It goes without saying the conversations taking place under this roof are a bit different than they were 12 months ago.
Like this one that occurred last night when my gentleman friend and I returned from grocery shopping to find the two 27-year-old housemates seated at the dining room table eating barbecue chicken:
HOUSEMATE 1: (to me) Your dog threw up.
HOUSEMATE 2: A lot. It was like something out of the exorcist. You wouldn't believe how much liquid came out of such a small animal.
ME: (scrambling to put down the groceries so I could inspect the dog. She was prancing around the kitchen with her tail wagging, in no apparent distress). Are you OK, baby? What's the matter? Is your tummy upset?
HOUSEMATE 1: It was a lot of puke. Like a lake.
HOUSEMATE 2: It took a whole roll of paper towels to clean it up.
ME: Was there blood in it? Has she been acting sick? Have you fed her anything unusual today?
|In case you wondered what |
broiled candy cane looks like.
No, I won't show you the puke.
HOUSEMATE 2: Then we put a candy cane under the broiler to see if it would melt.
HOUSEMATE 1: It did.
GENTLEMAN FRIEND: (making an effort to be supportive) Was there anything in the puke or was it just liquid?
HOUSEMATE 1: Want to see a picture? It's on my camera upstairs.
HOUSEMATE 2: Wait, I've got one here on my phone.
ME: You both took pictures of the puke?
GENTLEMAN FRIEND: Is this why the snow shovel is on the porch? Did you try to shovel the puke?
HOUSEMATE 1: Check it out, look at this picture.
ME: Oh, geez. (To gentleman friend) Would you mind starting dinner? I think I need to write all this in a blog post right now and get it up fast.
GENTLEMAN FRIEND: You said "get it up fast."
HOUSEMATE 1: Knock on wood.
HOUSMATE 2: You said wood.
Yes, this is my life now.
I'm pretty damn happy about that.