December 3, 2010
Tuna and a quarter of a sweet potato just doesn't seem to be as satisfying as the pepperoni and cheese pizza Keith and Stephen had for dinner.
Stephen, at least, didn't eat it in front of me. As soon as I sat down at the table, he left. Keith, on the other hand, is sitting across from me, working on a paper, and eating his pizza.
It looks so good.
And I waited too long between my celery stick snack and my tuna and sweet potato.
Apparently, you shouldn't wait longer than 5 hours between meals, because your blood sugar drops, causing most people not to feel well.
It causes me to eat ravenously, out of control, and whatever I can get my hands on.
Luckily, I was able to get the sweet potato-tuna sustenance inhaled before I ended up eating everything in sight.
I was able to withstand the pizza, and the spaghetti with garlic bread at the Community Kitchen this evening.
Yeah. Me.
My willpower.
That and a quarter and I could make a phone call.
Keith's ability to maintain obliviousness never ceases to amaze me.
Living with his two sisters and me, with no in-house male role model for several years has, I suspect, contributed to his almost super power like ability to ignore all that is going on around him.
Survival Strategies 101.
Unfortunately, he has yet to acquire the skills that facilitate his ability to assess when, perhaps, it is time to actually pay attention to what is going on around him.
I walk into the house after a long day, with a full load of groceries in tow including the pepperoni and cheese pizza he asked for, and I see my son ensconced on the loveseat, under a comforter, The Office on tv, and his laptop perched on his knees looking like he was working on his paper.
Stephen and I get the groceries in the kitchen. I then feed and water the hounds, while Stephen loads up a plate with pizza for Keith and takes it to him.
I know.
He is very catering to.
A result of living with three women, on his own.
Keith puts the pizza laden plate on the table beside him.
And then Tikka walks into the living room and promptly vomits on the floor beside Keith.
OBLVIOUS.
Eventually, from his throne-like repose on the loveseat, Keith barks "Tikka threw up on the floor!"
Doesn't move.
Except for the working of his jaw while he eats the pizza.
He watches as I grab the paper towel to begin the process of cleaning up the food and water Tikka inhaled as a result, I might add, because Keith failed in his responsibility to provide either or food or water for our beleagured hounds.
So really, the fact that Tikka threw up was Keith's fault.
Tikka throwing up is not that big of a deal.
After dealing with poopy cloth diapers that could draw oil stains off garage floors; dried spit up down the back of my shirt, unnoticed by me until a fellow student points out that I have a "weird white stain" on my shirt; midnight exclamations of "I feel sick" followed by the horrid stench of a child depositing her dinner in her bed; engaging in archeological excavations into the back of the fridge in an attempt to figure out what exactly comprised the original contents of the containers that are so ancient we could sell them on Antiques Roadshow; putting my two year old son in a bucket because, during toilet training he didn't just pee in his undies, he peed in his socks, shoes, hair; regurgitated hairballs laying on the basement floor waiting for Stephen to find them and have an apoplectic seizure; there is isn't really anything that causes me any distress.
Stephen, on the other hand, is an entirely different story.
Upon just HEARING that Tikka had banked her banquet on the floor, Stephen immediately started to gag.
He comes up the stairs with bucket in one hand, the other clapped over his mouth.
Keep in mind that he hasn't seen anything.
He brings the bucket to me, sees the mess, and immediately returns to the basement.
Gagging, retching, choking, repressing and restraining, holding back whatever it is that wants to make an appearance all over the basement floor as he runs back downstairs to recover himself.
All the while listening me to yell, "Just stay down there! One mess is more than enough, and I am NOT cleaning up anything that comes from inside you because you have the gag reflex of a nit!"
Every.single.time.
Imagine if neither one of us had the capacity to clean up anything that comes from the inside of any living being who lives in this house.
Keith would have to clean it up.
Meaning he'd have to remove himself from the throne in the living room.
And remove his cloak of obliviousness.
Either that or he'd leave it and make Em clean it up.
Cause those are the rules of the family heirarchy.
Shit falls down.
Title Lyric: Gagging Order by Radiohead
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