Lady Hobbits After Modernity Hits The Shire
Second breakfast is completed with no issue, aside from Sam gesturing wildly at us with a blood sausage.
2:03am: I’m awoken by a scuttling sound outside my window as Samwise Gamgee is ushered out of the newly erected Prancing Pony XXX Club. Ever since Rosie left him two moons ago, Sam’s spent every night getting melancholy foot rubs at the club. And ruining my sleep.
2:08am: Finally, a hush befalls The Shire. I yawn and wish a potato famine upon J.R.R. Tolkien for convincing Frodo to sign away our life story rights. Becoming Middle-Earth famous sure turned Frodo into a little goblin queen. I fall asleep counting my many grievances against Tolkien…
4:00am: My potato alarm clock buzzes and despite feeling like utter Mordor, I hop out of bed. There’s SEVEN MEALS to prepare, a troll of a task ever since Frodo returned after another movie premiere claiming that cooking is “women’s work” in the Modern World.
4:30am: Neighbors Ivy and Petunia arrive—we focus our rage into rolling pastry dough for the menfolk’s first breakfast. Despite Frodo and his little Gathering imbibing into the wee hours, they’ve a relentless ability to wake at 7 o’clock expecting us “female hobbits” to feed them.
6:00am: Petunia stirs strawberry jam while I throw in a generous amount of belladonna. Us women of The Shire started dosing the menfolk a moon ago after their incessant demands for foot rubs made us clench butter knives a little too long. (Though us hobbits are a non-violent race, we have our limits.)
6:59am: Breakfast platters have been distributed to the doorsteps of our menfolk. We observe from a nearby hill, which provides a safe distance from the hungover and ever-foot-rub-demanding hobbit men.
8:15am: Poppy from down-the-road is at my door, asking why in Middle-Earth was a potato on her doorstep this morning. We grimace because that’s Sam’s way of ordering “bangers and mash” from pretty hobbit ladies. I invite Poppy to shelter at my house for the next quarter moon.
9:00am: Second breakfast is completed with no issue, aside from Sam gesturing wildly at us with a blood sausage. Valerian root will be added to his meals from now on.
10:30am: Bailey from just-over-the-hill stopped by to exchange cheeses for Elevenses. Apparently, there’s a flyer at the communal potato garden announcing that Frodo is hosting an All-Feets Meeting at noon…
12:05pm: There’s a crude charcoal drawing of what I think is “Gollum in a wig” being passed around. Frodo proclaims this is the beauty standard in the Modern World, therefore he is banning potato consumption due to a black magic called keto. Sam is on the brink of tears, but then Frodo clarifies that only “female hobbits” shall refrain from eating potatoes.
1:12pm: Sam’s hungry bellows are heard all across The Shire. Frodo knocks at my door, inquiring why Luncheon is late. I share that we lady hobbits are too malnourished to cook. Frodo scratches at his man-bun and I slam the door in his face.
3:23pm: Us women of The Shire discuss next steps over Afternoon Tea. Another knock at my door, and Frodo stands with an emaciated ogre at his side. “Is that ogre wearing Elvish costume?” I ask. Frodo’s jaw tightens, then he introduces me to “Arwen.” Now that he’s found the love of his life, the potato ban is lifted and “female hobbits” should commence cooking. I remember to smile.
5:55pm: Wolfsbane has been added to the beef stew. The dinner platters are resting on the hobbit men’s doorsteps. We wait.
Suppertime: Sam, being the heaviest of the hobbit men, is the last to be added to the fire pit. Us women of The Shire gather ‘round the flames and curse Tolkien a final time. I hand a fork over to Arwen, the previously foot-trafficked and starved ogress. She’s an incredibly pleasant ogre once you get to know her.
