Underwear in your Food?

A new horse trainer came out on Sunday to see how she and Annie got along. She turned out to be a very bubbly, very friendly, very young young woman. After their session we invited her in for some grub and eventually we all three wound up talking about how having dogs impacts your housekeeping.

"The shedding is unbelievable," I said. "It's to the point where I don't know what it's like to eat something without a dog hair in it."

"Yeah, or underwear!" she replied.

There's nothing like that moment of social panic, when you're sitting there having a perfectly wonderful conversation and suddenly the other person says something that just stops your brain dead in its tracks. Did you just hear what you think you heard? Does it mean what you think it means?

Underwear ... in her food?! I'm not the cleanest person in the world, and when I get to cooking pans fly, but I don't think I've ever been so crazily manic that underwear somehow got into the pasta. And don't even get me started on thinking about what kind of marinade we'd be talking about ... eeeeww!

So I sat there, mouth slightly agape, neurons firing off frantic memos to each other -- "What do YOU think she meant, Charlie?" "Fuck if I know, Bill, but make a note not to eat at HER house!" -- trying to imagine just how someone could be so unbelievably slothful as to routinely get their underwear into their food.

Then it hit me -- she was just talking about the messiness of the house in general, not about what specific things might end up as part of dinner. Whew!

Because the thing is, while I love me some fruit, I sure don't want it to be Fruit of the Loom.