I don't know about you, but I have a sickness. I HAVE been known to have breakfast. Yes indeedy, no one is as good at making a delicious omelette as me. The cheese has not been born, nor the mushroom, that has escaped my omelette. Bacon is My Friend. Ham comes by every so often for a chat, sausage -- well she hasn't been around in a while.
And I've been known to nod kindly at Lunch. A midday burger? Not fast food, mind you. BLT is good. Hot dog does not escape my midday notice. But since I don't come from an office culture, Cup-o'-Soup just doesn't come into my meal plan.
No, no, no. The Meal is always dinner. Dinner is my ongoing obsession. Yes, it IS categorically OCD-describable.
I must -- repeat, must -- know what is for dinner, each and every day. Sometimes, no, often -- it must be a day or two in advance. You have never seen someone as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs as when I do not know what is in the cards for tonight's dinner.
I don't know where this comes from. Possibly boarding school, when all the meals were predictable weeks in advance. A Nervous Disposition. Who knows? But let me tell you, when someone I'm with hasn't come up with a decent game plan for what is going to be tonight's dinner by the time my sexy eyelashes have come fluttering to life first thing in the morning, the scheming dreamer comes to life as if newly plugged into a light socket.
And if what's for dinner isn't established in the first five minutes of wakefulness, well, that's when the voices start telling me to clean my guns.