I'm still a little sweaty, I won't lie.
Randy has this bread knife he bought in Paris with the woman who tormented him a few months before I started tormenting him.
See? It's shaped like a baguette. Because it's from France. Which is fine. I'm down with bread and obvious bread representations associated with bread devices. Would it have been awesome if he'd instead picked out the serrated bread knife sheathed in a carved wooden salmon? So awesome I don't really want to talk about it, but hey-- that's what happens when you take some new home salesperson with roots so dark you could block an eclipse to Paris.
The first time I naively machete-yanked it open, no doubt hoping to cut something fresh and wholesome, the edges of the knife were tinged green with moldy bread.
One more time: I opened the knife, and the entire blade was coated in a mold film because Randy had at some point decided (probably while New Home Salesperson was out pretending to get her hair done) that when you use the knife from Paris, you don't have to WASH it. Not a difficult deduction, really, as Randy feels very strongly that cleaning utensils does nothing but weaken our immune systems. One day half the country will be knocked down from some giant, obscure food-borne illness and I will survive solely because Randy believes that cheese is its own cleanser.
Ever since that first time, my relationship with Bread Knife has been tentative and perfunctory. But recently, Randy seems to have "rediscovered" the joy of Bread Knife because he's using it all the time. I think this is because I put it in the dishwasher after he uses it instead of sliding it back inside its bread coat, and Randy's always pleasantly surprised when he eats something that doesn't taste like penicillin. The more Randy appears to enjoy Bread Knife, the more I appear to detest it. To perhaps a cartoon-esque degree; I twirl an invisible mustache and stomp around murmuring about knifenapping, and Randy used it last week at the table to cut his steak. And then kissed it after.
There's no point to any of this, except that the power went out earlier for a couple of hours and I-- hovering uncertainly in that space between the morgue and Nintendo-- did
this to Bread Knife:
I replaced its wooden baguette-like jacket with an
actual baguette. It was the funniest thing in the world at the time, when I was mildly sweaty and my ears were ringing from the NOTHING, and its still pretty funny now. Surprisingly. I'm envisioning the big "unveiling", right, where Randy picks up the knife to cut a lime and he looks at me and laughs and I laugh and we laugh. But I can't get my hopes up as it's entirely possible he won't even notice. It'll be like that time he happily ate
Snausages for an hour: heart wrenching, awkward, and smelly.
As I understand it, New Home Salesperson was way into numerology. So it stands to reason she has this whole Bread Knife scenario all mathed out on a chart somewhere.
