You know how sometimes your husband wakes up really early on a Saturday morning and decides he wants a gargantuanly large breakfast so he makes omelets filled with vegetables? And bacon and sausage patties and pancakes with Aunt Jemima syrup (then you tell him that you like Steen’s because it’s really, creepily thick and is a pain in the molasses to watch roll from the can you punctured with a bottle opener) and watermelon and cantaloupe?
Then he brings it to you in bed? With coffee?
The gargantuanly large breakfast I do know. Because I’m quite familiar with the kitchen it leaves that appears to have held a cage match between two rabidly-ish underfed badgers that were not actually in the cage.
(However, the “in bed” part, I do not know.) (But neither does Keith.) (There. We’re even.)
Then you feel you’ll never eat again because you forgot eggs makes you bloatishly swollen? But you ate them anyway? Because God knows you’ll never pass up a gargantuanly large breakfast like that?
That, too…I know.
So, while I spent the latter part of the late afternoon laying on the couch clutching my egg-filled gut publicly swearing I know he’s trying to kill me because I know of no man who would/should/could do a breakfast like that without the intent of killing his wife by overbloating her, Keith is pulling out yesterday’s roast and warming it up.
(Keith is now fairly accustomed to my dramatic one-act plays.)
(Performed weekly. Often daily.)
(Damn I love that man.)
I was certain he was trying to kill his wife with eggs. His wife who doesn’t have enough life insurance for him to actually go through the pain of preparing all that food and possibly getting blood on the carpet.
(That I’d have to clean up later anyway.)
(I don’t know where the blood part came from.)
(Possibly my dramatic training.)
Anyway, he’s in the process of heating up yesterday’s roast and that interview with that billionaire dude, Paul Tudor Jones, where he said babies are the killer of women’s focus or something like that comes on the news
Since I half-ass listen to the news…much like everything else in my life…I’m not exactly sure what he’s rattling about, however: I do hear the word bosom.
Uh, huh. Bosom.
Me: “Did he say BOSOM?”
(Said with extreme animation.) (Of course.)
Keith: “Yeah, I think so.”
(He’s unsure because his head is in his bowl of roast. Checking the warm-ity of it.)
Keith: “Yes, dear…bosom.”
Me: “I mean, not breast or boobs or jugs or bazookas or honkers or coconuts or wahwahs or Brad Pitts or melons or hooters or funbags? But BOSOM?”
Keith: (Just stares.) (In amazement, I’m quite sure.)
Me: “WHO SAYS BOSOM?”
Keith: “That’s what they used to say way back in the old days. Don’t you remember?”
Me: “MY DAYS DON’T GO BACK AS FAR AS BOSOM.”
Keith: “Baby, do you want some of this roast?”
I promptly left the kitchen and went back to the couch. Those eggs were still bloatishly swollen.
Or wait. Let me re-phrase that: Those cackleberrys or roe or chicken plops were still bloatishly swollen.
(Bosom? WHO SAYS THAT?)