Thursday, September 20, 2007

. . . he can drive his little self to the store and buy some.

The DNB is upset with my grocery purchases. Or, more specifically, the fact that I haven't bought bacon for a month and a half. Because it's gross and bad for you and he rarely eats it anyway.

But suddenly, he decided that he needed bacon. Immediately.

"Is this the only bacon we have?" he asks, eyeing the month-and-a-half old package. "It looks kind of slimy."

"Yes, but don't eat it," I warn.

He examines it more carefully, sniffing and turning it as if he'll be able to figure out exactly how sick bacon this rancid would make him. Like if it would only cause some minor stomach rumblings, it might just be worth it.

"Why don't you ever buy bacon?" he asked, accusingly. It may be that he hasn't seen the list on the fridge upon which he can write his heart's every grocery desire.

"Because it's gross and bad for you and you rarely eat it anyway," I answer. "Also because I hate you."

"Baby," he begins with put-on patience. "You need to learn that when a man needs bacon . . . "

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