A couple days ago, Crouton threw a fit about her food (isn’t that all she throws fits about?) While her bowl was in the dishwasher, I put her dry food in one of the regular (read: pretty) bowls that us humans use. Well, I guess she doesn’t handle change well because I come home from walking the dog and the bowl is in pieces on the floor with kitty kibble scattered everywhere. And my husband is on the couch, just hanging out, not much to say other than “Now that we’re putting tile down in the kitchen, things will break a lot more easily.”
Well, it’s his cat. So it’s his mess to clean up. But then I get home from work the next day, and there’s still kitty kibble all over the floor. And beyond that, Crouton is weaving in and out of my legs, begging for more food. So, once again, I question David, who then explains that he’s punishing her for pushing her food bowl off her perch and wasting good food. That she needs to clean up her kitty kibble mess before she gets any more food.
And then he asks me to fill up her (now-clean) bowl with food while he goes to buy me a bottle of wine.
Anyway, tuna-avocado tacos, anyone? I served these bad boys with a side of zucchini sauteed in a random green sauce made from cilantro I picked out from the Mexican aisle (is that the right term? I can’t even remember what they call it there). When my husband finished his allotted two tacos and zucchini, he returned to the kitchen with a question that makes me want to die: “That was a great appetizer. What’s for dinner?”
This, my friends, is what happens when you marry someone who is 6’6″.