Thursday, January 26, 2012

An Interview With Dinner

That's right. I pulled out my good alligator to do this interview...
Morning Readers,

     A couple days ago, after I mentioned the hassle of making three meals a day, a few of you echoed my sentiment. Soon after, I observed another mother, on Facebook, lamenting the fact dinner has to be made every evening, and it got me thinking, "Why every evening?" So, at precisely 3pm, yesterday afternoon, I put my foot down, my head against the refrigerator, and declared that I would no longer be making dinner. The twins were too busy taking the living room apart to hear me or the knock on the door. In my desperation to see another adult, I ran to the door, flung it open, and, to my surprise, there stood Dinner himself. Huh.

He so graciously agreed to an interview, on the spot...

An Interview With Dinner
 (not be confused with a post about me eating)

Me: So, Dinner...you're about as attractive as I thought you'd be. But, I'm a discerning woman, and those neatly clipped cuticles speak of high maintenance. Let's get down to business, though...what the hell are you doing here?

Dinner:  Thanks, I think. As it happens, I heard your head hit the fridge when you said you didn't want me around anymore.

Me: I don't. You suck.

Dinner: Shouldn't I have a chance to defend myself?

Me: *crosses legs and puts sharpened pencil in hair* Oh, I don't think so. Around here, it's sentencing first, trial by my mood, later. Besides, I don't trust anyone wearing an ascot.

Dinner: Can I at least make a case for myself? You seem like a reasonable, if un-plucked, woman."

Me: No.

Dinner: You're not a very good interviewer.

Me: You really should've led with something like, "You're teeth shine like the sun kissing porcelain knuckles of Michelangelo's David."

Dinner: Well, what's your deal, then?

Me: My deal?

Dinner: Yes, Howie Mandel. 

Me: I'll tell you what my problem is. Seven days a week. You have to be made seven days a week. Every night, I pull my hair out trying to come up with...wait...did you just stick your gum under my chair?"

Dinner: I thought you didn't see that...

Me: That's exactly what I'm talking about. You're rude. I don't storm into your house, seven days a week, screaming, "Someone whip up a new way to display my face, so it doesn't become mundane and toxic."

Dinner: If you'd just pluck those eyebrows, I'd date you.

Me: Off topic...and I mentioned my no ascot rule, right?

Dinner: And you're married. 

Me: And that.

Dinner: But how will your family survive?

Me: I've decided to train them to eat a large breakfast, and distribute it, like camels, the rest of the day. By my calculations, if I throw in an extra granola bar at 1pm, they can make it until 7am, the next day. Did I mention I have my degree in English? We know these sort of things...

Dinner: That sounds dangerous. You my starve them to death.

Me: Can't be any worse than the time I made them eat my homemade Doritos casserole that you insisted would be a fun and delicious way to spice you  up. That thing ate a whole through the door of my refrigerator.

Dinner: That was pretty bad...

Me: And the French bread meatloaf, the chicken stuffed with cornflakes, cookie dough grilled cheese pot pie? Any of this ringing a bell for you?

Dinner: I - I forgot.

Me: You forgot. Just like I'll forget you. I can't do it anymore. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to go to the grocery store and buy two tons of cereal bars. Good day, sir.

Dinner: But...

Me: The twins will show you out.

Dinner: You're going to kill them with all those chicken nuggets.

Me: Out.

Dinner: Worst interview ever...

So, who's with me? Dinner only once a week?

Until Next Time, Readers!