Dear Doctor House,
I feel so FORMAL calling you that considering we’re MARRIED and all, but that’s okay because I know behind closed doors I can call you “Shnookems” just the way you like it. But for my blog which is all PUBLIC and stuff, I’ll just call you by Dr. House. You can call me Your Majesty.
Now, it was recently brought to my attention on Twitter that I am probably not a very good wife because I am a bad cook.
It all started when I tweeted:
I mean, it’s TRUE, right? Apparently, this means that I’ll NEVER find a husband, because men like the womens who can cook. And since I caught you CHEATING on me with that lady with the brown hair (AGAIN), maybe it’s time to show you that I can cook and that I desperately need a new husband.
While rummaging through the pantry, I noticed the very same thing that had brought me running into the arms of yet another television husband, Dexter, so many months ago. (yes, I can have affairs, YOU cannot).
Those damn beef sticks! I am all for encased meaty goodness, and I occasionally doodle pink puffy hearts around the person who coined the term “beef sticks” but the kind of person who would willingly put tubular meat products into his mouth THAT HAD EXPIRATION DATES INTO THE NEXT SEVERAL YEARS is not someone that I can see longevity with.
Mostly because of a little disease I like to call DYSENTERY, but you know.
Hoping that they’d be expired and I could possibly feed them to him so that he might suffer botulism and leave me with a hefty life insurance policy SPARKLE RAINBOW UNICORNS!!! I hopefully checked the expiration date:
Sadly, no. Looks like I will have to wait until the end of the year to enact my plan of doom CUTE FLUFFY KITTENS!!!
So, left to scour the pantry for things to cook for you, my husband, to show you that I am, in fact, worthy of wifedom, I was left with a) cocktail salt b) a scary looking bag of malak paneer and this:
Oh don’t look so disgusted by it. Ramen was the breakfast, lunch and dinner of MANY champions up to and including MYSELF. Now, of course, I prefer bacon flavored vodka and, uh, bacon flavored vodka, but you know. It’s ancient, though, but made of stuff that will probably outlast even the tiniest microscopic organisms on the planet.
PHEW, good for a couple more…uh, weeks. THANK GOD. I don’t want to kill my TELEVISION husband or anything.
Wow! Will you look at the WORDS on the back? I didn’t even know that there were INSTRUCTIONS on the fucker! I sure as hell never read them.
P.S. Holy fuck is it bad for you. Check out the awesome fat content in HALF the noodles. Rock. Music.
Eh, it said 2 cups, and that looks about like 2 cups, right?
I’d like you to note the flowering hibiscus in the back, a plant I only bought because it sounded like a rare STD.
Gratuitous action shot done in a SHOCKINGLY artful way. Now you KNOW I am a true photoblogger! I should win a photoblogging award or something like the Nobel Prize for Awesomeness in Artful Photoblogging of Gratuitous Action Shots That Serve No Purpose!
While we wait for this water to boil, I’d like to address a couple of things, namely that you cannot be going around kissing women your own age. I mean, I appreciate true love and all that yada-yada-yada, but don’t you know that your TRUE LOVE lives in a computer writing you LOVE LETTERS on her D-List BLOG?
There’s NOTHING wrong with that, you know. NOTHING. It’s not weird, or creepy, or stalkery, or ANYTHING. In fact, I think I’m going to change my blog name to “Mommy Wants Dr. House, Her True Husband Who REALLY Loves Her.”
I’d like to show you this picture that I think illustrates how I feel about your relationship with that OTHER woman:
SEE? I edited it MYSELF and I think it properly explains how I feel.
There, there, don’t be upset, just take some Vicodin to calm down. True Love is bullshit anyway.
There, don’t you feel BETTER? I do.
I’ll even let you use the LOVE bowl because nothing says “I Love You” like a plastic bowl with a heart on it. (I almost typed “bowel” but that would just be GROSS).
Aw, look at our LOVE NOODLES cooking! JUST LIKE OUR LOVE.
P.S. My manicure is awesome.
Hopefully the Vicodin will have kicked in by now so these noodles won’t taste like a bowl of hot dicks because, let’s face it, Ramen is kind of not delicious.
But have no fear, my love, because I am also proficient at such things as “Spaghetti-O’s” and, um, well, Shamelessly Ordering Takeout.
Shit, maybe Twitter had a point.
Yours Until The End,
Your Wife, The Only One Who REALLY Loves You Enough To Write Creepy Love Blogs To You, Wait That Sounds Bad.