To Symbiotic Relationships

Waiting for my massaman curry to arrive.

I don't want this blog to die. I like writing. I feel affirmed when people comment. I like the poodle on my whatever the top of my blog is called. Headboard? I enjoy showing off my cute baby. I love all the free stuff I get from my posh sponsors ... oh wait, didn't I tell you, dear reader? I HAVE A SPONSOR. That's why I'm back to blogging, baby. I've got to keep the money rollin' in and the page hits high.

Who's my sponsor? The manufacturer of the sweat lounge pants I wear all day? Close, but no.

My first ever sponsor is ...

Coming to a piece of old bread near you.

... the mold in my toilet bowl. Who even knew that was possible? Initially I just thought the couple who lived in the apartment before us (an old visiting teaching companion, coincidentally ... maybe there's some symbolism there? Except she was so nice!) had some serious toilet cleaning handicaps. But ten minutes of scrubbing and a subsequent Google search revealed otherwise. Mold. In my toilet bowl.

You know how sponsors are supposed to help me justify the time I spend on the internet? Toilet mold is a great sponsor that way. Every morning it greets me, then intimidates me into not trying to kill it AGAIN, so instead I use that time to read the internet and blog again starting now.

I resisted destroying the artistic integrity of my blog by cheapening it with capitalism and free swag ... but this mold WON'T DIE. I bleach it. It lives on. I bleach it and then I scrub it off. It regenerates. I leave my pee in it overnight (I don't want to wake Graham up, give me a break) and it magically flakes off the bowl! And then it comes back with a swift vengeance. I think I'll name it Ron Paul.

May as well be Kool-Aid.

Then today, I realized what the mold has been trying to tell me all along: "Give up, mediocre housewife. Surrender to my robustness. If you will stop trying to kill me--a mere nuisance to my immortal colony, mind you--I will let you blog."

So I made a deal with the devil in my toilet (what harm is it doing, really? It's not like Graham drinks out of there, though he does drink his bathwater ... ), and now I just have to awkwardly explain the scuzz in my toilet to people who use my bathroom.

In happier homemaker news, I made a teepee for an avocado I recently adopted.

It wasn't ripe, yet, and I wanted to speed up the process, so Google told me to put it in a paper bag with an apple or banana. Problem: I don't have paper bags. Didn't you know I hate nature? Plastic all the way, every time. Maybe the baby seals should sponsor me and then I'll stop trying to kill them. Anyway, I did have a bunch of bananas (shipped from Guatemala! I think they taste better the farther away they're from), so I figured this would be just as good, with all their ripening gasses oozing into my adolescent avocado. WORKED. Take that, Heloise.