Breakfast of Champions

My parents occasionally make sporadic visits to Las Vegas to visit, which usually mean at least one of several things.

  1. Having more dinner options than just turkey vs. PB & J sandwiches for dinner on account of my being too exhausted to cook a substantial meal.
  2. Free delivery of Costco products for everything I need in bulk so that I don’t need to buy toilet paper or Q-tips for another 3 years.
  3. Reminders to consume more vitamin C, apply eye cream, and wear my retainer because paying for orthodontics wasn’t just about flushing several grand down my throat.

A practically naked pantry and refrigerator whose only truly full shelf contains beer, wine, and soju means that as long as I’m at work, my parentals are relatively limited in their culinary selections in my home, which I share with my 6’4″ (or 6’5″? Not sure – once I have to crane my neck, it’s pretty much all the same) roommate Cam.

One morning when I had the luxury of sleeping in, I slipped downstairs to eat breakfast while my dad kept busy on a conference call. I suddenly tore myself away from the kitchen table and ran upstairs in a sheer panic as I realized I wasn’t even aware as to whether or not my dad had eaten as a result of my pitiful excuse of a kitchen.

Me: Dad! Did you eat yet? Sorry, I already started eating downstairs!
My dad: Yes, I ate a while ago before my call.
Me: Oh! Well what did you eat?
My dad: Your pink Mini Wheats cereal. I was actually going to eat the Oatmeal Squares cereal I saw in your pantry, but it was on the very top shelf, so I knew it was your roommate’s and not yours because you’d be too short to get it.

I COULD reach it. I just choose not to.

I COULD reach it. I just choose not to.

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