And it makes sense. Read your Bible, people. I mean, it says “Thou shalt not kill” (What’s with that typo in “shall”, btw? You’d think they’d correct it before the Second Coming) and if you happen to kill someone, the police are going to show up and now you’re in a heap of trouble. If you’d just followed the Bible, this wouldn’t have happened.
Last week, as I was returning from a glamorous fashion event at Vivienne Tam‘s, papa called me. He had babysat my kids that night and he had alarming news. “I saw the leftover pork roast in your fridge,” he said. “I wanted to take pork home, but I forgot. I’ll come on Saturday to get pork. Your kids need more discipline. Good night.”
I was still on a champagne-sponsored high, so I thought nothing of it. Pork, shmork.
“What does he want with the pork?”
It was now Mama’s turn to become alarmed: “Do not bring the pork to my office. Just put it in the freezer, it’ll keep.”
I breathe into an emotional paper bag and quiz Husbandrinka, “Did you eat the pork?” And he says, “What pork?” Because in the last few days he’s been spared any and all pork discussions, but that is about to change dramatically.
“The leftover pork in the fridge,” I tell him, helpfully distinguishing it from the pork tartare in the conservatory.
“Why would I eat that pork? It’s like two weeks old and rancid.”
“Look,” I go into speed talking mode. “Papa wanted that pork and I was supposed to freeze it for him but Lydia threw it out, so our official story is that you ate it, ok?”
I know that he thinks that we are all out of our minds, just like the time he found a pot of mashed potatoes under his pillow because my mother put it there one day to keep it warm. The mashed potatoes, not the pillow. How was she supposed to know that he’d want to take a nap that afternoon?
“Why does your father want the rancid pork?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think it’s rancid.”
“Why do I have to say that I ate it?”
“Because otherwise he’ll know that I didn’t put it in the freezer and it got thrown out and I don’t want to ring the alarm or anything, but he seems a little obsessed with it. Just play along, ok?”
“Fine. Whatever.”
“So, how was it?” I test him.
“How was what?”
“THE PORK?”
“Rancid.”
“No, say ‘a little tough but pretty good’. That’ll sound natural.”
“This isn’t normal behavior,” he says.
“Ok, then just say ‘fine’.”
“Fine.”
“Why did you eat my pork? I am speaking as papa now, you understand.”
“Your father will not ask me that.”
“We must go over all scenarios.”
You see what I’m working with here? I don’t understand how I could have married someone who is such a lousy liar/is unwilling to reherse in order to make the lies sound more natural. What kind of person doesn’t want that kind of personal growth?
So I did what any normal person would do. I made another pork roast. And tonight, I will be freezing the leftovers.
Thank goodness that sanity has prevailed.