Topics of Conversation at Lunch

Really, America, why you all don’t want to go out to lunch with me every dang day I just don’t know. Here are just a few of the things we touched on over our delicious lunch at the Mellow Mushroom.

  • The (in)advisability of naming sex toys after real people
  • My continued (!) inability to properly indicate where body parts are
  • Doogie Howser
  • Debate
  • Appropriate circumstances under which to dance
  • How some things look good on women in rap videos but not on the woman sitting right in your line of vision
  • Squash
  • The Butcher’s half-assed attempts to find another job
  • House-sitting

Here’s what we ate:

Me: Pesto calzone. It was okay, not great, but cheesy and bready and I won’t care that there’s no food in the house when I get home.

Co-worker: Some other kind of calzone with spinach! Spinach. I wish I’d have thought to get a spinach and onion calzone. That would have been delicious.

The Professor: Jerk Chicken sandwich. Also delicious. I’m totally going for that next time.

The result:

I’m already ready for a nap.

The Butcher and Mrs. Wigglebottom

In the morning, I get up. I throw on my overalls and my handy timmorgan.com t-shirt* and my big orange jacket, which I stole from the Butcher, who once had a goal of having a totally orange wardrobe, and I walk the dog.

I come back. I eat some breakfast and surf the internet.

Then, I head upstairs to take a shower and get dressed.

This appears to be the dog’s favorite moment of the day. Sometimes, she sits at the top of the stairs with her paws just peeking over the top step and her big bat-wing ears perked up. Often, she’s sitting right by the Butcher’s door, looking around the corner to see if I’m coming.

She does this because, some days, we antagonize the Butcher while he’s trying to sleep. I’ll open the door to his room. She’ll go leaping up on the bed.

I’ll say, “Get that boy. Get that boy.” And she’ll look at me so excited like “I know you want me to do something and I bet it’s going to be fun, but I have no idea what the fuck it is, crazy woman. Should I step here? Should I bark like this? Ooo, what if I did my weird howl?”

And I’ll say, “No, lick that boy’s face.” And she’ll step all over him to come over and lick my finger.

Once he’s sufficiently stepped all over, I will sing him a little song I spontaneously make up.

This morning, I sang “Give me twenty dollars and take me to work./ I want money for lunch and you know it wouldn’t hurt/ to treat the Professor since she watched out house. Give me twenty dollars and give it to me now.”

He said he didn’t have twenty dollars.

“What did you spend all your money on? Alcohol?”

“Booze and floozies, B., booze and floozies.”

“So, I have to eat peanut butter and jelly yet again?”

“Damn straight.”

“Fine.”

“Get in the kitchen and make your lunch.”

“Fine.”

“And make me some lunch while you’re at it.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah, I thought that was pushing it.”

[Edited to add: Hey, I have $60 in my checking account. If I can find someone who can go to lunch at eleven it’s “fuck you, peanut butter and jelly” for me! Woo hoo!]

[Edited again to add: Lunch with the Professor and the Cowboy-riding Girl from the Office! Now, if I need to throw things at people, I have one perfectly good peanut butter and jelly sandwich to wing at them! Life is good.]

*I figure, this way, if I’m run over, the police can contact Tim and ask him for a list of his customers and quickly narrow it down to me.

If I Told Them To You, They Wouldn’t Be Secrets

Lindsey, over at the forever brilliant Theology and Geometry, says

I have to be candid right now, for posterity, before I think better of it: I have not been honest with you. There are so many things I have not said, so many yarns I have not spun, so much that is essential to the story that I have left out on purpose, to be polite, to keep some things private, to not air shared secrets for the world. But in the process, I have omitted so much of the story — so much of myself — that is essential to make sense of everything else.

I’ve been thinking a lot about that, the stuff I haven’t told you and how I decide what doesn’t get said. It’s kind of funny, I guess, because I think one gets a sense from reading Tiny Cat Pants that you’re getting a good look at a whole person–the bad along with the good.

And yet, in the end, this is a kind of performance, and, as such, editorial decisions are made for the benefit of the audience, even if that audience is just me.

Some of you get that. I’ve met people who were surprised to find out that the Butcher is real or that I really am an aunt. And I think all y’all are aware that sometimes the truth gets stretched for the sake of characterization or the story or whatever.

I leave out the boring stuff. I don’t really talk about work. I try not to tell unflattering stories about my friends. I try to be honest about the reasons for telling unflattering stories about the people I love, including myself.

But I sometimes wonder what the fuck I’m doing. What is the ultimate purpose behind this giant love letter to you, America?

I guess it’s so that you can feel invested in me, so that when I tell you things, they matter to you.

Do you feel cheated that I leave things out? Or is only as much as I choose to share enough for you? What exactly are the contours of this thing? Is there something I owe you? Is there something you owe me?

I’m not sure.

But I assume we’ll find out.