Hi World,
Please listen closely. This is important. If I should die tonight for no apparent reason, I need you to do me a favor. Please write to the medical examiner's office in Rhode Island and let them know that I ate Salsa past the expiration date. The evidence is still in my fridge.
What can I say, I've always been a rebel. Assuming that, by rebel, we are talking about a person brave enough to eat tomato and vinegar products past the expired date, and not a person likely to, say, run a red light in broad daylight, jump out of a plane, talk back to cops, or express exactly what they are thinking at any given point in time. I used to be the latter form of rebel (rebela youtha stupidicous) but have become the former version through a natural process called growing a brain. Or aging. Whichever.
Anyway, it's late. My family has gone to bed, and I could potentially soon die for my gastronomic escapades without anyone knowing why, because I just cleaned up the evidence. Note to self: If you are going to be a culinary rebel, leave the evidence. If I do die, the authority might start looking at my husband as a "Person of Interest", because most people my age do not just die in their sleep. There's usually foul play involved, and it is a known fact that I annoy the hell out of BigB a lot of the time. BigB has little tolerance for fairy sightings, meandering thought process and made-up theories. He lacks the gene for imagination, but that is not his fault, any more than it is my fault I can't add three single-digit numbers in my head. I'd hate for BigB to spend his retirement fighting off men in prison, who have bought him for 10 cigarettes, when his only crime was marrying me. Well, that didn't come out quite right, now, did it? Luckiest day of his life, more like!
Plus, if BigB is sent to the Big House, littleb would then have to be raised by Teenager Who Lives in the Basement (TWLITB), if only because he's not tame enough to be raised by wolves. I'm not sure which son I would feel more sorry for in this arrangement. On the one hand, TWLITB might gain a stronger sense of responsibility, but he would probably be chatty chattered to death within 2 months. And littleb might turn out to be an Olympic medalist in the 100K, but that's only if he survives being TWLITB's snack mule for the next few years.
Oh my God. It's just occurred to me that I've provided BigB with the perfect opportunity to do away with me. I eat my salsa, I go to sleep, BigB suffocates me with his pillow because he's had it with me coming to bed without brushing my teeth, and then you guys all start writing to the medical examiner yelling, "CHECK THE SALSA, CHECK THE SALSA, IT WAS EXPIRED!" So then the medical examiner rules my murder as death by accidental salsa poisoning, and my littleb grows up to be a vampire.
Scrreeeeechhhhhh.
Oh yeah, that could happen.
So, let's say I'm gone. Passed over. Crossed the road. You get the idea. And here is BigB sitting pretty with my millions in life insurance, and this adorable little kid. Well, the first thing crossing BigB's mind, of course, is, "I've got to find me a new wife because if I have to play one more game of Monopoly with this 40 pound dictator, I may have to turn myself in, and start selling hand jobs for cigarettes." So BigB will dress littleb in a cute medly of mismatched clothes that looks so awful, it looks totally fresh, and then he will drive to the destination that he hates above all others; Anthropologie. He'll troll the displays with a bit of a sad look on his face, as he exclaims, in a louder than conversational voice, "Oh look, littleb, Mommy would have liked that, wouldn't she? Too bad she's dead." And he'll make no attempt to keep littleb from examining every breakable, rippable, ruinable item in the store. At some point, some young, gamine woman is going to be drawn into his web of deceit, if only because she works there and is obligated to protect the inventory, and BigB will offer to buy her an $87 yogurt sundae at Pinkberry. He won't even notice when she doesn't eat it (because she only feeds on living things). They will get married, and she'll be littleb's new Mommy. His Vampire Mommy.
So, now that I've talked it through with you, internet friends, if I should disappear tonight, please write the medical examiner and say, "BAD SALSA IS JUST A PLOY. BIGB DID IT AND NOW LITTLEB IS GOING TO BE A VAMPIRE IF YOU DON'T DO SOMETHING QUICK."
And also, BigB, if you are reading this right now, just to clarify, there are no Life Insurance millions. I totally made that up. How stupid do you think I am?
Chicken out
Please listen closely. This is important. If I should die tonight for no apparent reason, I need you to do me a favor. Please write to the medical examiner's office in Rhode Island and let them know that I ate Salsa past the expiration date. The evidence is still in my fridge.
What can I say, I've always been a rebel. Assuming that, by rebel, we are talking about a person brave enough to eat tomato and vinegar products past the expired date, and not a person likely to, say, run a red light in broad daylight, jump out of a plane, talk back to cops, or express exactly what they are thinking at any given point in time. I used to be the latter form of rebel (rebela youtha stupidicous) but have become the former version through a natural process called growing a brain. Or aging. Whichever.
Anyway, it's late. My family has gone to bed, and I could potentially soon die for my gastronomic escapades without anyone knowing why, because I just cleaned up the evidence. Note to self: If you are going to be a culinary rebel, leave the evidence. If I do die, the authority might start looking at my husband as a "Person of Interest", because most people my age do not just die in their sleep. There's usually foul play involved, and it is a known fact that I annoy the hell out of BigB a lot of the time. BigB has little tolerance for fairy sightings, meandering thought process and made-up theories. He lacks the gene for imagination, but that is not his fault, any more than it is my fault I can't add three single-digit numbers in my head. I'd hate for BigB to spend his retirement fighting off men in prison, who have bought him for 10 cigarettes, when his only crime was marrying me. Well, that didn't come out quite right, now, did it? Luckiest day of his life, more like!
Plus, if BigB is sent to the Big House, littleb would then have to be raised by Teenager Who Lives in the Basement (TWLITB), if only because he's not tame enough to be raised by wolves. I'm not sure which son I would feel more sorry for in this arrangement. On the one hand, TWLITB might gain a stronger sense of responsibility, but he would probably be chatty chattered to death within 2 months. And littleb might turn out to be an Olympic medalist in the 100K, but that's only if he survives being TWLITB's snack mule for the next few years.
Oh my God. It's just occurred to me that I've provided BigB with the perfect opportunity to do away with me. I eat my salsa, I go to sleep, BigB suffocates me with his pillow because he's had it with me coming to bed without brushing my teeth, and then you guys all start writing to the medical examiner yelling, "CHECK THE SALSA, CHECK THE SALSA, IT WAS EXPIRED!" So then the medical examiner rules my murder as death by accidental salsa poisoning, and my littleb grows up to be a vampire.
Scrreeeeechhhhhh.
Oh yeah, that could happen.
So, let's say I'm gone. Passed over. Crossed the road. You get the idea. And here is BigB sitting pretty with my millions in life insurance, and this adorable little kid. Well, the first thing crossing BigB's mind, of course, is, "I've got to find me a new wife because if I have to play one more game of Monopoly with this 40 pound dictator, I may have to turn myself in, and start selling hand jobs for cigarettes." So BigB will dress littleb in a cute medly of mismatched clothes that looks so awful, it looks totally fresh, and then he will drive to the destination that he hates above all others; Anthropologie. He'll troll the displays with a bit of a sad look on his face, as he exclaims, in a louder than conversational voice, "Oh look, littleb, Mommy would have liked that, wouldn't she? Too bad she's dead." And he'll make no attempt to keep littleb from examining every breakable, rippable, ruinable item in the store. At some point, some young, gamine woman is going to be drawn into his web of deceit, if only because she works there and is obligated to protect the inventory, and BigB will offer to buy her an $87 yogurt sundae at Pinkberry. He won't even notice when she doesn't eat it (because she only feeds on living things). They will get married, and she'll be littleb's new Mommy. His Vampire Mommy.
So, now that I've talked it through with you, internet friends, if I should disappear tonight, please write the medical examiner and say, "BAD SALSA IS JUST A PLOY. BIGB DID IT AND NOW LITTLEB IS GOING TO BE A VAMPIRE IF YOU DON'T DO SOMETHING QUICK."
And also, BigB, if you are reading this right now, just to clarify, there are no Life Insurance millions. I totally made that up. How stupid do you think I am?
Chicken out
 |
| This is not littleb. This is the kid vampire from Salem's Lot. He is much creepier than I remember. If littleb shows up outside your window looking like this, DON'T OPEN YOUR WINDOW. Wait. What am I saying? My baby has to eat, too, just like everybody else. Don't be a dick. Open your window and share some blood. You've got, what , 10 pints of it? You can spare a cup for my littleb. |
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