Greg offered to cook the meatballs for our dinner a couple nights ago, so I spent some time on the Internet. When I walked back into the kitchen to check on Greg, he had removed his shirt and put on a navy apron.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Fulfilling your fantasy?” Greg said, sounding a little uncertain.
“This is my fantasy?” I asked.
“A half-naked man standing in your kitchen cooking meat?” I asked. After three and a half years of marriage, doesn’t he know me better?
“I think this is your fantasy,” I said. “Standing around the kitchen without a shirt, cooking some meat.”
I wandered back into our office, but 30 seconds later Greg shouted. “No! No! Help, Sarah!”
I thought maybe Greg had dropped one of the meatballs and Abe had run off with it, so I ran into the kitchen expecting a funny scene. Instead, I found Greg trying to restrain Abe as Winston threw up the entire contents of his stomach (apparently I had given him A LOT to eat). In an effort to get away from Abe, Winston kept moving while throwing up. And Abe was desperate to get to the mess. There is literally nothing that will stop him from eating cat food. I think the fact that he still wants it after regurgitation is proof of that. I grabbed some paper towels to start cleaning up, but, yuck, it was so gross. It looked like Winston must have eaten two or three cups of food. I begged Greg to clean up while I held Abe.
“This is my fantasy?” I asked again. “You, without a shirt, cleaning up cat vomit while I restrain our dog who has already eaten half the vomit?”
Even ignoring the animals, this was not fantasy material. Was there a bottle of fine wine? No. Was there a maid to clean our house? No. Was there a sinful chocolate dessert? No.
Meatballs do not a fantasy make. At least not for girls.