My boyfriend reminds me of Tony Romo and makes a mean-ass corned beef hash

Daddy and I used to have this weekend morning ritual that involved canned meat, frozen hashbrown, coffee and naked bodies seated at the dining table while watching NFL recaps. That was until we entered a time warp and every weekend went by in the blink of an eye. 

This Sunday morning, we relived the glory days. I took B-dawg out for a contemplative pee (I contemplated, he peed) while Daddy manned the kitchen and made hashbrowns from scratch. Then he realized there were no vegtables in the bin (heck, there hasn't been a phenom like that since last month as far as I can recall) and that all the oil we have left is of the olive variety, and whined for five minutes trying to get me to go down to the grocery store to pick up the goods.

"Bayyy beee... I can't cook without it! I want a perfect corned beef haaaasssh," he said in his cute little boy voice, encapsulating me with his naked upper body and muscular arms. This attempt, of course, fails horribly as the little boy act rarely ever turns me on but the arms kept my ears a-perk. 

"You can cook with olive oil. What they say about heating it is a fallacy," I responded. 

"No way, it's bad for you," Daddy's death grip tightens around me, his arm muscles bulging out even more. This attempt is working.

"We'll google it," I decide, resisting the urge to give in I typed in a few keywords, opened a few tabs and voila -- it's totally okay to cook with olive oil. You can even deep fry with it, but restaurants don't do that because, duh, it's expensive!

Deafted, Daddy headed back into the kitchen as I watched a commentary piece on Tomy Romo (who, by the way, is still with Jessica Simpson despite all the controvesy about her weight, which I tooootally love both of them for sticking it out and ignoring the institution of highschool that is the tabloids). 

"Wow bay, you totally remind me of Tony Romo! Especially when you wear your cap backwards...cute..." I shouted from the couch. I always thought he kinda looked like an asshole, ala Ben Affleck, but I guess that's what happens when your mind tries as hard as it can to justify things.

"But I thought you said he looked like an asshole!" Daddy shouted back, over the sizzling sounds of canned, generic meat, starch and olive oil.

"No, not anymore. He kinda looks like you." Anyone and anything with Daddy's similarities automatically gets a ''Get Out of Jail Free' card. Except for Mario Lopez. And his cheese nips. Any guy who cheats on Ali Landry can go to douchebag hell. 

"Well that's reassuring for Romo, " Daddy said, as he brought out two plates of delicious corned-beef hash, complete with shredded marbled cheese and a big splat of Ketchup (which, by the way I just found out this weekend, apparently originated from China!), "but I gotta say, Jessica Simpson was the worst thing that happend to him. She basically ruined is career!"

"What?! No way, it's not her fault...what are you talking about?" I asked, coming to Miss Simpson's defense. A woman with her own line of hair extensions, bags and shoes surely could do no wrong. And I think that's the only reason why I support her. That and the whole weight thing 'cuz Lord knows, I've been through that hell at least three times in my life.

"Women are a bad distraction for men. Successful relationships are great, but if they get in the way of your work, forget it. Your work is not your life but your work does allow you to afford your life." Daddy explained. Deep. Kinda. I was actually expecting some kinda mimbo joke.

"Do I distract you?" A little girl voice from within asked. I suddenly felt really small and unbelonging. It was only a few hours ago that I had jumped on him in bed, pretending his pelvic region was a mini trampoline for my pooty while he furrowed his brow and begged for me to let him sleep.

Daddy looked at me and smiled, "you already have an unconditional 'Get Out of Jail Free' card. Now shut up and eat your breakfast."