Keith Snyder
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World of cheese and infants

Cheese makes me happy. I don't know nearly as much about it as I know about tea, and I probably couldn't tell a double-cream brie from a triple-cream brie without looking at the label—and some days you could probably slip a Camembert past me and I'd never know it—but if I had to spend the rest of my life locked in one store on Austin Street, it would be Cheese World.

I spent 2:15–2:20 AM wrapping a perfectly innocent Maytag Blue in roast beef slices and snarfing it, standing next to the fridge. 2:20–2:25 was big globs of brie slathered onto prosciutto sandanielle, and before that, this weekend's Cheese World haul got just generally ransacked and razed. I have a cheese knife shaped like a mouse that Kathleen got me because she thinks it's cute that cheese makes me happy, but I couldn't find it. The entire complicated project almost derailed over this, but a generic cheese knife surfaced in the silverware drawer and I mastered my sentimentality.

(Before that, like midnight until 2:00, I clear-cut a forest of mostly emptied baby bottles that ranged over the stove, made a lot of formula, and washed lots of dishes. There are now 12 clean, filled bottles in the fridge with a spare Mason-Ball jar of Enfamil Prosobee Lipil formula. Apparently the people who make up lipstick names have found second jobs where they can free-associate.)

Opening for the bottle cavalcade was the Nonstop Baby Show, featuring our very special acts:

  • Crying
  • Repeatedly Faking Out Daddy So He Thinks You're Sleeping And He Can Get Back To Work—Haha, Daddy!
  • Squealing Very Loudly

This last was closely followed by:
  • Sucking Down A Bottle Without Waking Up
  • Whining
  • Amazing Diaper Super-Saturation
  • Giggling When Daddy Sings The Go-To-Sleep Songs—Haha, Daddy!
  • Sucking Down Another Bottle Way Sooner Than You Were Supposed To, Making It Hard For Daddy To Tell You Were Hungry In The First Place

which meant there was
  • Much Sniveling

followed by

  • Straining, Mewling, Squeaking, Farting

and closing with our very special magic act:
  • Somehow Rotating 90° In The Crib While Fast Asleep


I've been hacking away at the smoked Rambol the last couple of nights, because it goes with the roast beef, but I got to feeling, oh, I don't know. Hackneyed. You have to shake yourself out of ruts when you're an artist, even when they're creamy, smoky ruts with roast beefy edges.

I have no conclusion to this entry, but someone needs to ensnare this woman in a book contract.



Not sleepy, Daddy! Not sleepy!


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