I know. The weird pattern in the butter dish, right? By now you’ve surely discovered it and are probably freaking out. Well, last night I discovered that if I make Eggos I can skip the butter knife and just drop the waffle directly in the butter tub. It’s awesome. Except that the hot waffle melts a weird pattern in the butter, like an all-yellow plaid, and the plastic tub melts a bit. I know you’d prefer I use a knife, because you’re kind of neurotic about this stuff, but honestly, I’m just not that kind of girl. Mostly because I’m trying to save the environment by not dirtying a knife that would have to be washed. I’m kind of a hero. Also, the knives are, like, all the way on the other side of the kitchen. Poor planning on your part. And by “on your part,” I mean “by letting me unpack the kitchen when we moved in.” I mean, I guess we could just switch the utensil drawer with the take-out menu drawer, but that seems like a lot of work. Unless I just pulled out the drawers completely and switched them!
Okay, now we have two drawers lying on the kitchen floor. I got them both out, but I can’t get them back in. I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Don’t look in the butter dish.
P.S. If anything, you should be thanking me for the butter texturizer. Remember that fucking ridiculous Burberry-plaid car we saw, and you were all, “Wow! I wish someone would do that to my car and/or butter!” Well, Merry Christmas, asshole.
P.P.S. I’m sorry I called you an asshole. That was uncalled-for. Also, by now you’ve read this letter and will surely claim that you did not ask me to Burberry the car or anything else, but really, you’ve got more important things to focus on. Like fixing the three drawers that are on the kitchen floor.
I know.
But I thought if I took one more out slowly I could see how it worked, and then I could fix the others before you wake up, but that totally didn’t work. But I stopped at three. You’re welcome.
P.P.P.S. Shit. Okay, I thought maybe one more would give me the secret putting-the-drawer-back key. Turns out? Not so much. At this point I’m considering setting fire to the kitchen to cover my tracks, but I’m sure you’d just blame that on me too. So I won’t, because I know you’d be a jerk about it. And also because that would be wrong. I would never set fire to our house.
P.P.P.P.S. Okay, I just set fire to the house, but it was totally on accident. I was trying to make you a pizza for breakfast, and I accidentally put a bunch of towels in the oven. I know it seems suspicious, since I was just talking about burning down the house, but it’s just a horrible, horrible coincidence. I have to think that this never would have happened had our builders not put the bathroom so close to the oven. It’s like they wanted me to set fire to the house. Those guys are the assholes. Not you. I love you.
P.P.P.P.P.S. I’m going to stop at the store on the way home and buy you your very own tub of butter so you don’t have to see the melty Burberry one. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I didn’t just think of that in the first place.
P.P.P.P.P.P.S. None of this is actually true except for the butter part. Aren’t you relieved? I know you are. And now you’re much less likely to freak out about the butter, because, Jesus, it’s not like I tried to burn the house down (except for that one time when I did, but that really was an accident, and the builder’s fault too, because who the hell leaves the oven instructions inside the oven? Someone who wants us all dead, that’s who). This was all just an exercise in perspective.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Don’t look in the butter dish.
Just to Clarify: We Don’t Sleep with Goats
I think there’s a goat in our house,” my sister says, making no attempt to get up as she turns her head slightly to listen to the strange noises coming from down the hall.
She’s wrong; I’m certain. Not because there couldn’t be a goat in the house, but because this isn’t our house anymore. It’s the home we grew up in, and still feels warm and familiar, but I’ve managed to disassociate myself from being responsible for shooing errant goats out of a home I haven’t lived in for more than a decade.
“No,” I explain, looking back down at the photo albums we’d spread over our old bedroom floor. “There is a goat in Mom and Dad’s house.”
She pointed a finger at me and winked. “Ah. You have a point. Hey, look at these pictures of you in wigs when you were a baby. What the hell’s going on there?” I stare at the album and start to answer, when the clomping from the next room gets louder and then the screaming starts.
“There is totally a goat in the house,” she repeats. “Or maybe a pony.”
It’s the kind of thing that would be shocking if it happened in either of our houses, but this week we’ve both come back to Wall to visit our family, and this sort of thing is practically expected in a small house with eight people, one shower, and too many goats.1
I continue to flip through the photo album as if nothing is happening. “I’m just going to stay in this room until it’s gone. This is so not my responsibility.” Something heavy bounces off a wall. “I swear to God I am having such childhood flashbacks right now.”
Lisa sighs as the screams get louder. “That’s the PTSD talking. But”—her voice quavers with a slight doubt—“our kids are out there, so maybe we should go check on them.”