Word Of Rye

I want a cupcake. I thought of this as I was driving home today, but I convinced myself to settle for one of the sugar-free fruit bars collecting freezer-burn in our freezer instead. Because, really – there is NO good reason to spend money on more sweets when we already have some at home. But sugar-free fruit bars are not really “sweets.” I think they belong more to the “fruit” category. I mean, they actually have little chunks of “real fruit” in them. So there you go – fruit. Not cupcake.

I could go back out to the store and buy cupcakes. But I don’t need anything else. How sad would that be? A lone cupcake run. For the past half hour I’ve been scouring our kitchen for ANYTHING that might serve as a stand-in for a strawberry cupcake. Based on my calculations, it’s possible that a sugar-free strawberry fruit bar rolled in honey AND THEN rolled in sugar and chocolate sprinkles just might come close to achieving a sweetness level comparable to my coveted strawberry cupcake. I’m a little uncertain about the texture, though.

At five-thirty this morning, after re-diapering the Bichon Brigade, I was carrying a cup of water out back to the rabbit hutch. The rabbit has no name and is apparently transgendered, according to the sticky note beside the three (typed!) page “Bichon care” instructions. Please feed the rabbit if his food looks low. Oh, and also make sure she has water. Okay.

So I’m carrying a cup of water down the back steps, and as I’m approaching the rabbit hutch I’m all hey, Rabbit – what’s that smell? That smell, unfortunately, was Rabbit. But at first I didn’t get it. Or at least I didn’t want to. Aw, look at you sleeping, Rabbit, with your head under that log! Hey, Rabbit? Um, Rabbit? Oh, shit! The rabbit was dead.

Once I got home Taylor asked why I looked so sad. I told him the story, and stuck out my lower lip. He put his arm around my shoulder and squeezed as if I were a five year old. “I’m sure that bunny is hopping freely right now somewhere in bunny-Heaven.”

About two hundred years ago I fell in love with this skirt. It was displayed in the window of a store I rarely frequent. On the few occasions I have allowed myself to enter this store, I’ve had to raise my fashion-blinders and head straight to the back where the still-overpriced clearance is kept. There is something completely pretentious about most of the clothes in this store, and usually I leave as I’ve come – empty handed. But this skirt? Was different. It was an uncharacteristically red shade of red, made one-hundred percent of some exotic fabric I could not correctly pronounce, fitted yet flared and remarkably elegant in all of it’s composition. This skirt had me rifling through my handbag in search of the highest limit credit card I could find. This skirt was going home with me.

Today my once-coveted skirt collects cat hair in the back of my closet. It has never officially been “worn.” Once or twice a year I pull it out to try it on, but in spite of all my efforts to change, this skirt has never fit me. Even if I managed to get it on it was too loose in the waist, too tight in the hips and I didn’t own a single top that would agree to compliment this skirt as an outfit. This skirt’s biggest talent is hanging on its pedestal and amplifying imperfections. I remember in the store window how it tempted and teased, curving oh-so perfectly here and lovingly exaggerating there. The sizing on the label had declared itself to be mine – another empty promise this skirt would never keep.

Two weeks ago I tried it on again, and the zipper flat-out refused. I sucked in my breath, forcing the zipper up, and I could feel the fabric running as it tore along the seam. I quickly shoved it back into the closet, unable to look at the damage. I kept thinking I could fix this – surely the fabric could at least be salvaged. But despite my best efforts I’ve never been much of a seamstress, and no tossed-about pillow could do this skirt proper justice. So today I say farewell to the skirt that’s done me wrong. I will not examine the recent tear in the seam. I will no longer contort my body for a space that clearly was not meant for my body. I will bag it up, and I will throw it out. Because ill-fitted skirts should never be left to linger in the back of one’s expanding closet.

This week I have the pleasure of caring for the Bichon Brigade – a “family” of four Bichon Frise “kids” who, at varying stages of their adult life, still have not outgrown their doggie-diapers. Since I’ve never owned a dog that required diapers, I’m not sure what the appropriate age is for a dog to master the art of peeing on a tree as opposed to the leg of a kitchen table. From what I gather, Bichons do not learn this trait until they get to doggie-heaven.

Since there are FOUR of these high-maintenance dogs in a single household, the owner likes to leave me little notes taped all over the house as friendly “detail reminders.” Taped to the changing table this week (that’s right – a CHANGING TABLE for the diaper-laden dogs): Be sure only to use the denim diaper-covers with Elroy. And be careful with the positioning of the maxi pad – it can be tricky because his “genital” is so tiny.

Thirteen days ago we got a Wii Fit. Exactly thirteen days. I know this because my Wii Fit likes to tell me just how long ago we met. He also likes to tell me when I’ve skipped a day or four of working out. Sometimes he gets worried, and he will interrupt Taylor’s workout sessions to ask him if he’s seen me. How is she looking, he will ask. A. Thinner B. Fatter C. The Same D. I Haven’t Seen Her Either – SEARCH PARTY! And if Taylor’s answer is wrong (C. The Same) he will scold him. She’s lost 0.02% BMI. Sounds like you haven’t been paying close enough attention to Rye. We didn’t know it came with a built-in marriage counselor – bonus!

Wii Fit is great. No really, he is. But, um … it’s kind of like talking to a condescending fitness guru everyday. He’s always trying to give us fitness tips about walking our dog more frequently. And we’ve never even mentioned that we have a dog. Honestly, it’s a little bit creepy. Plus, he complains. A LOT. About my balance, my disdain for cartoon step-aerobics and my inability to commit to a consistent Wii Fit schedule. This might work out better if he lightened up a little. Maybe if he made me a cup of coffee in the morning and told me how great my legs look in that skirt. Maybe then I’d be willing to take our relationship to the next level.