I'm curled up on the couch, face half smashed into a drooly pillow. Mouth open. Redundantly. I'm grouchy and hot and itchy and my nose is the kind of full that only the sweet, sweet
ADULTO ether can handle. And as I shove more toilet paper up my nose, I'm bitterly reevaluating my perhaps hasty (albeit somewhat bloody) disposal of the liquid nitrogen in question. Then I notice The Jake, my faithful black and white friend, with his little black and white nose sniffing my face and his big eyes all full of concern... two centimeters from
my eyes... initially I rejoiced in this careful attention from my The Jake; seeing as how R went to bed two hours ago after I started hissing and throwing magazines, any attention is good attention. Plus, The Jake can't make a casual critical comment about a sauce I spent an hour and a half slaving over. Well, he
can, but he won't. The Jake learned better manners when he was studying pastries at the Institute.
Anyway. Initially I rejoiced. My The Jake loves me. He senses my discomfort and, much like I nursed him through a neuter, a splinter, a forty-foot fall and another splinter, The Jake is concerned for my welfare.
And then The Jake drew still closer.
And his eyes took on a slightly sketchier shine as they focused on my fist and nostrils full of wet tissue.
I lay helpless as tiny gentle teeth ventured forth, seeking pulpy cotton. At first I resisted. But, really, what's the use? It's snotty toilet paper. It gives.
The Jake was in it for the boogers.
The Jake is a charlatan.
And one hell of a Fondant savant.
But... secretly? I bet he thought my sauce could have been thicker.
P.S. Oscars. When that guy won for best song tonight, and he busted out at the microphone with a song in Spanish, did anyone else notice that the cameras immediately and frenziedly panned to the closest Latino available? I think at one point they had a confused Nicolas Cage caught in the crosshairs.
