Tag Archives: romance

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.”

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.