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Authors: Laura Levine
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more. Finally, when I’d come up with a few I actually liked, I called Marvin and set up a meeting.
The day of my appointment, Prozac clawed me awake for a gourmet breakfast of Savory Shrimp ’n’ Tuna Tidbits.
Her breakfast, of course. I had nothing more enticing in my fridge than cold pizza and those darn martini olives.
Today of all days, I wanted a decent breakfast. So I decided to treat myself to one of my all-time gourmet faves: a sausage and egg McMuffin, smothered with ketchup.
My meeting wasn’t until 1 P.M ., so I’d have plenty of time to shower and dress and go over my ideas when I got back.
I drove over to McDonald’s, my mind abuzz with mattress slogans and, not incidentally, my parents’ latest e-mails from Florida. I’d been foolish enough to read them before I left the house. So Daddy fancied himself a chef, huh? Not that I was surprised. Daddy goes through personas like I go through drugstore pantyhose. To the best of my recollection he’s been an amateur attorney, plumber, painter, and archaeologist. (He once found a piece of a Coke bottle in our backyard that to this day he insists is a relic from King Tut’s tomb). Mom’s just lucky he hasn’t taken up do-it-yourself neurosurgery.
But all thoughts of Daddy’s culinary adventures quickly faded as I drove up to the Golden Arches.
The first thing to greet me when I opened the door was the heavenly aroma of sizzling sausage. Not quite so heavenly, however, was the aroma of the eccentric homeless guy singing O Sole Mio at the top of his lungs.
Needless to say, I ordered my McMuffin to go.
Too hungry to wait till I got home, I opened my culinary treasure in the car.
Now I just want to say before I proceed any further that there is a special place in hell for the guy who invented the ketchup packet. (It couldn’t have been a woman; we’re just not that sadistic.)
I don’t know about you, but I can never open the darn things without a battle royale. At home I usually wind up using a pair of scissors. Unfortunately, I had no scissors in the car, so I struggled mightily, breaking a nail in the process. After a string of colorful curses not often heard outside an HBO special, I finally managed to rip it open.
And that’s when tragedy struck.
Before my horrified eyes, the ketchup spurted out of the packet with the force of a rocket and landed on my passenger seat.
Now under ordinary circumstances this would not be a tragedy. My passenger seat has its fair share of stains, chocolate being the primary offender.
But astute readers will recall that the last time I’d been in my car, I had something beside me on my passenger’s seat.
Extra credit for those of you who remember what it was.
That’s right. Marvelous Marv’s mattress sample—whose snowy white pillow top was now sporting a big red ketchup blob.
Frantically I tried to blot it with a napkin, turning it into an even bigger red blob.
But I couldn’t let myself panic. After all, I had plenty of time before my meeting. I’d simply go home and wash the stain out.
Bagging my uneaten McMuffin, I tore back home and spent the next hour scrubbing that damn mattress sample. I tried Wisk, Comet, even Head & Shoulders shampoo.
When I was all finished, I’m pleased to report that the mattress sample was dandruff free, but unfortunately still sported a faint red stain.
“Oh, Pro!” I wailed. “What on earth am I going to do now?”
She looked up from where she was sunning herself on my windowsill.
You could scratch my belly. That’s always fun.
This is why there’s no such thing as a Seeing-Eye Cat. They just don’t care.
I, on the other hand, was beside myself with worry. I couldn’t possibly bring the sample back to Marvin this way. How could he depend on me to take care of his advertising if I couldn’t take care of a silly mattress sample?
No, I had to prove to Marvin that I was reliable and responsible.
And there was only way to do this:
I had to drive over to
The day of my appointment, Prozac clawed me awake for a gourmet breakfast of Savory Shrimp ’n’ Tuna Tidbits.
Her breakfast, of course. I had nothing more enticing in my fridge than cold pizza and those darn martini olives.
Today of all days, I wanted a decent breakfast. So I decided to treat myself to one of my all-time gourmet faves: a sausage and egg McMuffin, smothered with ketchup.
My meeting wasn’t until 1 P.M ., so I’d have plenty of time to shower and dress and go over my ideas when I got back.
I drove over to McDonald’s, my mind abuzz with mattress slogans and, not incidentally, my parents’ latest e-mails from Florida. I’d been foolish enough to read them before I left the house. So Daddy fancied himself a chef, huh? Not that I was surprised. Daddy goes through personas like I go through drugstore pantyhose. To the best of my recollection he’s been an amateur attorney, plumber, painter, and archaeologist. (He once found a piece of a Coke bottle in our backyard that to this day he insists is a relic from King Tut’s tomb). Mom’s just lucky he hasn’t taken up do-it-yourself neurosurgery.
But all thoughts of Daddy’s culinary adventures quickly faded as I drove up to the Golden Arches.
The first thing to greet me when I opened the door was the heavenly aroma of sizzling sausage. Not quite so heavenly, however, was the aroma of the eccentric homeless guy singing O Sole Mio at the top of his lungs.
Needless to say, I ordered my McMuffin to go.
Too hungry to wait till I got home, I opened my culinary treasure in the car.
Now I just want to say before I proceed any further that there is a special place in hell for the guy who invented the ketchup packet. (It couldn’t have been a woman; we’re just not that sadistic.)
I don’t know about you, but I can never open the darn things without a battle royale. At home I usually wind up using a pair of scissors. Unfortunately, I had no scissors in the car, so I struggled mightily, breaking a nail in the process. After a string of colorful curses not often heard outside an HBO special, I finally managed to rip it open.
And that’s when tragedy struck.
Before my horrified eyes, the ketchup spurted out of the packet with the force of a rocket and landed on my passenger seat.
Now under ordinary circumstances this would not be a tragedy. My passenger seat has its fair share of stains, chocolate being the primary offender.
But astute readers will recall that the last time I’d been in my car, I had something beside me on my passenger’s seat.
Extra credit for those of you who remember what it was.
That’s right. Marvelous Marv’s mattress sample—whose snowy white pillow top was now sporting a big red ketchup blob.
Frantically I tried to blot it with a napkin, turning it into an even bigger red blob.
But I couldn’t let myself panic. After all, I had plenty of time before my meeting. I’d simply go home and wash the stain out.
Bagging my uneaten McMuffin, I tore back home and spent the next hour scrubbing that damn mattress sample. I tried Wisk, Comet, even Head & Shoulders shampoo.
When I was all finished, I’m pleased to report that the mattress sample was dandruff free, but unfortunately still sported a faint red stain.
“Oh, Pro!” I wailed. “What on earth am I going to do now?”
She looked up from where she was sunning herself on my windowsill.
You could scratch my belly. That’s always fun.
This is why there’s no such thing as a Seeing-Eye Cat. They just don’t care.
I, on the other hand, was beside myself with worry. I couldn’t possibly bring the sample back to Marvin this way. How could he depend on me to take care of his advertising if I couldn’t take care of a silly mattress sample?
No, I had to prove to Marvin that I was reliable and responsible.
And there was only way to do this:
I had to drive over to
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