Odd Thomas, I was a little sad, so I went looking for a hug. Fred was in the kitchen making jam, so I walked in and demanded “Give me a hug!” He complied – he’s very obedient – and I demanded “Tighter!”, and so he tightened his grip just to the point of pain, and I thought I’d be funny, so I threw one leg around his waist and suspended all my weight from my arms, which were around his neck. He screamed in surprise and tightened his grip, staggering around the kitchen, and I screamed in response, then felt something pull in my back, and I put my leg down, and he let go of me, and we reeled around the kitchen, him grabbing his gimpy shoulder and I holding my pulled back muscle. “We are so fucking old and crippled,” he said, laughing. I had to go lay down and read some more, ’til my back stopped hurting.
Tom squeezes his portly ass into the shelf of the bedside table. (flickr)
The room – at least, part of it. (flickr)
Shooting the rays of het. (flickr)
“Look, lady. If I come help you move the mattress, who’s going to keep the shelf warm? NO ONE, that’s who. My work here is important. Find someone else to help you.” (flickr)
Whither Tom-Tom goest, the Stank will follow. (flickr)
I’ll take pictures of the entire room one of these days, promise! I know I still owe y’all a house tour, don’t worry – I haven’t forgotten.
Did I mention that September 29th marked a year since we bought this house? I can’t believe it’s been an entire year, or that it’s been six months since I moved in.
After we got the guest bedroom set up, I started doing laundry, and then I did something I’ve been putting off for ages – I went around and cleaned all the windows. I know I cleaned the inside of the windows as I cleaned each room, but I didn’t do the outside, so I did that. I also sprayed down the front porch and did some organizing, and then after lunch I cleaned the inside of all the windows, and did more laundry, cleaned the kitchen… and by the time I was done with all of that, it was almost dinnertime, and I still hadn’t taken a shower. So we ate dinner, I took a shower, and then spent the rest of the evening lounging around in my nightgown.
I’d intended to get up Sunday morning and do more Fall cleaning, but after I spend an entire day cleaning I tend to have a hard time getting up and getting it done the next morning, so I kind of lounged in bed reading, kept an eye on Mister Boogers, Douchebag, did more laundry, picked up and organized, and advised Fred in his jam-making endeavors.
Fred, if I haven’t mentioned it in the past, adores hot and spicy foods. He thinks there’s nothing better than eating something hot. Hot and sweet is, to his mind, even better.
(This sounds kind of porny, doesn’t it? “I’ve got something hot and sweet you can eat!” Boom-chicka.)
With this in mind, he decided that he wanted to make fruity habanero jam. Sunday, he made a batch of raspberry habanero jam, and then a batch of strawberry habanero jam. He tasted both, several times, and pronounced them very good.
And then he got annoying.
“Want some of this, Bessie?” he asked. And “Try some of this, Bessie!” Also, “You want some strawberry-habanero jam, you say?” And then “You know you want to try it!”
The thing you goddamn heat-eating-loving people just do not seem to understand – or maybe it’s just FRED who doesn’t understand – is that I do not like to feel PAIN when I eat. When I eat something that is the slightest bit spicy-hot, it BURNS my goddamn mouth, and I DO NOT LIKE THAT and why the motherfucking fuck would I WILLINGLY eat something that causes me pain? WHY? Answer: I WOULD NOT.
I do not like coffee, I don’t like bitter things, they taste fucking nasty to me, but EVERY goddamn time he discovers some tasty new coffee, I get the same “No really, Bessie, taste this! It’s not bitter at all, it’s SMOOTH, it’s so good, taste it!” And like an idiot, I taste it, and I HATE IT, because guess what? IT’S COFFEE. IT’S BITTER. IT’S GODDAMN NASTY. Not many things give me heartburn, but coffee DOES. Hey, I WANT to like coffee, you goddamn coffee drinkers make it sound so good, and the stuff smells awesome, but GODDAMN. I cannot stand the bitter taste of it, and just because YOU have ruined your taste buds and cannot taste the bitter doesn’t mean I cannot detect the nasty bitterness. It’s like alcohol – you can say “Oh, you need to try the so-and-such, you totally can’t taste the alcohol in it!”, but GUESS FUCKING WHAT? I can taste the alcohol in EVERYTHING that has alcohol in it, and I DON’T LIKE IT. Thus, I don’t drink it. How is that so hard to understand?
I do not like dark chocolate. It’s BITTER. We have, I think, established that I don’t LIKE the taste of bitter things. I don’t give a flying leap if dark chocolate is GOOD for you. If I think it’s fucking nasty and it makes me gag, then guess what? IT’S NOT GOOD FOR ME. Don’t give me a hunk of dark chocolate and think I’m being childish if I DON’T LIKE IT.
I like milk chocolate. Not everyone likes milk chocolate, and guess what? If I offer you a hunk of milk chocolate and you don’t like it, GUESS WHAT? I’m not going to try to force you to eat it and I’m not going to consider it a rejection of all that I hold dear. Because I don’t give a flying fuck if you EVER eat the milk chocolate, and in fact – I hope you DON’T eat the milk chocolate, because that’s more for ME. But GUESS WHAT? I have yet to meet a dark chocolate eater who refuses milk chocolate, because MILK CHOCOLATE IS NOT BITTER AND OFFENSIVE.
(But really, you should try the Ghiardelli milk chocolate chips. They’re so SMOOTH tasting!)
So I ate one teeny taste of the goddamn strawberry habanero shit, and it burned my mouth for half an hour afterward, and I got the disbelieving “Oh, it’s NOT that hot, your mouth DOES NOT BURN!” bullshit, and I will tell you what. When Fred is old and decrepit and I am responsible for his care, I am going to grow habaneros, and I will hobble in from the garden with an apron full of the goddamn things, and I will puree them in the blender, and I will brew a pot of habanero tea, and then I will pour it straight into his feeding tube, and as he screams and clutches at his gut, I will bellow at him (because he’ll be hard(er) of hearing (than he already is)) “OH, STOP IT! THAT’S NOT HOT! THAT’S NOT BLISTERING YOUR THROAT AND BURNING A HOLE IN YOUR STOMACH! JUST STOP THAT CATERWAULING, OLD FRED! IT’S SO SMOOOOOOOTH AND TASTY!”
Sugarbutt hides from those skeery chickens. (flickr)