I’ve left Tom and Ernie to sleep in the room so I don’t disturb them. A little girl, maybe four, is hanging from the bar trying to see the fruits. She’s wearing pink velour pants with camouflage rubber rain boots. An urgent beep! beep! beeping from the waffle iron. Wouldn’t it be so awesome to have one of them at home?, says the girl’s mother.
CBSSports, Nascar News, snowmobiles race around a track, climbing and falling over moguls of packed powder. (God, that track is really rather tiny.) From the front camera angle they look like headlight-nosed reindeer jumping through a field. Why would one do the coldest, most monotonous and uncomfortable sport in North America? The gladiators of Michigan, sponsored by SkiDoo. The television in the opposite corner features the robot competition of a science and technology conference.
March is the month that I gain weight and this year is no different. You would think December’s holidays or February’s sedentary evenings would do it, but no. I’ve been watching myself and it’s true that March would be the fatty month. It’s just warm enough for me to think I’ll go outside and exercise today, but in the end, not really warm enough. Meanwhile, I’m tired of counting winter calories. Last night I asked Tom for a candy bar and he brought me a hot chocolate. What the hell? I asked him to go out and buy me a candy bar again. He wasn’t happy, and I’m not either now that it’s morning and I regret the late-night nutritional fail.
This restaurant is closing in fifteen minutes. The toaster will be put to bed until tomorrow, and the fruit salad cocktail will, I imagine, be dumped back into the bucket from whence it came. Maybe it will be thrown away, but I doubt it.