Hungry For Change In Chicago
I seem to be in a real pickle in regard to my wife Candy and my eighteen-year-old son Cal. He works in my bakery after school. The problem is, because he never kneads the dough, all he does is loaf. I won't sugar coat it, he's a bad seed, a rotten apple. I've handed him a plum job, but no matter how much I egg him on, he just peppers me with salty language.
Blabby, if I spill the beans and tell my wife how I intend to fire our son, I'm toast! She's become nuttier than a fruitcake, demanding that we spend our hard earned bread to send him to a fancy French cooking school. I'll butter her up, and in good taste, explain to her that it's time for our deadbeat boy to get his just deserts, even if it only means garnishing his wages.
It pains me to admit that if Cal were a car, he'd be a lemon. As for Candy, she's no longer my cup of tea. And I'm so burned out I feel like I'm becoming a vegetable.
Blabby, I have a regular customer named Ginger who's a real honey and a smart cookie to boot. She's Cal's age and is what my dad would have called a hot tomato. She digs me, Blabby, and would add so much spike to my life if we were to run off together. It would be as easy as pie. Food for thought?
Hungry for Change in Chicago
You find yourself in this stew because your ideas are half baked. Try a new recipe.
Copyright © Robert Gorelick | Year Posted 2022
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