Wednesday, September 13, 2006

Everything is NOT better with bacon. Bedding, for instance.

When I was in the 2nd grade, my best friend's name was Chrissy. She lived in the other unit in our duplex, and our mothers quickly formed a single-mom bond. Chrissy and I quickly discovered our mutual love of all things Barbie, and our collections complimented each other well: she had the Barbie RV, I had the Barbie Corvette; she had a real Ken to make up for my cheap knock-off named Sean; she had sporty Skipper to offset my sparkly Crystal; I had Kissing Barbie and she had tiny Barbie babies to remind us of what happens when you kiss before marriage. The only fight we ever had was over whether "I Love Rock-n-Roll" or "Eye of the Tiger" should be the song played at Barbie prom. Yes, we were a match made in heaven. We'd surely still be friends today, were it not for one small thing: her pillow smelled like bacon.

I was reminded of this fact tonight whilst cooking dinner. With the aroma of thinly sliced fried pig hanging thick in the air, I couldn't help but think how much my house smelled like a pillow.

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