I wrote this before Obama was elected, but some things never change.

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In our house we have what I consider a pleasant Sunday morning ritual. Richard fixes breakfast and then we watch an episode of the original Twilight Zone while we eat. It’s the only meal he is capable of preparing that doesn’t involve a box of Hamburger Helper. He carefully crafts an artery-clogging feast, strategically placed on the plate in an aesthetically pleasing manner. Although calling it breakfast might be wishful thinking on my part.

Every Sunday morning my obsessive compulsive boyfriend informs me, “It’s a process. ”

This process involves him drinking a cup of coffee and smoking a cigarette while he does something on the computer. Reliable Sources with Howard Kurz on CNN is next on the agenda, along with more coffee and cigarettes. He finally gets up and takes bacon, eggs, bread and margarine out of the refrigerator and arranges them on the counter in a pattern discernible only to members of the local chapter of the Anal Retentive Association of America. A pan is placed on the burner and a cookie sheet on the stove. Flatware and napkins must be arranged just so.

Richard drifts back to the living room to drink more coffee and smoke another cigarette while channel surfing between cable news and the History Channel, all the while railing against liberals. It doesn’t matter if they are running for President in 2008 or maliciously worked to destroy the country during the Depression with all that New Deal crap. They’re liberals, therefore they’re wrong.

After a bit of that, it’s time for him to take a shower. Being a civilized human being, he is unable to prepare eggs unless his body is completely cleansed of imaginary dirt and sweat. This part of the Sunday morning ritual is an obvious indictment of the woman who would gladly cook an egg after crawling twenty-four miles through a sewer if it meant she could eat breakfast sometime before midnight. Once Richard has scrubbed every accessible inch of his body, he makes his near-sterile and triumphant return to the kitchen, and begins to cook. By this time it might be afternoon instead of morning, and I’ve already snuck into the kitchen behind his back to scrounge around for a cookie. If I time it right and remember to brush the crumbs off my lips, he remains in the dark regarding my perfidy.

My breakfast is finally served and Richard begins to caress the remote control with more fervor than he’s ever shown his penis. He looks at me and asks, “Are you ready?”

I mumble an affirmative through a mouthful of scrambled eggs and he presses the play button. The telltale music and black and white screen introduce another episode of Rod Serling’s legacy. This one involves a trophy wife cavorting around the pool with a well-built young interloper, while her wealthy and elderly husband looks on from an upstairs window.

“Hey, did you see how his wife is dressed?” I asked, the indignation in my voice apparent to every living creature within ten feet except Richard.

He tore his gaze from the computer and replied, “No.”

“She was wearing a one-piece bathing suit and a pair of high heels,” I declared, my bacon congealing on my plate as I began to work myself into a rant.

“What’s wrong with that? That’s how women are supposed to dress,” he said as he fastidiously cut up his bacon with a knife and fork. He then eyed my bare feet, unshaved legs, baggy shorts, and t-shirt declaring Warning – This Bitch Starts Automatically with displeasure. “Are you a self-taught woman?”

“Yes, I am. I wanted to memorize my copy of ‘How to Please Your Man in 20 Simple Steps, All of Them Involving Inconvenience and Discomfort To You’, but I used it to club my ex-husband to death and the police confiscated it.”

“That’s a shame. It sounds like the type of book that would be helpful to you. Now go fetch me some coffee, and don’t put any of those frilly girly things in it like cream and sugar. ”

I finished my delicious and fattening breakfast in peace and quiet after utilizing my six pound Webster’s New World Dictionary in a manner Mr. Webster probably never intended. Mrs. Webster? I bet that woman could swing a heavy book.