“No, Cookie!” I admonish. She barks, looking over her shoulder hopefully. She’s hungry, I realize. And so am I.
I pull the plug and step gingerly out of the tub. Given the day I’ve already had, and the effect of the alcohol on my empty stomach, I’m not taking any chances. The last thing I need now is to slip and fall and be forced to call the paramedics to save my naked ass.
Hudson Holm would make a super-hot paramedic.
Dammit! I have to get that man out of my fantasies. Hudson Holm is not a Viking fantasy, sparring partner, or a paramedic. He is my enemy.
I pull on my favorite pair of vintage silk pajama bottoms, slip my feet into thick, chenille slipper socks, and pull on a vintage tee. I am not going to wallow. I am going to make dinner. And then I am going to hate-watchVikings.
Tonight, instead of rooting for Ragnar, I am going to take great pleasure in watching each and every scene in which he gets his ass kicked. I might even imagine myself doing the ass-kicking.
I pad down to the kitchen, humming and singing theVikingstheme song lyrics.
“More … give me more … give me more …”
Cookie trails behind me, tail wagging excitedly. I set my empty wine glass on the counter before making our dinners.
First, I open a can of wet food for Cookie. I scoop it into a bowl and mix in her dry food. She wastes no time, bolting her meal in minutes and then chasing the bowl around the kitchen as she licks it clean.
I don’t even want to mess with a microwave tonight. I pour myself a bowl of cereal and take it to the couch. With my dinner, drink, and the remote lined up in front of me on the coffee table, I cue up my show.
But before I hit play, just in case anyone wants to get in touch with me, I open my laptop and place it on the side table.
It dings almost immediately with an incoming message from Oliver.
Hey, Cookie, can we talk?
I try to type my response with one hand, missing letters. So instead of “Sure, what’s up?” I send,
Sr. wat p?
Hmm … everything ok there?Oliver asks.
I retrieve the laptop and prop it on a pillow on my lap.
Sorry, Furball. My owner had the world’s shittiest day. Broke her phone. Had to get out the laptop.
Is she ok?
Right as rain, Oliver. Drowning her sorrows. Best foot forward.
Pardon?
Ugh, sorry, Furball. Clichés on the brain. Such a bad day at work. But you know, it’s always darkest before the dawn.
What other clichés could I use to describe my day? I run down a list in my mind.
Did you see the comment I left on your post, Cookie?
I pull up my account in another tab and scan my post for Oliver’s comment. He’s written, “I think your bark is worse than your bite, Cookie. But you might want to consider finishing school. Good girls don’t drool over their sirloin. Xxoo, O.”I bite my lip. It’s so sweet and so dorky. Especially the way he’s signed it.
Good one,I type, pausing to leave a comment on his post.Now go check mine.
I laugh a little and sip my wine, imagining him reading what I’ve written in response to his “Cleanliness Is Next to Godliness” post. I’ve commented: “Seems like you’re entirely tongue in cheek.” Xoxo, C
A bit on the nose, don’t you think?
I give as good as I get, Furball.
