Doomsday Strawberry

It was a cold and dreary night. In Denver. On Sunday.

Fortunately, we barely noticed, for it was still the weekend, we had gotten home from the movies hours ago, and had come home to rent yet another movie on OnDemand. We did a lot of sitting, this weekend. But I feel like my cultural repertoire, at least, film-istcally speaking, was significantly enhanced.

(side note: Casino Royale did not really live up to its expectations. Decent action flick, but not worth the hype. Even for his “perfectly sculpted ass.” [which, I admit, WAS. But it did not make the movie.])

So at some point The Funasaurus announces he is going to get some cereal. If you remember, this is much like him announcing that he is going to breathe. So I barely noticed. Then he mentioned something about Rice Krispies, which made me prick my ears up. Fortunately, (for me, not so fortunate for him) the only ones we had in the house were the ones I blathered on and on about a while ago, the newest bit of dear-god-it's-too-good-to-be-Earthly sensation for my mouth, the ones that have dried strawberries in them. Yum and also MINE. And not an issue, seeing as how The Funasaurus does not like strawberries, I do not need to protect them.

Then The Funasaurus announces he will have some of my cereal, and meticulously pick the bits of strawberries out, thus creating plain Rice Krispies. He has done this before and I do not mind, for it ups my strawberries-to-regular-pieces-of-cereal quotient in the remaining cereal. I think I responded with a, “mmmhhh,” or something equally articulate.

I was rather involved with my book, Confessions of a Shopaholic, which, despite the promising title, is not good. It is chick lit at its worst, redonkulously predictable, with all “allusion” handed to you on a silver platter literally almost saying, “Hey, did you get the metaphor? See? See how she said, 'her mother's spending is out of control' when actually it's HER spending that's out of control? [you fucking idiot.]”

Meanwhile. Back to the dramatic scene in the princess and Funasaurus household. Where drama was about to ensue. Because it was a dark and dreary night, if you remember. That means something bad is foreboding. (I am trying out my chick lit writing technique. So far, so good, albeit the whole “dark and dreary thing” may be a little more Hemingway foretell-y than chick lit, but whatever get back to the story, already.)

So The Funasaurus spends a considerable amount of time in the kitchen, hovering over a bowl of cereal, and came back to the couch with his bland masterpiece, happily snap! crackle! and popping! away.

It looked good, so I said, “I think I'll have some, too.”

The Funasaurus looked up over his heaping, dripping spoonful with his ridiculously adorable big brown eyes. “Oh, baby....”

“Did you finish all the cereal???” I asked.

“Yes.”

“No matter, I shall just have the strawberries,” I say, envisioning the pure bliss that is about to ensue. Can you imagine? Pure! Unadulterated! Strawberries! (I KNOW you can buy plain strawberries in the store. But these are special, dried ones that are rehydrated in milk. It's something so beyond fabulous.) It's like being a kid and having someone save you all the marshmallows out of the Lucky Charms box, without any dumb ol' cereal to mess with the sugary goodness, the whole reason you bought the damn box.

“Baby. I threw them away.”

I pause. “No matter, I'll just fish the box out of the trash, because I'm classy like that. I'm sure it's on top, right?”

Pause.

Big, wide-eyed stare.

“Baby, you threw the strawberries away in the box, right?”

He shook his head.

“You just poured... the strawberries... in the trash can?”

He nods.

Oh HELL-to the nah-oh you di-und!

I am so horrified I do not know what to do. I mutter something about going to the store tomorrow and go back to my book.

The man I am about to marry apparently does not know me. At all. He does not know how deep my love of all things fraise and fabulous goes. He threw strawberries away. He did not think that perhaps I would want to save them, to eat them, to love them more than pretty much anything except him.

I am about to marry a stranger. A stranger who hates strawberries.

How did this happen?

Then I realize I am not really hungry, anyway. And we are talking about some processed, dehydrated cereal fruit, here. But I was in the middle of a good sulk, so I kept it up.

We go upstairs to bed, and I dramatically go do my bathroom routine with the door closed, instead of wandering around, dripping toothpaste on my beloved, as I usually do. Then I crawl into bed with a big sigh. And realize, it's colder than usual. But I do not seek out body heat, nay, I am too proud, and too hung up on my damn missing cardboard strawberries.

Then I feel the heat before there is actual contact. Big, Funasaurus HOT feet wrap around my rather frozen-y feet, slowly bringing sensation back to them. And I remember that although he is not a strawberry lover, he is a fabulous personal heater. And he agrees with me that Casino Royale did not live up to its expectations. And that Tatum is evil. And that we should keep the house at 70 degrees. And that it might be fun to have a goat herd, someday. And that chocolate cake should never have fruit filling, for as good as fruit is, chocolate is best at its purest. And so it maybe it is quite obvious that I really should marry him. Who else is going to voluntarily heat up sulky frozen princess feet?

But I did get him a king-sized box of plain Rice Krispies, to keep in the pantry, just in case.