I'm baaa-aaack.
Finally. I know.
Mom's been on a whole "limited screen-time" kick that dad and I try to ward off, but dang she runs a tough ship, especially with this little dude. Somehow daddio gets away with all sorts of things that are no such luck to me. There's no hiding of controllers from him or taking of his phone or shutting his computer. And no matter how many times I try to say "que pasa?!" the woman just rebuffs me over and over, handing me fake phones and toy trains. Doesn't she know I have followers waiting on my every tweet? No? Well, she oughta.
Anyway, today I'd like to come at you with a secret ritual I've been made privy to: the proper way to eat a clementine. You see, this whole big world is starting to make sense just a little bit more to me and I'm seeing that things go in a certain order. I mean, babies know the usual- tub follows dinner, teeth follow tub, and then stories, sound machine, music box, and crib. BAM. That's what I call a smoothly run machine. But apparently there is way more out there than I ever would have guessed, rituals that run deep.
Mom showed me this one day all nonchalantly, saying she was tired and didn't want to go to the table, but clearly she was actually just letting me in on the sacred ceremony of maximum enjoyment. So listen closely friends. When you want to eat said clementine, grab one, sit at the coffee table, and make your announcement - "OWANGE." Just like that. Your servant will arrive to peel this delectable treat for you, if you, like me, tend to get it stuck on your finger in a rather unflattering way when you attempt. When he or she is done peeling, place said pieces on the closest book. This will be your plate from here on out. As in, for every clementine meal this season. Make it clear that that book is not to go anywhere lest they want you to starve. Mine happens to be a lovely work on raising chickens in your backyard, AKA the chicken book. I like to think of the chicken on the cover (sweet Henrietta) as my dining companion. She's a fine date indeed. With Henrietta by my side, clementines have never tasted sweeter. From here devour the fruit and hope for a napkin nearby to wipe your face. If none such exists, screw it and run around wildly. They'll catch up with you at some point.
But friends, be warned- there will be times and people that don't respect the sanctity. Dads are a number one culprit. Mine failed me just the other day. I sat down, presented the owange, and he had me come to him. The nerve. I anxiously awaited the peeling to commence knowing that if Hennie saw me eating alone the betrayal would never pass. (Not that I've ever seen it, but I've heard that chicks can hold grudges. It's a place I hope to never go.) The seconds rolled like syrup (which, by the way... where has that BEEN all my life?!) and finally he handed me a piece. While I typically would have shoved it down to free up precious hand space for more, he had to be shown how things work around here. So I used all the will power I could muster and took that piece over to my girl, placed it down on her sweet mug, looked at dad to make sure he got just how serious this was, and picked it up and ate it.
And you know what he did? You'll be as shocked as I was...
He laughed.
I was blown away, and mildly insulted to say the least. But then the truth came like a morning dawn, a sad dawn where the wool has been cleared and your eyes are seeing light for the first time-- clearly mom just doesn't love him enough to show him the good stuff.
That poor, poor man.
I guess I'd rather take my lot sans phones and remotes than his any day. Maybe my mama ain't so bad after all...
LIVE THE MURRAYED LIFE
