In lieu of today’s Saturday Jane post, I really think ya’ll should just skip on over to Average Fantastic and read my post about the boxes we put ourselves in, and who we allow ourselves to be. I’m spillin’ my guts over there, guys! And you know you want to see my guts.
Since you’re here, though, a tidbit:
Last night we had lasagna for dinner. Taylor loves lasagna. His affections for the food reach almost Garfieldian proportions. He had planned last night’s lasagna dinner for like, a week, and every day leading up to it included at least two references to it. Every day it was, “Guess what Thursday is? LASAGNA NIGHT. Do you know what I’m excited about? LASAGNA NIGHT. There’s only one thing that’s holding me together this week, and that is LASAGNA NIGHT.”
Being The Mean One, I always respond to these bursts of excitement the same way.
“Tell me what else you hate about Mondays and Odie,” I say.
So lasagna night comes, and Taylor cooks that frozen block of italian goodness almost reverently, and makes the garlic bread as though he is carving a marble statue of his first love. It was a good meal. Afterwards, we sat on the couch, debating which Futurama episode to watch.
“Oh,” Taylor said. “There’s one piece of bread left. Do you want it?”
“Nah,” I replied. “I don’t need it. Oh! Wait! Is it the crispy little end piece?”
“Then yes. I want it.”
“Go get it.”
I retrieved the bread and nibbled around the crispy edges. It was only a small piece. Maybe four bites. I took the first bite, savoring the rich flavor as I picked up the Playstation controller to navigate the Netflix menu. Taylor was trying to keep his eyes off the bread in my hand. He failed.
“Can I have just one bite?” he asked. “It’s the ‘letting you have the last piece of bread’ tax.”
I eyed him suspiciously. He looked back at me with big green puppydog eyes.
“Just one bite?” I asked.
“Well, okay.” I handed the bread over and concentrated on the Netflix menu. We were going to watch the one where Fry dates a Lucy Liu robot. Awesome. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Taylor about to take his bite, and turned to him.
With a single fluid movement, he crammed the entire piece of bread in his mouth.
I gaped at him.
He gazed placidly back at me.
Then realization struck.
His face suddenly melted into an expression of surprise and alarm, and he impulsively reached for the hunk of bread still on his tongue to give it back.
“Whoa, no,” I said. “Nope, I don’t want that now.”
“I FON’ KNOW ‘UT ‘APPENED,” Taylor cried around the mouthful. “I ‘UST…OH ‘Y GOF! OH ‘Y GOF! I’N FORRY! I’N FORRY!”
“Swallow that,” I said. Taylor swallowed quickly, without enjoyment. He wrung his hands sadly.
“I have no idea why I did that,” he said. “I swear I didn’t mean to. I swear. I swear!”
“I believe you,” I said. “If you don’t love me enough to let me have that bread, you could have just said so.”
“No, no, I swear! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I told him, sitting next to him on the couch. “Here, want part of the blanket? Oh, no, just take all of it. You’ll take it all eventually anyway.”
I told you, I’m the mean one.
Taylor continued to apologize for ten minute straight, like a marathon runner with no finish line in sight, doggedly telling me that he didn’t mean to again and again. I continued my mild torture. I was thinking them up faster than I could say them, and I only relented when Taylor, overridden with guilt, was suddenly consumed with a violent case of the hiccups.