They say that families should share meals, that it brings everybody to the table together, and makes a strong household. But who’s gonna clear the table before this happens? Where’s all the stuff gonna go? And is the table really as essential to our family’s happiness?
On those days when I fulfill my duties as a malemaid, I keep a (semi-relatively-kinda-more-or-less) tidy kitchen. The counter is my work space, and ain’t no dude spilling his crap on it. Beware of the barking dad, dawg!
Our dining table (if it still exists under there), on the other hand, is not only a heap of clutter, but also a vortex where things disappear into the void. It has swallowed entire textbooks, sucked in a full lunch bag (without the apple), vacuumed two cellphones, evaporated a maxed-out credit card, rendered numerous twenty-dollar bills invisible, not to mention some really, really important, complete, and excellently written school papers that the table ate the night before they were due.
Those two pictures (above and below) are random snapshots of that four-legged object of horror, taken about 3 weeks apart. (BTW, If anybody finds an unclaimed Netflix copy of Shrek 3, can you please contact me? It’s been swallowed, never to be seen, or watched again.) If an ordinary picture’s worth a thousand words, these must worth a couple millions, don’t you think?
But my point is, it’s either dinner, or a table, cause this daddy ain’t doing both. If I’m to tackle the piles on the table then there’s no way I’m also making dinner. And if I’m making dinner, then the table from hell remains un-excavated until some family expert comes up with an indisputable scientific evidence showing that families who eat at the table are happier and stronger than those huddling by the kitchen counter.
So said the daddy.