November 08, 2010

gotta love the hoovers

The dinner ritual these days.... 

Bro. Hoover, very stern, glaring at my plate:  Sunny Jane....what's that?

Me, blinking innocently:  My empty Capri Sun?

Bro. Hoover, even sterner:  Noooo, not that.

Me, still blinking for all I'm worth:  My wadded up napkin?

Bro. Hoover, sterner-erNoooo. Not that either. What's that under your napkin? Did you finish all your food?

Me, giving up on the blinking, and resorting to drama:  I can't. I can't eat the last bite. I'll vomit if I try. I'll puke in your direction. I'll die. I swear I will.

Bro. Hoover, commanding:  Sit. Now. Eat it.

Mrs. Hoover, coming to my rescue:  Russell! For heaven's sakes! Leave her alone!

Bro Hoover, a little quieter:  She needs to gain weight. 89 lbs! Focus, Sunny, swallow.

Me, stubborn:  So....should my last few bites go to the dog, or the chickens?

I've been having a hard time eating all summer. Losing weight left and right. I don't like anymore than Bro. Hoover does, but his reaction to the amount of food I can down, or rather, cannot down, cracks me up. He's like the food-left-on-your-plate police. And he takes his job very seriously.
If I think maybe I got too many french fries, and try putting them back in the bowl, he pulls them right back out, and plunks them back onto my plate.
If I complain of being cold, he says, Maybe you should eat more. Put some fat on your bones.
If he sees any leftovers laying on the kitchen counters, he wants to know if they once resided on my dinner plate....Who's food is this??? Is it Sunny's? Sunny Jane! Come eat it!

And, no. Hiding my food under my napkin doesn't work.
He checks.