January 10, 2011
I don't know where it stems from, but I absolutely love to eat in bed. My husband, on the other hand, feels very strongly that food in bed is the equivalent of wearing saran wrap to church--a total and complete no no. To me, it doesn't matter what kind of food or what time of day--a steak and cheese, some chips and salsa, two or four cupcakes--it all tastes better on my queen-sized pillow-top.
On our honeymoon, when I looked at the room service menu I was like, "Oooooh, Jared. We'll have to order breakfast in bed!"
And he was all, "Gross. What if a dollop of syrup drops on my pillowcase? I'll die."
So I was like, "Doesn't matter to me. I was planning to see if they could cook me up a pillowcase made out of pancakes."
We both should have known right there that our long haul would feel much longer than average.
Last night, when Jared slipped into bed, he was feeling kind of cranky. So when something squishy and food-like landed between his two little toes, it didn't go over so well. Once his inner storm had [finally] calmed enough for an investigation, he bent down and came back up with a raisin pinched between his thumb and forefinger. A lint covered raisin.
He held it up to the light, then turned to pierce me with the fiercest of gazes. "This is your raisin," he demanded.
"Yes," I said. "I had raisins last Tuesday. That must be mine."
"Then eat it," he said. "Eat it now."
So I did. Lint, glitter, dust and all.
And then I slept like a baby.