Tag Archives: dating

If you want to eat my bread, you got to make some bread

If you want to eat my bread, you got to make some breadIt was Saturday afternoon, and I was spending the day with my girlfriend, Katrina. I had just come in from mowing the lawn and was in the kitchen making myself some lunch.

Katrina walked into the room. “I appreciate your mowing the lawn,” she said, “but we need to talk about all the food you’ve been eating here lately. It’s getting to where I can’t afford it.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked, as I slathered mayonnaise on a ham, turkey, chicken, beef, pastrami, salami, meatball and bacon sandwich.

“Don’t get me wrong; I want you to come over,” Katrina said. “It’s just that you’re eating me out of house and home. I feel like I’m buying groceries every few days.”

“I have a physically demanding job now,” I said, lettuce spewing from my full mouth. “I have to consume more calories. My muscles are growing.”

Katrina glanced at my gut. “I’m not sure it’s your muscles that are growing.”

“Well, what do you want me to do?” I asked. “I can’t starve!”

“As gravely concerned as I am about your wasting away,” Katrina said, “I can’t continue to pay so much for groceries. Is there a way you could, you know, chip in a little?”

“I’m sure you’ve noticed the finely mowed lawn out back,” I said, taking another gargantuan bite from my sandwich.

“OK — I’ll spot you the sandwich. It’s true that you paid for it with sweat equity. But what about the box of Tuna Helper you prepared for yourself last night?”

I gave her a mischievous grin. “I imagine I can pay for that with sweat equity, too. What do you say I spend the night tonight?”

“Eh,” Katrina said, shrugging. “If that’s your proposal, I think I’d prefer the money.”

I’m like a doctor — always on call

I_m like a doctor — always on callIt was early Saturday afternoon. I was lying on the living-room floor at my girlfriend’s house, watching a movie.

Or at least that’s what I was trying to do. But a few moments earlier, my girlfriend, Katrina, had appeared in the doorway and asked me to mow the backyard lawn.

“I don’t want to mow the lawn,” I said, whining like a little kid. It was a weak play, but it was my last resort. I was running out of believable excuses not to help out with the housework.

“It shouldn’t be a big deal for you!” Katrina exclaimed. “You mow lawns for a living!”

“That’s the point,” I said. “I mow lawns all week long, and today is my day off. I need a break from yard work once in a while.”

“So you’ll mow lawns for a bunch of strangers, but you won’t mow mine?” Katrina asked.

“Mowing lawns is what I do professionally,” I said. “This is my off-time.”

“I don’t get it,” Katrina said. “What difference does it make to mow one more lawn?”

“OK,” I said. I took a deep breath to make what I knew would be a profound point. “Think about it like this: Me mowing the lawn would be like a gynecologist giving his wife a pap smear on his day off. Right? That just doesn’t happen. Gynecologists spend their weekends golfing. They don’t stay at home performing complimentary pelvic exams.”

Katrina glowered. “That’s really the argument you’re going to use? You’re going to compare yourself to a medical professional?”

I shrugged. “If it gets me out of mowing the lawn, then yeah.”

Katrina’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Peter, go mow the lawn,” she said, her voice eerily quiet. “Right now.”

I leapt to my feet. “You keep the mower in the shed, right?”

This is a job for a professional

This is a job for a professionalIt was early Saturday afternoon, and I was at my girlfriend’s house, watching a movie on TV.

Or I was trying to, anyway. But Katrina, my girlfriend, seemed intent on assigning me household chores.

“Peter, I need you to mow the backyard lawn,” she said, standing in the living-room doorway, holding a laundry basket.

I moaned and kept my eyes on the TV, even though there was nothing on but commercials.

“C’mon Peter,” Katrina said. “You hang out here all the time, and you eat all my food. It’s the least you can do.”

“I told you I’d pay you back for that box of Tuna Helper I foraged from your pantry,” I said.

“That’s not the point. My parents own the home, and they expect me to keep up the yard. And now that you’re a landscape-maintenance professional, mowing the lawn should be right up your alley.”

“I’m not a landscape-maintenance professional,” I said. “I have a journalism degree.”

“Right,” Katrina said, “but that’s the only job you can get with a journalism degree. So by all definitions, you’re a landscape-maintenance professional.”

I frowned, staring into space. “I guess you have a point.”

Grueling labor can wait until the commercial break

Grueling labor can wait until the commercial breakIt was a warm, lazy Saturday afternoon. I was lying on the living-room floor at my girlfriend’s house, watching a movie on TV.

Katrina, my girlfriend, lived in a manufactured home that she rented from her parents. Even though it was cramped inside and out — with tiny rooms and minuscule front and back yards — it was nicer to hang out there than at my one-bedroom hovel of an apartment. (She had a wider variety of food in the pantry, too.)

Katrina walked into the living room, holding a laundry basket. “Peter, can you do me a favor?”

I mumbled incoherently, trying to sound as noncommittal as possible. She had a businesslike tone, which I was sure meant she wanted to put me to work.

“The neighbor’s dog pooped on the gravel outside, and I’m afraid one of us is going to step in it,” Katrina said. “Would you mind going out and shoveling it into the ditch?”

“But I’m in the middle of a movie,” I said, motioning to the television. “Can’t it wait until the commercials?”

Katrina frowned. “These are the commercials.”

“Right, but they’re halfway through. I don’t want to be walking out when the movie comes back on.”

“How long’s the movie?”

“With the commercials, probably another two hours.”

“What if I taped it for you?” Katrina asked. “Then you’d be guaranteed not to miss anything.”

“Would you edit out the commercials for me?” I asked.

“Go shovel the poop!” Katrina screamed.