Contagious Eating Disorder

I had lunch with The Boss today; he took me here. I had a bowl of the lovely she-crab soup; of course it was only a matter of minutes before I’d dribbled some on me. I was telling The Boss how amazing it was that I can eat soup, spaghetti, nachos, anything potentially messy without spilling a drop or a morsel while sitting at home in a grungy t-shirt, but let me get out in public, especially in something dry-cleanable, and I’m PigPen. He responded with a tale of wifely rage, in which Mrs. Boss was displeased simply because he’d let her walk around in public all day with ketchup and mustard on her mouth, and another time when he declined to point out a lovely nacho cheese racing stripe marching down her boob.

As he was telling me this, I put my spoon down so I could clean off my sweater. Instead of staying perched on the rim, the spoon fell into the soup and slid, in its entirety, to the bottom of the bowl. I fished the spoon out of the soup (that was a pun, remember it was she-crab soup?) and laid it to one side, swiping The Boss’s soup spoon in order to finish my meal. As he was laughing at my ineptitude, he dropped his fork handle-down into the tomato-cocktail sauce surrounding his calamari. We had lots of forks, though, so he just kept eating and pretended not to notice that the pristine white tablecloth was now polka-dot.

Things took a turn for the worse when we tried to butter bread. Did you know really cold butter soars with an almost hockey-puck-like grace when levered with a knife? It does. Trust me on this one.

On the bright side, The Boss pointed out that neither of us was ashamed to be seen with the other, since we were equally covered in lunch.