Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Where's the milk?

I love my brother. I really do. And this is not completely his fault--how could it be? We all eat.

So yesterday, I woke up. I got out of bed, and I walked over to the fridge and opened it, as I do each day. I pulled out my Good Morning, Shakespeare mug.

It's really just Shakespeare. I call it Good Morning, Shakespeare because I have my morning milk in it. My evening mug says "Book lovers never go to bed alone" and it is white. I have it before bed because I still have my contacts in and I can tell how much, if any, milk is inside it. It gets confusing when you can't see.

Also, it makes me smile, so I go to bed in a happy mood. Shakespeare wakes me up, because when you think Shakespeare, you'd better be concentrating.

There's a kind of twisted logic to it all.

Anyway--back to the fridge. I eased the door open and reached for the milk. And there Was No Milk.

That was cold. I mean, who would do that to me?

Famously, during the winter, I woke up without my morning milk and there was no prospect of getting any because my car was getting fixed. I was in such a horrible mood that my mother called ahead and convinced my father to bring milk home in an effort to appease me, although it did not work because I had already gone without. It was like a day-long depressive episode. Life without milk just does not work.

I was going to work, though. It would all be okay. I could buy milk on my way in.

But there was also no bread. And, of course, no cereal to go with the no milk. And no eggs, not that there would be toast to go with them. So no breakfast for Laura, period.

This is not an unusual occurence in my house. People eat food, Mom likes to grocery shop once a day because it makes her happy to pick out food for one meal at a time, and that works fine, unless she gets a migraine. Or unless someone eats the food, randomly.

I eat out a lot. It is because I don't get first pick. Our house is like a show on Animal Planet. See, one animal, presumably the Alpha Male, gets first go at the carcas. In this case, Paul is that animal, because Mom is still afraid he will just starve to death one day, since he eats only red meat and some fried foods, like potato chips.

Paul = Alpa

Then we have the Rogue Male, the one who roams from place to place, picking off the pride's left-over scraps and cracking open the bleached bones of the fallen to suck out the marrow. This is Dad. He shows up at about 9:30 pm every night, picks through the remains of dinner, and whatever else he can grab from the fridge and cabinets, and then goes to sleep.

Dad = Rogue Male

Mom, of course, is the lioness. The hunter. She goes forth, brings back food, and comes home with it. She then provides it to the hungry pack and lets them go to town. However, she also protects the share of the Rogue Male, the one who stepped aside so younger and stronger lions could fight to protect the pride.

And then there is me. You could argue that I am one of the minor lionesses, the kind that gets to pick at the remains right before the Rogue Male gets his share. But I think, rather, that I am the wildlife photographer. The one who gets maimed if they get too close, who lives on protien bars and water as I sit in a tent for six months, snapping pictures of the carnage. Every once and a while, a supply truck comes and I might get some food out of it, but I can't have a fire or anything, because that will get me killed or scare away my subjects. I believe this because I'm blogging about this situation, not anyone else.

We all know the food I leave around gets eaten. That's fine. I'm ready for it now. But all the rest of it? Can I have my own little fridge outside to put things like milk and jam into? Something off limits?

But if Mom sneaks into my room to use my eyeshadow without asking and I only find out about it when I discover it in her make-up bag or because she rubs the sponge brush thing so vigorously that the whole thing turns to dust that sprinkles on my floor when I open it, then I doubt the personal property thing will cover foodstuffs, either. Too bad.

Now, you would think with all this, I would lose some weight, wouldn't you? But no, all the take-out I eat more than makes up for lost caloric intake. Too freakin' bad.

1 comment:

  1. Time for a mini-fridge with padlock....seriously.