My Boyfriend Spills
You all saw the shirt I made him from last week's story. I wasn't lying. Pretty much every time he eats, more food gets on the table, floor, his lap, down the front of his shirt, than it gets in his mouth. Maybe that's why he eats so often. When he does eat, so little of it actually end up in his stomach.
When we first moved in together, I'm not sure anyone believed Boyfriend could possibly be as messy as I was making him out to be. I saw more than one person give me a "stop pretending to be such a neat freak, we all know you're a slob too" look when I complained. But I knew. I knew someday someone would be there to witness The Great Spill-dini in action. Of course, it was Jamie, my Best Friend Extraordinaire.
Jamie and I were doing the usual - being two old spinster ladies just spending a quiet evening at home - when Boyfriend arrived with Chinese food. Hooray! Delicious snacks! We dig in. Boyfriend has a terrible habit of putting everything he eats or drinks precariously close to the edge of the table. I constantly find myself scooting things away from where they can topple onto our wall-to-wall carpeting. The sweet and sour sauce was no different. Only this time, I didn't get the chance to scoot it.
I don't know how it happened; I only know that it happened in slow motion. I saw the sweet and sour sauce container go airborne. It was spinning through our living room, spraying sticky globs of amber sauce all over the place. My face contorted into a visage of horror. I may have screamed. Then it was over. Boyfriend was just staring at the mess. Jamie fidgeted uncomfortably.
"DO SOMETHING!" I finally roared, "Don't just sit there! Paper towels, stat!" He finally broke out of his stupor to get paper towels, but there is only so much you can do for something as sticky as sweet and sour sauce. To this day there are still hard, congealed spots of sauce on the carpet that poke my toesies when I walk over them barefoot. There was an innocent Ritz cracker box sitting on the table when the melee took place and I discovered the next day that the sweet and sour had effectively glued the box to the table. Took a lot of elbow grease to get that sucker unstuck.
Jamie at least now understood my plight: "He just...sat there." She later commented, incredulously. I nodded sagely.
"He spills." I said.
Of course, there are many, many incidents of his spills, some of which I'm sure I didn't even get to witness. One of the more annoying ones was The Ice Cream Spill of 2010.
I had spent the whole afternoon scrubbing the kitchen until it shone. Boyfriend came home and the first thing out of my mouth was "I just cleaned this kitchen. Do. Not. Make. A. Mess." Boyfriend decides he wants ice cream, so he gets out a bowl, a spoon and the ice cream. I'm just standing off to the side, hovering. Then he scoops the ice cream out of the container directly onto the floor. Again, he stares at it.
"PICK IT UP!" I am screeching, "I JUST MOPPED!" He grabs at the ice cream with his bare hands, and procedes to walk towards the trash barrel with it.
"NOT IN THE TRASH! IT WILL MELT IN THERE!" I am turning blue in the face as I watch the ice cream dribble all over my clean floor.
"What do I do! What do I do!" He is scrambling around like he is holding someone's bleeding organ.
"The sink! Put it in the sink!" He drops what is left of the melted, sticky mess into the sink. "You better clean up every last droplet of ice cream off that floor." I say, livid.
"Alright, alright, calm down." He says, rinsing his hands and getting a paper towel.
Later I found one congealed ice cream drop in the middle of the floor.