Inner Doodles

Anothersaturday. Chilly. Another day of oscillating the air conditioning to heat. Except we forgot to set it to heat last night. I awoke fresh and freezing. Fuzzy Blanket never felt so inviting. Chief Mate and I made a morning sandwich. He was the lettuce, I was the cheese. Fuzzy Blanket was (arguably) the meat. It's a purplish gray color. Perhaps the closest it could get to meat would be chicken liver pâté. It was too early to think of such gag-inducing foods. So we move on to other ingredients. The mattress clad in olive green became the veggie patty. Brown blanket became the bread. A scarf that keeps coming out of the closet due to the unusual frigidness of May was (obviously) the mayonnaise. Nameless lemur became the little garlic. Veggie sandwich was complete. A heavenly scent wafts up from downstairs. Eggs. And coffee. "Time to get up!" I announce. "No! We have to be a sandwich," Chief Mate combats. "The human is coming to eat the sandwich, ...

My eyes fight to stay open. Days of computer screen are taking their toll. "Mom." The second grade Physical Education class we completed together last night has my body begging to drift back into dreamland. "Mom." The fuzzy blanket, still soft because I rarely let Sweaty Boy use it, invites me to stay for five more minutes. "Mom." Drool pools at the corner of my mouth and I don't move to wipe it. Nothing matters in this new world of home-hygiene. "Mom." Something with lots of hair lands in my face. In one split second my brain recognizes that the hair in my eyes, nose, and ear is more stiff and straight than my own hair. Chief Mate does not have such hair. I snort awake annoyed. "What the??" Rainbow Dash's bright eyes and bushy tail mock me. "Bud, please don't throw things in my face." "It's time to wake up." Happy Saturday. END TRANSMISSION

I found bacon on my last excursion for provisions. This was my second chance. This time I wouldn't let my mind wander. I wouldn't burn it like last time. The crime almost got me booted out of the encampment. I separated the slabs of meat while Chief Mate sang at the top of his lungs from the top of the stairs, "Bacon Bacon Bacon Bacon!!!" His toothbrush still in his mouth so the "n" didn't quite make it out of his mouth. The bacon felt strange. Every pack is slightly different. Consistency, smell, greasy residue. I squeezed five pieces across the skillet. I always put as many as the pan can handle because I despise cooking bacon. The less amount of time I have to spend stretching apart the slimy flesh, the better. These monstrosities actually grew wider and I barely could fit the last piece. It overlapped every single strip as I shoved it in horizontally across the top. Bacon is supposed to shrink, not grow. The smell filled the house and the "Bacon...