Honest Conversation Is Overrated
Actual Human Interactions Witnessed Or Overheard
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
One of Comrade's friends is a high school drama teacher who is constantly trying to get us to do coupley things with him and his husband. I don't think I'd be fond of either of them, though I like most of Comrade's friends. So any time I've been invited to something, I come up with something better to do, even if that's sleeping, or being strapped in a chair Clockwork Orange style to watch a marathon of "The King Of Queens".
Last night, Comrade was texting when he laughed at his phone. Me: "What?" Comrade: "Michael and his husband have started doing couples improv." Me: "So they're getting a divorce?" Comrade: "Not yet. I guess tonight was supposed to be the first night but nobody else showed up so it had to be cancelled." Me: "Because everybody else came to their senses?" Comrade: "You don't like improv?" Me: "Improv is an art form. Not a therapy. I've known enough people who've tried to turn performance poetry into therapy who've ruined their relationships, I wouldn't dare try and use improv that way." Comrade: "So you don't want to go next week?" Me: "NO. No, definitely not. Not at all." Comrade: "Oh good, because Michael invited us, but I told him we couldn't make it because we're not dweebs." In other news, Comrade and I have joined a local Couples' Russian Roulette group that has an impressively small divorce rate.
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Looking at a fancy menu.
Comrade: Did that say "crop dusted French fries"? Me: Crab dusted. Comrade: Ok, that's not as gross but it is just as weird. Free prompt overheard at Logan Airport:
"Bitch, shut up. Aren't you older than me? 'cus you're about, a foot and a half taller than me but about five feet stupider than I've ever been." Living with Selina is like sharing a house with a malfunctioning smoke alarm with dying batteries that follows you around the house, occasionally headbutting you.
And now, a short poem, which is also a flash fiction piece based on a real news event:
Green Comet will Appear in the Night Sky for the First Time since the Stone Age Today I woke up and my fiancé had washed the dishes. I am often pessimistic in imagining how my friendships are going (I was that way with relationships, but I long since passed that threshold with Comrade. I'm not sure why I was able to be comfortable with a relationship within a year, and yet I still worry that I've misjudged a friendship I've had for over twenty years if the other person doesn't return a text or an email because...you know...life happens.).
When Comrade and I were scouting for a new cat last fall, I instantly fell in love with Polly (though she wasn't the first cat we'd met that I loved), and so did he. He was the one who went and brought her home and spent the first day with her. She adores him. She also adores me. But we've joked about how much more she loves him than me. This is not true. Like most affectionate cats, she loves whoever is the most recent addition to the room. I know this. But the other day, as I was working on editing, and Comrade was at work, she sat on the floor, stared intently at a picture of Comrade with his dog, Luna, and began meowing pitifully. I tried calling her over, but she just stood there crying at his picture. I guess she really does love Comrade more than-- And then she leapt up and caught the tiny moth she'd been patiently stalking, and brought it over to me. After seeing a Completely Wrong version of this cast list, here is how Comrade and I would cast A Muppets' Princess Bride:
Framing story: Robin as The Grandson Kermit as Grandpa/The Narrator Main story: Gonzo as Westley/Dread Pirate Roberts/The Man in Black Miss Piggy as Buttercup/The Princess Bride Pepe as Inigo Montoya Sam The Eagle as Prince Humperdinck Uncle Deadly as Count Tyrone Rugen Rizzo as Vizzini Sweetums as Fezzik The Swedish Chef as The Impressive Clergyman Beauregard as The Albino Waldorf as Valerie, Max's wife Statler as Miracle Max Lew Zealand as The Ancient Booer Fozzie as Yellin Animal as The King This is, maybe, my favorite Because You Bought X, You'll Love Y suggestion.
"Based on your recent purchase of an an engagement band, we think you'll love:" On our third date, we were discussing ice cream flavors. Preferable, acceptable, and forbidden. We're both fans of cookies and cream ice cream because neither of us are soulless monsters.
Comrade: I could eat cookies and cream flavored anything. Ice cream, cake, fish sticks, glue. Me: Same with one exception. Cookies and cream flavored Oreos make no sense. It's like lemon flavored lemons. Comrade: I love you. Hence, I've spent the last several months searching for a metaphorical cookies and creme engagement band. Nothing tacky, like a big old Oreo on the finger. I finally found one that looked just right last month. Of course, to be sneaky, I didn't measure Comrade's finger, I just compared it to mine and thought We Both Have Small Hands. What fits me will .... Not so much. Soon we'll have matching bands but for now we'll keep this aside. I also bought this cookies and cream candle which looks and smells Way Too Edible. Goose passed in August, and one of my friends, who works as a vet tech, picked her up and took her to be cremated. And then Goose got lost. Our postal carrier is neither the best nor the worst I've encountered, but we often get packages that are clearly addressed to houses a couple of streets over, and there have been a few documents that have never arrived that were sent by responsible people who wouldn't lie to me about sending them.
It is what it is. When I realized, in October, that we still didn't have Goose's remains, I went to the post office to see if maybe I had missed a card that requested my signature or something, and they claimed not to have anything. I couldn't remember the name of the place where Goose had been cremated, and I didn't want to bother anyone because I figured it had either been delivered to the wrong address, and there was nothing that could be done about it, or I had just run into someone at the post office who wasn't the best informed employee, and they would send the remains back to the crematorium. I didn't think anyone was deliberately trying to steal cat ashes for some elaborate scam. On Tuesday, I was at work when my cell phone rang. Guy From Crematorium: Hello? Me: Yes. How can I help you? (I was at work, where I routinely get to be rude to telemarketers and scam artists.) GFC: I'm calling from Forget Me Not Crematorium. So, it's ironic that I forgot the name. GFC: I'm calling because we just got the remains of Motherfucker Goose back and wanted to know if we should try and resend her to you, or whether you would like to come and pick Motherfucker up. I should let you know that we played rock, paper, scissors to see who got to call you because we all wanted a chance to swear at work. Me: "I don't think I live too close to you, but I could make some calls and figure something out. Can I call you back in a couple of hours." GFC: "It doesn't need to be today. Motherfucker will be waiting here for you. She's on the Shelf Of Honor until you can figure something out." Me: "Thank you." GFC: "No problem. You have a good day. We'll make sure Motherfucker is back with you soon." |
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