasn’t there to fix it? What if I weren’t sitting right beside where it happened?  It’d be like a creepy poltergeist flick where something inexplicably falls onto a bunch of lit candles and everything starts to slowly catch fire.

What it if I were pooping? I could have burned to death on the toilet.

The power returned to us precisely 2 minutes before Dave reentered the house – an odd timing indeed.  This was just day one of his curse upon our apartment.    

I still have 11 more days to try to survive. 

A Change of Plans

8 Oct

You know those days where you bank on being able to get home and tend to the things you couldn’t tend to before work?  You don’t intend to go about the day in your current state;  you just simply didn’t have a choice.

Yesterday was that day for me.

I woke up with little sleep and with nothing done.  I was without  a professional-looking outfit, without a blog post, without a shower, and without underwear.   I was really looking forward to getting home around 5 and remedying all of those things.  I was going to do laundry, catch up on some emails and editing, and take a nice hot shower.

But then Dave got in an accident.

It’s okay – don’t freak out.  He’s totally alive and in one piece.  He was riding bike to his show last night and some jerkface turned against traffic when Dave had the right of way, essentially cutting Dave off.  He cut the wheel, braked hard, and flew over the handlebars to slide on his stomach across the pavement for a display even Olympic judges would have rated favorably.

It’s interesting to know how I react during these situations.  I got the phone call that he’d been in an accident, hung up, and began to talk myself through what to do.  Okay, here we go.  Get the keys, get your purse, go go go.  Okay.  Okay.  Let’s go.  You can do this…

Apparently I’m a self-coacher.  Which is fine.   Unexpected, but fine.  I kept talking to myself until I came to the fork in the road where Dave was standing, bloodied and bruised.   I checked him out, asked all the important questions, and we both came to the conclusion that he was a big bloody, scratched up mess but he was okay.  And since he had to be on stage in an hour, I called the Stage Manager and asked her to be ready to clean and bandage him instead of going to the hospital.

Listen, ‘the show must go on’ isn’t just a joke.

Most of his cleaning was done in the backstage restroom with the help of the crew.  I decided to stay and watch the show again in case anything happened and so that we could head to the ER right after the show ended to get him checked out.

Of course, I was still in my unwashed, un-underweared state from the AM, and was really banking on the ability to come back home right after work and fix my grossness.  Instead I ended up in the front row between two elderly men drenched in Old Spice, crossing my legs under my dress carefully so that no one on the side balconies would have a heart attack.  After the show, we made out way to the ER, where I sat until almost 1 in the morning, festering in my own disgustingness.

We came home (all was relatively well with the Davester), slept immediately, and woke up late today when it occurred to me that not only am I still without underwear (or any clean laundry for that matter), but I still haven’t taken a shower and still owe another blog post before I can do anything.

So now we’re caught up on the post – time to do some serious body/laundry/house cleaning.  So long as no one else gets in an accident, I should be able to get quite a bit done today.

Note to self: don’t let Dave go anywhere until I have a shower and underwear.

The Domestic Twitter War

5 Oct

In a startling act of technological prowess, David has joined Twitter.

I’m not really sure why.  He didn’t even tell me about it.  He just, you know, tweeted one day to no one but himself and then casually texted me later to ask me if I saw it.

Of course I didn’t see it; I didn’t know he was on Twitter.

Nonetheless, I was excited to see him join another network I’m on (even getting him to maintain his musician page on Facebook is quite a daunting task) and was hoping it would be something he could get into.  But once I arrived, I saw his profile picture was an egg (the default for a Twitter newb) and that he had tweeted once…and only once…for two weeks. 

Today he excitedly asked me if I saw his Tweet again.  Of course, he didn’t really call it a tweet.  He called it a twitter.   And as much as I’d love to mock that somehow, I adore David and am choosing to take the stance that it’s all a bunch of made up mumbo jumbo anyway so who cares if he uses the term we’ve all agreed to use?

I still snickered at him.

Today’s tweet was something about how he was going to reverse his memory loss by devouring our almost-dead rosemary bush.

Some of you may remember that quite a few Lollipop Tuesdays ago, I attempted to fashion an herb garden in my dining room window.  I ended up sending Dave for the trappings I needed and in the excitement of the herbal additions in the house, he bought an enormous rosemary bush.

It was completely useless for the purposes of my Tuesday experiment, but hey: the man loves his rosemary.

Anyway they’re all dead now.  The whole lot of them.  By week one my mint dried up and died so completely that it simply fell to the carpet in defeat. By week 1.5, the parsley had turned completely brown and tired of life.  Week two brought no firm hope for the cilantro, which reached and reached for sunlight and happiness but simply couldn’t seem to get enough.  The basil clings for life still, in spite of his dead friends hanging by sad, dark threads beside him.

The rosemary bush, 5 times the size of the other herbs and not even a victim of my experiment, was dead by the second day.  Cause: overzealous felines.

So today David was sitting around, apparently worrying over his failing memory, looked up ways to fix it, and resolved to devour the plant.  Or what the cats had left behind of it anyway.  And using the new form of social media at his fingertips, tweeted this desire.

To me: his only follower.

I find this oddly charming.  He has created an account, isn’t following anyone, and hasn’t told anyone he’s on so no one is following him.  For now it’s like he’s shouting out to me from a corner of the Internet that anyone can hear but only I know to listen to.   I informed him of this today and he is highly amused by the idea of tweeting only to me. 

I suspect he’ll start to use it for fun household games, like telling me the trash needs to be taken out or asking me what’s for dinner each night.  Of course, he could do the same thing via text but it’s slightly more harassing and hilarious when it’s high profile.

I have a variety of retaliations in store for such an occurrence.  I’m not above creating another Twitter account just for nagging. This could be the beginning of a beautiful and entertaining war.  

I’ll be taking Twitter name suggestions all day. ♣    

The Pie Plot Thickens

14 Sep

My apartment has been overrun by pie.

For those of you just tuning in, I’m at war with Dave.  A few Tuesdays ago, I made a genuine attempt to craft an apple pie from naught but the loins of the earth and tragically failed.  I ended up with a miserable lump of doughy fruit that promptly got ignored like a red-headed stepchild and thrown in the garbage.

It was a hard day.

I came home the following evening to the warm, enraging smell of an apple pie in the oven.  Dave was one-upping me.  He saw my pie and raised me a better pie.  A tasty one.  Actually, an incredibly delicious one.

It was a brief war, as I had no tolerance for his flippant pie baking and decided that if he wanted to be the head pastry chef, he could go right ahead and be such.  After all, there’s nothing that makes my blood boil quite like rolling out pie dough.  And it’d be nice to ask him to whip up a pie for special occasions, host gifts, and celebrations of all kinds.

Expecting it to be a quickly satiated passion, I left Dave to his own devices – but he was not so swiftly stifled.

First there was an apple peeler.  Then official lard (as opposed to shortening) for the crust.  There’s just an enormous tub of lard sitting in my fridge at all times.  Do you know that today he looked up what the best kind of lard was and concluded it was lard made from kidney fat?!  Absolutely revolting.  And apples by the bundle.  They’re everywhere.  I have nightmares of hallways of Granny Smith apples rolling at me like a tidal wave.  I run and run, but I can’t ever get far enough from their reach.

Dave is making pies so often that he’s moved everything off the kitchen counter and asked if the flour can just stay there over night because “he’s just going to get it out and do the same thing tomorrow”.  

He says cutting apples is meditative.

So I mean, here it is.  This is it.  Dave is clearly my cash cow.   I think it’s time I really buck up and admit this is the moneymaker.  We’ll put a nice zen spin on it since it all centers his chi so fantastically well.  I’ll have a little cartoon of him drawn all goofy and seated in meditation with a little pastry chef hat balancing on his head.  We’ll call them Zen Pies and we’ll make millions.

Or maybe just a few hundred at some Farmers Markets.  

But I imagine my chi will be slightly more centered with an apartment that reeks of pastries and a wallet with a little more wiggle room.

This, boys and girls, is my million dollar thousand dollar idea. ♣

Notice the orchid and fall decorations – both featured in posts of their own. Proof, ladies and gentlemen, that I am a real human being with real posts and a real struggling orchid.

The Great Pie War

27 Aug

Dave’s playing dirty.

If you follow my Lollipop Tuesday series, are a daily reader, or even if you just go click this right here, you’ll recall a story of a girl who, not too long ago, attempted recreate David’s grandmother’s homemade apple pie from only the loins of the earth for the blogosphere’s general amusement.

In a word, I failed.

The end product, though it looked like a pie, left much to be desired.  Like good taste, for example.  Or an apple filling that didn’t also have the apple skins.  Or a dough that was smooth, ever so gently crisp, and smooth with beautiful little slits in the center.

Mine had none of those things.  But it had a lot of heart.  It’s unfortunate that heart only counts in college sports, inspirational movies, and Captain Planet.

So Dave took one tiny little bite of my lackluster pie and decided it was so awful that he wasn’t going to eat any more.  Well, he didn’t put it exactly that way.  He’s much too wonderful to just come right out with it. Rather, I asked him if I left it out would he eat it, he said no, probably not, and I filled in the gaps.

I threw it in the trash and decided that I would blog and admit defeat, blame it on a generational misunderstanding of the concept of ‘recipes’, and I resolved to make a better pie someday.  Just one, so I could make one if I had to.

Sometimes people need pies.

But I need not bother.  For today, I walked into my home after work to the slightly spiced, warm air of apple pie wafting through hall.  My stomach jumped to my throat as I realized what was happening.  I looked to Dave to find a half smirk revealing his underhandedness.  I ran to the oven, threw open the door, and revealed THIS:

Look at it. Just LOOK at it.

That golden crust that isn’t overfloured and hasn’t been pinched together in desperation.  If you crack that sucker open you’ll find an apple filling so soft and sweet it makes you feel soft and sweet.   It’s well done, it’s delicious.

And a blatant declaration of war.

At first I was pretty upset.  Who watches someone try something new and then a mere 3 days later does it perfectly themselves to display their superiority?  Warmongers, that’s who.  But just as I was gearing up for an epic pie war, it occurred to me that there is another way to look at this situation.  Think about it:  if my overwhelming suck at something prompts Dave to do it and do it better, then I can start failing at all sorts of things!   Why do I need to learn how to make a pie if he can make a lovely one?   Our skill set is unified in nature – I do things he’s not good at, and he does things I’m not good at.  It’s a pretty awesome system and since he so willingly added “making pie” to his list, I can call on him for the pastry in a variety of pie-requiring events.  Family reunions, support for those in mourning, selling a house, and holidays of all varieties.  

Apple pie is incredibly versatile in its application.

I’m trying to think of other things I’d like Dave to do for us.  Now that I know his process, all I have to do is indicate a  few areas of weakness and he can pick up the slack! I can suck at lots of things: cleaning the oven, roasting a turkey, doing the laundry, wiping windows, cleaning out the car, scrubbing the tub – golly, there are loads of things I’m about to not do well.

Perhaps it’s war after all. 

The Quest for Air Conditioning: Cat 1, Dave 0

1 Aug

My cat is becoming a challenge.

Absolutely irate with the hot, AC-less apartment, he has begun to make us aware of his anger.

By inserting himself into the refrigerator every time it opens, for example.

In the little amount of time it takes me to open the door, grab ketchup, and splat it on something, I return to the fridge to find my cat inside it.   Even if he wasn’t in the kitchen to start with.  It’s like he’s telling me that if I don’t get an AC, he will continue to live his life in my fridge.   It was cute the first four times, but the first time I found cat hair on my water pitcher it lost all sense of adorableness.

Adorableness is a word.  It shouldn’t be; it seems strange.

Aside from trying to keep the Hobbesinator out of the refrigerator, I also have to put up with his recent pleas for escape.  You see, not too long ago, the Hobbeser ran away into the wild to give me quite a fright and himself a few wild nights to tell of in his later years.   My posts centered around the event for quite some time until I eventually found him mewing for us to save him from the cruel, cruel world outside Dave’s bedroom window. And ever since, he’s sat at the front door loudly yearning to return to the wild.

Dave’s been taking him on frequent walks to help him cope but they’re no good.  Mostly because cats are no good for walking.  It’s silly. But moreso because Hobbes is a little girly man and can’t deal with his emotions.  

Dave has also been holding the freezer door open and allowing Hobbes mini vacations in front of the cool freezer air.  I don’t know what’s better: finding cat hair on an ice cube or listening to him whine for hours on end.  You’d think he’d tucker himself out after a while and, like a baby, fall asleep when he’s had his share of crying.  But he’s more like a child who’s been left in the car while his mother goes grocery shopping – altering the sounds of his mew just to experiment with the range of his voice and keep himself entertained.

It’s intolerable.

I priced ACs the other day not for my charming Dave, but for my annoying cat.  Isn’t that sad?  Dave’s been ready for me to cave for weeks now and I haven’t budged.   Turns out all he had to do was sit in the same spot and badger me with annoying whinnies. 

Let’s hope he doesn’t take that as a cue for future endeavors. ♣

Cat + Fridge

The Making of a Manservant

24 Jul

Apparently, I'm the lion samurai and Dave is the dinosaur pulling my rickshaw. ...With a..bra on his eyes? Image by "Wild Guru Larry"

I’ve recently noticed this terrible habit I have of asking Dave to do things for me that I’m perfectly capable of doing myself.

I don’t mean boy things like killing bugs and installing shelves and other gender stereotypes that I’m happy to burden him with.  I mean things like getting me a glass of water when we’re both comfortably sitting beside each other in the same room.  

Or sometimes I ask him where things are that I know he’s never touched or had any reason to touch.   Not because I’m accusing him, but because I’m enlisting him on a search in which he has no personal stake but to prevent me from warping into a frustrated, impossible beast.  I need him to be on my side and on the hunt.  Not only is it a good tactical step because it doubles  my searching power in the house, but I get some kind of personal relief in the knowledge that finding the item is not just my burden to carry.  

That, and he’s a damn good hunter.  It’s probably the man in him.  Or the common sense.  I lack both so it’s hard to gauge.

I’m not sure why I do this.  I was never specifically taught it.  And as far as I know I haven’t always done it.  It’s just something I’ve kind of noticed as he and I are together longer and longer….and longer… and longer.

Not only am I surprised at the realization that I do this, but I’m kind of shocked that it works.  Not that I intentionally have sought to make this a dynamic in our relationship, but now that I look back on it, it’s pretty obvious that it has a high success rate.   It’s alarmingly effective.  In fact, sometimes he elects to do things that I haven’t even asked him to do but he has a hunch I want.

That’s love.

For example, last night I ordered Take Out from the Cheesecake Factory because I’m apparently on a quest to spend all the money I make ever.  He went to pick it up for me and when he came back, I was missing the cheesecake. …Which is obviously the most important component of the entire transaction.

If you’re going to name your establishment a factory when it’s actually a restaurant,  you can at least have the good sense to be efficient at carrying out the business you appear to be so fantastic at that you can name yourself a freaking factory.  A manufacturer of cheesecake.  One that produces – and presumably delivers – mass quantities of cheesecake.

Anyway, after the realization that the slice was missing, Dave offered to go back and get it.  To go back and get it! He went to pick up food for me in the first place that he had absolutely no stake in and yet offered to do it a second time!?

In retrospect, I suppose doing so had two positive outcomes for him.  First, he didn’t have to see me transform into a frustrated, impossible beast (which apparently happens when I lose things and when I don’t receive cheesecake that is owed to me) and second, he could rest at night knowing that the local Cheesecake Factory didn’t hear me give them my shpeal on how they have no business calling themselves a factory.

I’m kind of concerned at the recognition of this power.   I would hope that I use it for good and attempt to stop asking Dave to do things I’m perfectly capable of doing myself.  But there’s also the slight possibility that I could use it for evil and see what I can get away with.

Imagine the possibilities.


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