The mottled gray thing on the dinner plate was dotted with bits of what might have been poorly-treated kernels of corn.
It looked vaguely like a gingerbread man, but large. Bloated. Pregnant with something besides dough. Like a gingerbread man pie, baked out of something clearly inedible.
"This isn't dinner, I hope," I say to my wife who is busily doing something in the kitchen. Cleaning, probably, though I can't be sure.
The abrupt silence that follows makes me re-evaluate my words to see if they could possibly be taken in insult. I was trying to be funny, trying to lighten an already dark mood after my news about the cat. But what if the thing on the plate was dinner? I made the comment because I thought that was impossible, that this was a craft project or something, but....
"What exactly is that supposed to mean?" she asks, bustling back into the dining room, clearly irritated.
"Nothing," I say. "I just thought it was funny, because, well...I don't know...It's...uh...it's...not, though...right? Not food?"
She lets out an exasperated sigh and plops down in front of the abomination on the plate.
"Of course not," she says, leaning over the thing with a fork held edgewise.
"But why would you say that?" she asks. "Do I make you eat things like this?"
She was starting to get angry.
"No, I..." I start, holding up my hands.
"Do I make you eat anything?" she says, still hunched over the Gingerthing, drawing something on it, maybe. "You should be glad I make dinner at all. Ever."
"I am, I am," I say, trying to salvage the conversation. "I love everything you make. Let's um...let's just forget I said anything and start over."
"Fine," she says, sitting up, surveying her handywork.
I look over her shoulder. She's poked two holes into the "head" to serve as eyes, and crudely scratched "LIVE" across the chest.
"What is this?" I ask, careful to keep an upbeat tone.
"A golem," she says tightly, brushing a few crumbs off the chest with her hand. I edge forward for a closer look.
"Aren't they supposed to have...I don't know...like Hebrew letters on them or something?" I ask, realizing just as I've said it that it was the wrong thing to say.
She throws the fork down hard, and it skitters noisily across our hardwood floor, marking its path with a jagged tan line.
"Can't you just NOT criticize for once!? For once?" she shouts.
"No," I say. "I mean, I didn't mean...anything...it looks nice, really."
She drops her voice an octave, the way she does when she wants to mock me. "Isn't it supposed to have Hebrew on it," she says, then reverts back to her normal voice, albeit a bit more strident. "Do you think I know Hebrew!? Do I look like a rabbit to you?!"
It takes me a second to realize what she meant to say, and when I do, my mouth twists as I try to stifle approaching laughter.
She stares at me. "Don't you laugh," she says. "I swear I'll slap you if you laugh."
I can't keep it in, though, and with the first snort, she is true to her word and slaps me hard across the cheek.
There is a moment of silence as we stare at each other, interrupted suddenly by a muffled shriek from the dinner plate. As I turn to look at my wife's golem, the shrill noise sounds again, desperate, and then the Thing twitches slightly.
"It's moving," I whisper.
"All the noise probably woke the hamster up," she says.
I turn toward her. "The what?" I ask.
"The hamst..." she starts to repeat, and then stops herself, turning to me. "Don't you dare," she says.
"What?" I ask. "I'm not...what are you talking about?"
"Don't you dare criticize how I gave this life," she says, gathering up the squealing, twitching thing. "You're going to say it needed to be with magic, or kabbalah or something, aren't you?"
"I..." I say.
"Well I sealed a stunned hamster inside, and now its awake, and my golem is moving, and that means its animated, so you just SHUT YOUR MOUTH," she blurts, and stalks angrily out of the room.
I wait for a few seconds, and then call, "So what is for dinner, then?"
Somewhere in the house, I hear a door slam.
It looked vaguely like a gingerbread man, but large. Bloated. Pregnant with something besides dough. Like a gingerbread man pie, baked out of something clearly inedible.
"This isn't dinner, I hope," I say to my wife who is busily doing something in the kitchen. Cleaning, probably, though I can't be sure.
The abrupt silence that follows makes me re-evaluate my words to see if they could possibly be taken in insult. I was trying to be funny, trying to lighten an already dark mood after my news about the cat. But what if the thing on the plate was dinner? I made the comment because I thought that was impossible, that this was a craft project or something, but....
"What exactly is that supposed to mean?" she asks, bustling back into the dining room, clearly irritated.
"Nothing," I say. "I just thought it was funny, because, well...I don't know...It's...uh...it's...not, though...right? Not food?"
She lets out an exasperated sigh and plops down in front of the abomination on the plate.
"Of course not," she says, leaning over the thing with a fork held edgewise.
"But why would you say that?" she asks. "Do I make you eat things like this?"
She was starting to get angry.
"No, I..." I start, holding up my hands.
"Do I make you eat anything?" she says, still hunched over the Gingerthing, drawing something on it, maybe. "You should be glad I make dinner at all. Ever."
"I am, I am," I say, trying to salvage the conversation. "I love everything you make. Let's um...let's just forget I said anything and start over."
"Fine," she says, sitting up, surveying her handywork.
I look over her shoulder. She's poked two holes into the "head" to serve as eyes, and crudely scratched "LIVE" across the chest.
"What is this?" I ask, careful to keep an upbeat tone.
"A golem," she says tightly, brushing a few crumbs off the chest with her hand. I edge forward for a closer look.
"Aren't they supposed to have...I don't know...like Hebrew letters on them or something?" I ask, realizing just as I've said it that it was the wrong thing to say.
She throws the fork down hard, and it skitters noisily across our hardwood floor, marking its path with a jagged tan line.
"Can't you just NOT criticize for once!? For once?" she shouts.
"No," I say. "I mean, I didn't mean...anything...it looks nice, really."
She drops her voice an octave, the way she does when she wants to mock me. "Isn't it supposed to have Hebrew on it," she says, then reverts back to her normal voice, albeit a bit more strident. "Do you think I know Hebrew!? Do I look like a rabbit to you?!"
It takes me a second to realize what she meant to say, and when I do, my mouth twists as I try to stifle approaching laughter.
She stares at me. "Don't you laugh," she says. "I swear I'll slap you if you laugh."
I can't keep it in, though, and with the first snort, she is true to her word and slaps me hard across the cheek.
There is a moment of silence as we stare at each other, interrupted suddenly by a muffled shriek from the dinner plate. As I turn to look at my wife's golem, the shrill noise sounds again, desperate, and then the Thing twitches slightly.
"It's moving," I whisper.
"All the noise probably woke the hamster up," she says.
I turn toward her. "The what?" I ask.
"The hamst..." she starts to repeat, and then stops herself, turning to me. "Don't you dare," she says.
"What?" I ask. "I'm not...what are you talking about?"
"Don't you dare criticize how I gave this life," she says, gathering up the squealing, twitching thing. "You're going to say it needed to be with magic, or kabbalah or something, aren't you?"
"I..." I say.
"Well I sealed a stunned hamster inside, and now its awake, and my golem is moving, and that means its animated, so you just SHUT YOUR MOUTH," she blurts, and stalks angrily out of the room.
I wait for a few seconds, and then call, "So what is for dinner, then?"
Somewhere in the house, I hear a door slam.
Awesome.
Posted by: Enna Isilee | October 25, 2007 at 06:23 PM
I've come back to this post at least once a day this week to try and think of something terribly witty or clever to say, but I keep coming up short. So I agree with Enna Isilee; "awesome" sums it up quite nicely.
Posted by: Gretchen | October 26, 2007 at 02:30 PM
Ditto Gretchen.
Posted by: Q | October 27, 2007 at 04:11 PM
Forcing cleverness rarely ends well. Trust me, I know.
Posted by: Enna Isilee | October 27, 2007 at 05:24 PM
Oh, dear. I think something terrible has happened to the author of these blogs. That or the nanites reprogramming his brain damaged him somehow. *mourns loss of Friday Fives*
And as for your comment a long time ago about how he is not a posting robot, well HOW DO YOU KNOW, ENNA ISILEE? Can you really be sure? I would say NOT.
Posted by: Q | October 29, 2007 at 02:42 PM
Well I have met the accused "robot." He seemed human at the time.
Posted by: Enna Isilee | October 29, 2007 at 03:26 PM
But that's always what they want you to think before they take over the world, right?
Posted by: Q | October 29, 2007 at 04:55 PM
Oh, I am fully human, as you can prove through my observable display of delinquency and procrastination.
Silly, silly carbon things.
Posted by: Dean.01 | October 29, 2007 at 09:28 PM
You see? That's what he's trying to make us think!
Posted by: Q | November 02, 2007 at 05:55 AM