Sarah Latimer is away camping in the White Mountains for a week.
She doesn’t think we can survive without her.
We aim to prove her wrong.
Grocery shopping has been made greatly easier. A week of this will be a trifle.
Our efficiency in daily tasks has improved dramatically:
- Reduction in dishes used by eating out of the same pots in which we cook. (Not that we are cooking; Pop Tarts rule!)
- Further reduction in dishes by drinking from containers, rather than wasting time and resources dirtying glasses.
- Juno (our dog) provides excellent dish-cleaning service, indistinguishable from dishwasher processing.
- Still more time saved by not showering or bathing.
- Who needs to put on clean clothes every day?
Wait, what is that? …
Day 2, Continued.
Holy, freaking crap! There is nothing left of the Pop Tarts but wrappers. Do you children have no discipline at all?!
(The boogers mumble something about apples and trees.)
We’re ruined! Doomed. Do you hear me!? We’re going to starve, or worse, have to eat something I cook! Do you remember fiasco of the pancakes? Ashish remembers the pancakes? (“You cooked steak? I thought you were going to make pancakes.”)
This could get interesting, in a “Define, ‘interesting,’” sort of way.
Someone in this house smells. It seems to be worse around the children. And the kitchen.
Maybe the philosophy of, “Why clean? It’ll just get dirty again,” needs some reevaluation.
At least Juno is happy, although this morning she walked over to me, looked me right in the face, sniffed once, and ran away.
And. We’re hungry. The children are sticking firmly to their commitment to starve before they eat anything I might cook.
What we thought was thunder turned out to be the combined output of stomachs rumbling.
How much longer?
It’s midnight now. The house is dark. I am not sure how this will turn out. The kids are all desperately sick, throwing up. I can hear my son and daughter retching in separate bathrooms. I went in to check on them a few minutes ago, to see what was coming up.
I think I’m okay, at least for the moment. But of course the odds aren’t good: most of the people involved in this business are already dead. And there are so many things I can’t know for sure.
I have a ringing in my ears, which is a bad sign. And I feel a vibrating in my chest and abdomen. The baby is spitting up, not really vomiting. I am feeling dizzy. I hope I don’t lose consciousness. The kids need me, especially the little one. They’re frightened. I don’t blame them.
I am, too.
(With apologies to Michael Crichton.)
We have, at last found something we can agree on eating. Thankfully, we have (had?) a real dog, rather than a Chihuahua or something tiny.