Saturday Morning at the Farmers Market

Jack: Wow, this Farmers Market is so much better than the first one we went to this morning…

Anita: That was a garage sale, dumbass.

Jack: Wow, it’s like we’re in a real farm except the food is up higher so you don’t have to bend over and pick it up.

Anita: Are you gonna act like… ummm… yourself this morning?

Jack: I wonder if they have fresh overalls today…

Anita: Do you feel like some fresh squash for dinner?

Jack: Squash? That’s a terrible name. Squash needs a re-branding campaign.

Anita: Okay… what do you want to call it?

Jack: Hmmm… how about “butter”?

Anita: Don’t you think it would be confusing?

Jack: You never think any of my fantastic ideas are fantastic!

Anita: Besides there’s already butternut squash.

Jack: Butter and nuts… see that’s trying too hard. No food’s gonna succeed tying two distinct flavors like that.

Anita: What about peanut butter?

Jack: Hmmmmmm… you scored a point on that one. What’s the score now?

Anita: Seventy-five million to three.

Jack: I forget. Who’s winning?

At Home With Jack & Anita

For those just tuning in, Jack’s wife Anita recently suffered a detached retina in her only good eye and underwent emergency eye surgery. She’s currently wrapping up a weeklong recovery period where she must remain in bed on her side, completely blind. She’s also suffering the handicap of being married to Jack…


“Jack?” moaned Anita from the bed. “Can you get me some tea, please?”

“Just a minute,” I replied, tapping away on my laptop keyboard. “Let me finish this train of thought.”

“Last time you said that, I didn’t hear back from you for three hours.”

“What can I say?” I said, clacking away. “It was a long train.”

“Well,” sighed Anita. “What are you working on that’s so important?”

“Cough blog cough…”

“You realize that you don’t get paid for that thing, don’t you?” she asked.

“Well,” I replied defensively. “Not in money…”

“What do you get paid in?”

“Ummm… ‘not money’… and plenty of it.”

“I just don’t see what you get out of all the work you put into it…”

“Ouch!” I gasped.

“What’s wrong?”

“Owwwww…” I grimaced. “Bit my lip.”

“How’d you…” started Anita. “O h, I know… you were gonna say ‘Well, you can’t see anything right now’”.

“No I wasn’t,” I declared innocently. “I was gonna say… okay, yes I was.”

“It’s a good thing you didn’t, Jack.”

“I know.”

“What do you get out of it, anyway?” she asked.

“I feel like I’m helping people, keeping their focus on their weight loss journey,” I replied. “Lightening their load a little. Providing some good, useful information.”

“Okay,” she said. “Read me what you wrote there.”

“Ummm,” I stammered. “Well, some posts are more informative than others.”

“What’s it called?” she demanded.

“Ummm… Jacksey Shore.”

“Oh no…” she sighed.

“By the way,” I said. “Could you start calling me The Sh*tuation from now on?”






->

Jack & Anita

“Hey, Anita,” I said to my wife as she walked into the kitchen. “How’s your sister?”

“Fine,” replied Anita. “She noticed the new earrings you got me for my birthday.”

“Oh,” I said. “What’d she have to say about ‘em?”

“Oh, she said ‘Those must be real diamonds.’”

“Yeah,” I smiled. “But how could she tell?”

“Because,” smiled Anita, “She said no one buys fake diamonds that small.”

“Ouch,” I winced.

“Speaking of gifts,” she said. “Why aren’t you wearing that new belt I got you?”

“I dunno,” I said, cracking open a tub of yogurt. “It’s kinda flashy. I don’t really like being too flashy.”

“It’s brown,” she remarked.

“Maybe if it was dark brown,” I said, dropping a handful of raisins in the yogurt. “Besides, I like my belt.”

“But look at that thing,” she laughed. “How many holes have you poked in it with a screwdriver?”

“I dunno,” I shrugged. “I haven’t really been keeping count.”

“Five?”

“No, more like seven,” I corrected her.

“How’s tomorrow’s blog post coming?”

“I gotta killer idea. I’m gonna go on a hilarious crazy-mad rant about things I hate like teeny-tiny serving sizes and fat people in little scooters I was gonna call it ‘The Jack of All Tirades’…”

“Don’t quit your day job.”

“Hey, I think it’s pretty good…”

“No, I mean we just got our property tax bill,” she replied. “For God’s sake, please don’t quit your day job.”