HAVE SOME OF MY DRIED FISH!

Much as it may surprise you, I am not in the fine physical condition of a woman half my apartment-mate's age. No doctor needs to tell me this.
Nor is my apartment mate trying to kill me.

There are a number of things that we share. Asian condiments. Ginger, garlic, and onions. Caffeinated beverages. Convenience meat (ie., bacon, spam, pate, and sliced luncheon thingies), dairy, cookies, and ice cream.

She had a physical check-up a few weeks ago, and passed with flying colours. As fit and vigorous as a woman half her age. Since then, there has been more bacon in the refrigerator, cookies in the teevee room, and icecream in the freezer compartment.

Cholesterol-wise, she's doing fine. Piece of cake.


I must point out that I am about twenty percent older than her at present. Which means a woman half her age would be forty percent of mine. And capable of facing the temptation of so much icecream with fewer qualms. Probably no less enthusiasm, but more confidence.

I am made of softer stuff, and cannot resist the naughty wink-wink of a bucket of Dreyers finest. One bowl after my green chili omelette. Two bowls. Even three.

Chocolate icecream is the worst. It has the heart of a sex-bombe.
I go wimp and leak-kneed, then give up completely.
Late at night I guiltily devour.
So good!


My apartment mate is welcome to have some of my dried fish, hotsauce, or noodles. There is plenty! Sofar there have been no inroads.

And she's not eating enough bacon.




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