The New & Improved J-Fed

He may not be able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, but since moving out on his own J-Fed can cook, clean, grocery shop, do laundry and pay his bills. After nine years, I had no idea he had it in him. I’m not kidding. I didn’t even know that he could wipe his ass on his own, yet alone run a household solo.

I walked into his plush apartment the other day, and I thought my eyes betrayed me. The place was immaculate, and by that I mean spotless. Clean and tidy… Spic and span… Tidy to a fault… Was he really living here or was he a master illusionist who made all of the mess disappear the instant I knocked on the door? I mean, this was the type of environment I only dreamt of having, and that bastard was living my dream. I hadn’t experienced such shock and awe since the U.S. bombed Iraq. And to be frank, in that instance, I wished I had my own weapons of mass destruction to wreak havoc upon J-Fed’s humble abode. Undeserving little troll…

The first thing that J-Fed ordered me to do was remove my shoes before I took another step in the pristine palace of Sir J-Fed. Shoes were forbidden.

“This is brand new carpet!” he whined. “Leave your shoes by the door. The last thing I need is a bunch of dirt being tracked in.”

Oh… My… God… He sounded like a nagging woman. Better yet, he sounded like MEEEEEEEEEEEEE! I pinched myself really hard on my arm to make sure I hadn’t landed in some parallel universe. As I looked around I noticed there wasn’t one toy to trip over. The sink was empty of dirty dishes and the counters were scrubbed clean. There was not a crumb in sight. Nowhere did I even spot an empty Frappuccino bottle. Everything was tucked neatly in its place. I had expected a total pigsty, yet my eyes did not deceive me. If there was a contest for cleanliness, J-Fed would have me beat hands down. Talk about an injustice!

I took a mental inventory of his spotless apartment, which gave me just another reason to hate his living guts. There were no dirty diapers, no dog slobber, no overflowing garbage cans, no dishes stacked up in the sink. And his closet… It was as impeccable as a department store clothing rack. The dirty clothes had somehow managed to land in the hamper, and not in their usual place on the floor.

To say I felt distraught would be an understatement. It was somewhat like living in a beat up tent and scavenging for scraps out of a garbage can with a man for most of your life, only to find out in reality that he had a zillion dollars in the bank and you could have been residing in a mansion feasting on filet mignon.

“J-Fed, your place is immaculate. How is this possible? Who’s doing all of this for you?” I said in disbelief. Someone had to be helping him. If I found out he’d hired a cleaning lady, heads were going to roll.

“I clean it. What do you think my apartment just gets clean by itself? Somebody has to do it,” And in that statement the last nine years flashed before me. Finally, he was realizing that somebody has to cook, clean, do laundry, shop, etc for it to get done. Amazing. When he lived with me, he assumed that magic fairies did it all because surely lazy Kiki wasn’t the one running the house. And surely, nothing was getting done at the hands of J-Fed.

He had been faking it all of these years, once again playing possum. He was obviously more than capable of doing it all. To add insult to injury, J-Fed excused himself to start a load of laundry. I could have slapped that smarmy smile off his face, but I knew it was unlikely I’d have been able to stop myself at one blow. I took a long, hard look around his place one more time so I’d have a mental picture of the loser’s new lifestyle.

Lucky for J-Fed I was a God-fearing woman or he’d be six feet deep in my backyard, you know the one he never cut.