My life is not so much a life, as a series of awkwardnesses.
"I'm The Pretty Pie Girl. I'm The Pretty Pie Girl," the TV blares her chipmunk voice as she waltzes with a chocolate cookie. Her adorable face sirens, "You're my Ookie Ookie Cookie." Computer generated smile happier than human. She's a pie with tiny gloved arms, and booted legs. She twirls. "You're my Ookie Ookie Cookie."
Her dark partner croons in lowest bass, "I'm your Ookie Ookie Cookie."
I select a box from the cupboard, The Hexachocolator, a six sided cake with six kinds of chocolate. In bright yellow letters it proclaims, "Zero Grams Trans Fat."
The giggling pie slides down the side of the bowl, and shouts to the world, "Kooky Cookies are part of a nutritious breakfast," and splashes into the milk.
Crack two eggs. Use olive oil not grease. The box says one cup, but use half. One cup, that's crazy. Beat the mix with wooden spoon.
The "real" children, one fifth as cartoonish, bang their silver to the musical and chant, "Ookie Ookie Cookie!"
How many impressionable minds watch this whorescrappening? "Ookie ookie cookie!"
A woman's voice says, "Capsulsgrave Confections are made by mothers, for mothers."
The Pie Girl squeaks the last word, "For the love of food." The commercial is over. The volume drops to inaudible. We now continue with our regular programming.
Pour batter into stainless steel bowl. Bake at 375.
Go upstairs. Barry is on his bed, so fat he struggles not to roll off. I feel skinny by comparison, lithe and fierce, like a tiger.
Lie on my bed. Open the logic puzzle magazine. Draw chart in bent spiral pad, low on blue ink, which makes solving puzzle too easy. Bored. Get up.
What can I say to Barry? Good luck with your operation? He's so fat, they have to cut his legs off at the knees. He's going to be in a wheelchair. I will not end up like him. I will eat normal portions. It's not that hard. Work out an hour a day. No seconds. Get off bed. "Good luck with your operation."
He says "Thank you," between breaths, oxygen hose in nostril.
Look down at my coat at the bottom of the winding banister. Burt is in my pocket stealing a cigarette.
Go to office and tell Diane, perfect face and body, no chance she would ever want me. Staff can't date residents, but even if they could, she wouldn't. Her baby doll eyes, button nose, and puckering lips tell me, "Official West House policy is not to leave things out."