Lizzie Lou at Her Finest

            I have said it before, that Liz is funniest when she isn’t trying.  Well, it’s true.  But there’s more to it than that.  She is at her absolute funniest when she isn’t trying at all, when she is asleep.

            Some people have night terrors.  Some people whisper awful secrets in the night.  Not my honey.  She makes sandwiches in her sleep.  And she conducts an orchestra.  And she plans parties.  “I’m gonna have a potato party.”  (eyes closed, big ol’ smile on her face)  “Everybody at the party gets a potato chip.”

            And sometimes she abuses me.  She punches me.  Slaps me.  She spits in my face.  My mouth, actually.  I couldn’t get mad.  It was frikkin’ hilarious.  I was laying there watching her, and she was chewing, though thank heavens she wasn’t clanging or grinding her teeth together, just softly going through the motions of chewing, and it was clearly something she didn’t like. 

            This horrid look of disgust crept across her face and I was already tensed up fighting back the laughter ‘cause I didn’t want to wake her up, she was too entertaining, but she finally decided to spit out the dreamland food and she spit right into my mouth.  I like to lay next to her and watch her dream.  It’s cutesy, I admit.  Romantic.  Occasionally magical. 

            Thing is, she’s never spat at me for it.  Much less a direct shot in the mouth. 

            There’s this Mexican Enchilada frozen dinner that’s been in our freezer for about nine months.  That’s right.  All over this planet, thousands of babies, millions, were conceived, carried, and delivered, bringing new life to this world, and we still got this Mexican Enchilada frozen dinner in our freezer.  It’s starting to get on my nerves.

            Clearly nobody wants it.  Everybody that lives here has had ample opportunity and nine months later has not yet made their move.  And even then, we’ve had all manner of hungry travelers pass through here, some of them daring souls.  And nobody has yet worked up the gumption to pick a fight with that Mexican Enchilada frozen dinner.  They know where it’s at. 

            And yet, nobody… if you think about it, nine months is approximately two hundred and seventy days.  For the sake of argument, let’s say the freezer door is opened ten times in one day.  Which is a screwball of a modest figure for this household, but, for the sake of argument.  Ten times.

            That means this freezer door has been opened no less than two thousand seven hundred times and that Mexican Enchilada frozen dinner has been rejected no less than two thousand seven hundred times and it has not yet developed a conscience and planned its own escape.  It just sits there. 

           

She was dreaming that she had finally broken down and nuked the Mexican Enchilada.  Once again shouldering the motherly, sacrificial role, she would suffice on what the others had tossed aside.  Only, even in the dream it was disgusting.  She took the first bite in her dream and I could see her face cringing and her tongue darting out between bites.  Clear sign I should have taken cover. 

            Instead, I laid there captivated. 

            And I paid for it.