My husband is a smart guy. He knows a lot about a lot of things. I would consider him to be one of those people who is both life smart AND book smart AND good at fixing washing machines. (Ours keeps breaking and breaking and breaking – I’m about to go all “I’m sending a really snarky email to Bosch” any day now.) Yes, I’m lucky to have him, otherwise I’d probably be dead, or in the very least, dressed in extremely stinky clothing.
Admittedly, I’m not as “I know useful things” smart as Dr. Know-It-All. I’m more like “Cosmo magazine” smart, which means I can tell you which celebrity couples have the best sex – I’d say Justin Timberlake and Jessica Biel – stuff like that. I’m also pretty good at starting up conversation with complete strangers in line at the grocery store. Sadly, neither of these things really helps a person when it comes to actually “surviving”. Ask me to make my way from New York City to Miami (by car – I could do it by plane) on my own, or last a day in the Sahara, and I’d be doomed.
Speaking of knowing how to survive, there is this fish that my husband says is so small, it can swim up your urethra and suck all the blood out of your body, or something crazy like that.
I imagine myself out frolicking in the Amazon River – cooling off because it’s bloody hot in that area of the world – when out of nowhere, some little bugger would flutter his way into my body, and then eat me alive from the inside out. It could happen. My question: how would a person even know it was there? Like if the fish is that small, how would I feel it? I wouldn’t. At some point later in the day, when I started to seize and blood started pouring out of my eyeballs, I might clue in that something was wrong. By then, it would be too late.
My point is, it would be nice to know some things, like it would be nice if someone made a handbook for people like me – those of us who don’t spend all of their time reading encyclopedias on the internet for fun, like my husband. Nothing like that exists, so I made one, or a partial one. Yes, I had to look things up, but I feel much safer already.
1. Quicksand. Watch for it if you go for a walk in the forest, though once you see it, chances are, your foot will be stuck, and you will slowly get sucked into the earth. Breathing underground isn’t very fun. It’s kind of impossible.
2. Flavoured yogurt. This stuff has WAY too much sugar, you just don’t know it. Danone doesn’t tell you this kind of information. You think you’re getting healthy and the next minute, you’re a diabetic and your feet are rotting off.
3. Hidden cliffs. Sometimes, they just come out of nowhere, especially when you are traveling in the Scottish countryside.
4. Smoking. Yup, bad for you – really bad – but who knew? They sell cigarettes like they sell candy – in stores. Anybody can slap on a mustache and look nineteen.
5. Drinking too much water. Proof that too much of anything is bad. But water? Seriously. What if I’m REALLY thirsty?
6. Potassium cyanide. It looks like sugar. Don’t get the two mixed up though, unless you are into asphyxiation.
7. Clostridium botulinum. It is the genome – or something – of the world’s deadliest toxin. Less than 2kg of this stuff (or part of this stuff or something having to do with this stuff) could kill every person on the planet. All I know – it’s found in soil. Yeah, have a good day. (Note: this information may or may not be accurate. Hey, I’m not a freakin’ biologist.)
8. Western water hemlock. It looks like an innocent little flowering plant, but if you eat it, you basically turn into a zombie – you can’t walk properly and you froth at the mouth – and then you die. My thought: if you get lost in the forest and you are starving to death, drink your own pee or eat a grasshopper. It’s much safer.
9. The song “Cherry Pie” by Warrant from the album of the same awesome name. I know, it seems innocuous enough, but listening to it for any longer than thirty seconds can cause irreversible brain damage. And the video? Don’t even get me started on that.
10. Swimming in the Amazon. You may not think so – it seems as if it would be safe enough, like going on the ride “Toy Story Mania” at Disneyland – but it CAN cause problems. Can you say piranhas?
Enough with the sarcasm, you say to yourself. Who in their right mind would swim in the Amazon? Well, I know of a few people – my parents, for two. Actually, after what happened to my mother, I would rather fork myself in the foot than splash about in that South American liquid death trap.
Here’s the story…
Since they retired, my parents have been traveling the world. They’ve been everywhere – Europe, Africa, India, New Brunswick, etc. etc. They even went on a trip that took them four hours by boat through the rainforest where they stayed in a hut filled with spiders and other deadly animals for two weeks. No doubt, my parents are adventurous. Even though I look exactly like my mother, I have a sneaky feeling I could be adopted.
While they were there, they did lots of sightseeing – mostly looking at animals, exploring the jungle, talking with the locals. And what kind of trip would it be without a swim in the Amazon River? It wasn’t scary, they said. Just sort of murky, like alligators could be in there. “Fun” as my dad put it. Nothing out of the ordinary happened. No one got ravenously dismembered. It was a once in a lifetime experience, and they took it.
Unfortunately, soon thereafter, my mother developed an itchy and oozing rash all over her body. When she got back to Canada, she went to the doctor. He didn’t know what it was, so he sent her to the Centre for Infectious Diseases. As impressive as that sounds, they didn’t know what it was either. Nobody really knew, but in the end, someone came up with the diagnosis “chiggers”.
Unlike regular chiggers that supposedly last a few weeks, these chiggers lasted a whopping six months. These were super strong Amazon River chiggers. Chiggers from hell. Chiggers of the new millennium. Not sure my mother would swim in the Amazon River again.
But hey, you don’t have to travel deep into the South American rainforest to get chiggers. You can get them in Africa, Asia, North America, and quite possibly in the bushes outside of McDonald’s – almost anywhere really.
Also, did you know that hot yoga can kill you? Yes, it can. And some guy died from watching too much television – the only activity I figured was guaranteed safe. He saw that episode of Honey Boo Boo where Mama June and Sugar Bear got married, and his brain imploded.
Moral: Live your life, and if a fish swims up your pee hole and eats you alive, then so be it. It was meant to happen. A person can’t know everything.
Swimming The Amazon: 3,274 Miles On The World’s Deadliest River Very interesting read!
Travel In Tropical Forests: A Micro Guide For Beginners I like the author’s suggestion of getting sex when you can – that you shouldn’t be lazy. You should just go for it. Good advice, I’d say LOL.
Last week, our washing machine went on the fritz – again. It’s less than three years old. The same thing has happened to our dishwasher. It is the same age, and it’s been broken four times. FOUR TIMES. In fact, it’s broken as we speak. I simply can’t be bothered to call the service guy to come back and fix it again. I’d rather just wash the damn dishes myself. I did it for twenty years – that’s how long it took us to save enough money to actually BUY a dishwasher. Anyway, it was no biggie. I managed.
Here’s the story. When we moved into our new house three years ago, we bought all new appliances to go with it. In making our choices, my husband and I foolishly thought, Hey, we aren’t poor students anymore. We can get something nice – something that will presumably last forever, or for ten years, at least. Boy, were we wrong.
Our technician Frank – yes, he’s a friend now – told us that what we’ve been experiencing is typical. “They just don’t make appliances the way they used to,” he said – a direct quote from someone who has been in the business for some twenty years. “They make the parts out of plastic now.” Obviously.
I know what the companies are thinking too – sure, they are less durable, but the materials are cheaper. Besides, people will pay to fix them when they break. They need their washing machines, their dishwashers, and their refrigerators. What are we gonna do? Wash our pants down by the river on one of those knuckle-erasing scrub boards? It was bad enough taking six loads to the bloody laundromat. I know – middle class people problems.
No, I just paid the-warranty-has-expired $800. The thing didn’t cost much more than that. I should also make myself a t-shirt that says, “Fuck me – I can take it.” Here I’m referring to life screwing me over. It’s not an invite for random strangers. Just FYI [wink, wink].
Personally, I think this half-assed-ness is everywhere in today’s society. OK, so it’s not quite everywhere. That’s an exaggeration. The leather couch that I bought a while ago from The Eleanor Rigby Leather Company is a real beauty, even with the cat claw marks slashed across the seat. She’s a tank, my Veracruz two-cushion, Italian leather paladin. I have no doubt that she’ll be around for centuries. She’s like Stone Henge in couch form. She was one quality purchase, but here’s the thing – yes, in her case, we got what we paid for, but we paid one pretty penny.
That’s how it is though. You see, there’s the “utter” crap – the Dollar Store fare, the “marginally better” regular crap – the goods you buy at Walmart, the “stuff that looks nice but is still crap” crap – I’m thinking IKEA here, the “pretends to be quality but really can’t withstand the test of time” crap – the stuff you get at Sears, The Bay, or any other random department store, and the “good quality but nobody but Rihanna can afford it” gear – I won’t call it “crap” – that you buy in stores where there is a security guard standing at the door.
I could have bought a $15 000 Sub Zero refrigerator. I like the side-by-side, one half glass, one half not, model. No doubt, it would last marginally longer than three years. But that’s $15 000. Most people buy cars with that amount of money.
I buy what most people buy – the majority of which is garbage. I could make a list. I also bought some sheets that were supposed to be nice. 700 thread count, or so it said on the package. They pilled in about six months. Or how about those pillows my daughter forced me to get from the aforementioned Swedish furniture and accessories labyrinth? They literally disintegrated in less time than it takes me to vacuum the kitchen.
But it’s not just home appliances, bedroom accessories, and microwaves. (Yeah, my microwave is broken too. That lasted less than a year. Panasonic, you douche.) I bought a book off of Amazon called Black Steel And White Satin: Naughty Bedtime Stories For Interracial Lovers. Talk about wow, wow, wow – not good “wows” either. And I know, the fact that the main characters in the first story are named “Hon” and “Babe” should’ve tipped me off. It didn’t – so sue me. (Note: I haven’t linked the book to anything. There’s no way in hell that you want to buy it. Trust me on this one.)
And don’t even get me started on the fact that Kim Kardashian and Lil Wayne are the inspiration for many of the young people today. Actually, if you ask me, I feel like Lil Wayne – as foul-mouthed and ridiculous as he is – is actually doing something. It takes time to have all those tattoos inked on, doesn’t it? He has a point of view too – a message, however screwed up it may be. In my opinion, “shawty wanna hump, you know I like to touch ya lovely lady lumps” is better than being famous for doing absolutely nothing. I give him points for actually formulating some sort of idea.
All sarcasm aside, why are we celebrating stupid? Why do we flock to stores in droves on Sunday afternoon to buy rubbish? Does anyone really NEED that glass bowl filled with rocks to put in the middle of their coffee table? Do we even need the coffee table?
I’ve decided, I’m going to start fresh. I’m going to purge all that is mediocre from my life. I’d rather have one piece of furniture, or one pair of pants, or one plate, or one song on my iPod, or whatever, that is worthy of keeping, rather than cluttering up my life with a whole collection of junk just so my “space” or my “person” can fit into society’s notion of what is “right” or “cool”. I know, I’m getting deep here. Basically, it means that if we have guests over, I’ll be sitting on the floor. I don’t mind. I do it with my cats all the time. Pets get priority seating on furniture at my house. My husband doesn’t agree, but his heart is partly made of stone.
Sure, I’d like my dishwasher to work again – because I’ve been spoiled these past few years – but I’ll wait for my husband to take it apart and fix it. It’s good that he’s handy that way. It makes up for his stone heart. Besides, I hear that washing dishes can be a lot like meditating, and after all the stress I’ve suffered from all of these broken G.D. appliances, I need all the calming strategies I can get.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and delete Robin Thicke from all of my music playlists.
Miele To Bosch: Are Dishwashers Over $1000 Worth It? Just FYI, my washing machine is a Bosch, and my dishwasher is a KitchenAid
Maybe it’s the fact that my daughter keeps forcing me to watch that show Bates Motel – I don’t know – but I keep having these strange and very vivid dreams. When I wake up, I swear they actually happened. With regard to the one I had the other night, I count that as a REALLY good thing.
I dreamt that I was driving down this long, straight road – you know the kind you’d see in a Clint Eastwood movie or something, with eagles circling overhead, tumble weeds blowing around, dust squalls coming out of nowhere, and not a soul in sight, save for the suspiciously good-looking but slightly scruffy man standing alone, his thumb out, a backpack slung over one shoulder, his Ray-Bans low on his nose, his wife beater showing off his sexy tan, his torn jeans perfectly hugging his lithe but muscular form.
When he saw me, he smiled like the devil.
I had to stop – he needed my help. As it turned out, his motorcycle had broken down miles back. Sure, I was alone – a frustrated housewife traveling to see my sister (I don’t have a sister, BTW), from San Bernardino to Phoenix – but I figured what the hell, murder only happens in the movies.
And God, it was hot. HE was hot. I couldn’t leave poor Dierks/Kenny/Luke/Hoigt/Jaxx/Kent/Chance/Wyatt/Jack (take your pick on the name) out in there the sweltering sun. His not-quite-perfect-but-that’s-what-made-him-so-perfect face might’ve been negatively affected. I couldn’t have that.
“Hey, handsome. Need a ride?” I said. I don’t usually talk that way, but that day, I did. He didn’t speak, just nodded and got in. “Where are you headed?” I asked.
“Wherever you’re goin’.” He leaned back in his seat, and inhaled deeply.
That was his answer, and I took it. I wanted to add that we should stop at the nearest motel, but I thought that might be too presumptuous. Can I help it that I’ve only had sex with one man – bless his awesome, fatherly, hard-working heart – for the last twenty-five years, and that this might’ve been my second round of love at first sight, albeit a “more dangerous and possibly crazy” version? Whatever – sometimes, you have to take chances in life, or you are not really living, right?
Anyway, about an hour later – our visceral relationship devoid of much conversation, but a moistness between my legs that could NOT be denied – we arrived at the edge of a small town. “I’m getting thirsty,” he said, a slight accent adding another “holy shit, is he for real?” dimension to his already deep and melodic voice.
“Whatever you want. I’ll do WHATEVER you want,” I answered, and that was the damn truth. As luck would have it, five miles ahead, I saw a sign – Second Home Motel and Cafe. “Perfect,” I purred, pulling into the parking lot.
Disengaging the ignition, I turned in my seat. “Let’s do this…” I whispered enthusiastically.
Dierks/Kenny/Luke/Hoigt/Jaxx/Kent/Chance/Wyatt/Jack or whatever put his hand on my knee. It was like a jolt of lightning blazing through my body. “Let’s get that drink,” he said, squeezing my leg hard – a little TOO hard. If that was any indication of his true nature – and I was absolutely positive that it was – I could hardly wait to get to know him better, in every naked, sweaty, hard-as-a-rock sense of the word…
Sadly, dear readers, that is where my dream ended. As disappointingly short as it was, it’s kept me on cloud nine for three days now.
That’s how life goes though. You take the good with the bad, but you sure as hell get proficient at reliving those heart-stoppingly, sexy dreams for as long as is humanly possible.
Clean Sheets Magazine Some of the best literary erotica on the web. I’ve been lucky enough to have a few short stories published there.
This blog post was inspired by Sarah Silverman’s comedy special We Are Miracles in which she says – amidst a bunch of other awesome, off-the-wall things – something about the fact that if Africa were a land full of stray labradoodles, our desire to care for and/or help its inhabitants would be way higher.
And she’s probably right. Weird-looking, curly haired dogs, big fluffy, pushed-in-face cats, iguanas, gerbils (though this one, I just don’t understand) – we love our pets, often more than we love humans, it seems. My aunt tells me this in every email she sends – people suck/animals are so much better.
Her “I’ve been burned one too many times” bias aside, I believe there are lots of people who feel this way. The question is why? Why would we care about animals more than we care about our own species? Is it because we see animals as helpless creatures, driven to build a life in a contaminated world of chaos, concrete, and poison? I know that’s being overly-dramatic, but it’s the truth. The poor raccoons have nowhere to go, and then we get pissed off when they set up camp in our attics. Is it because we think humans should just know better, and that if we suffer, it’s our own damn fault? Well, we should, and it is.
Sarah claims – and I agree with her – that we often feel such compassion toward animals because they “don’t reflect the shitty part of ourselves back at us”. They may frustrate us, sure – like when they chew all the shoes in the house, wreck the screens, or tear up the furniture – and we might even get angry, but that anger isn’t usually coupled with contempt. We don’t morally judge them. In general, we don’t think that they are out to get us. My grandmother’s cat Becky was the exception – she was evil. No, we just figure that they’re doing what they do.
We hold people to a different standard though. It only takes one lousy experience in public with a belligerent teenager, and you come out red-faced, tousle-haired, with a bad “it’s all my husband’s fault, he hasn’t spent enough ‘daddy’ time with her” taste in your mouth, and possibly the start of an ulcer. Your dog poops on the floor, you clean it. It’s nothing personal. You should’ve taken Gunner for a walk sooner.
Besides that, our sympathies typically go out to those who (mentally) hurt us the least, or love us the most, whichever way you want to “cup half full/half empty” look at it. It makes sense – you feel attached to people you enjoy being around, not those you don’t, and our pets – meaning by association, ALL pets – are our most treasured of friends. They never move away, or steal your boyfriend, or say that they’ll come out dancing and then go off to spend the night with some hoochy girl from another school. Seriously, talk about betrayal.
No, pets are just there, their head on your lap while you cry through The English Patient or the finale of Grey’s Anatomy. They are there to lick your hand when you lose your job, or when you twist your ankle by tripping over your own sock and you end up on the couch for a week. They are there getting fur all over your clothes just as you are headed out to an important business meeting, or worse, to a funeral. Yes, they reel you in by meowing or ruffing or hissing or silently proclaiming, “I’ll be there for you – always. I would literally die for you, or almost die for you. I’m an animal. At some point, it will be my instinct to run OUT of the burning house, but I’ll yelp to let you know when I’m leaving.”
All this to say that every time I see that SPCA commercial on abused dogs, I almost call in and give them unlimited access to my VISA card, so what if my family starves. That little quivering fox-like pooch – wow. Stop it television and SPCA staff. You are preying on my motherly caregiver sensibilities. It breaks my heart. And then I hear of another animal – one much closer to home – that has been abused and needs a family to call its own, and my husband and I need to have that talk again. Can we get a fifth pet? No. You are a terrible, uncaring human being, and I am so loving and willing to make our house a petting zoo. It’s a wonder we stay together.
They say good sex trumps pretty much everything, but that’s the subject for another day. FYI dear, someday I WILL have a small farm.
No matter how smart you are, there is always something new to learn. Sometimes, it’s something trivial – like snails have teeth (I didn’t know that until today) – and sometimes, it’s something that could save your life, or simply keep you from eating something really gross.
Take my oldest son’s BFF – he knows a lot of facts about a lot of crazy things. For instance, he knows why beer makes a person fat – like the biochemical details, not just that it does. He knows that rats multiply so quickly that within eighteen months, two rats can turn into over a million furry little buggers. He also knows (for a fact) that Superman would kick the crap out of Batman should the two of them ever meet and decide to fight. I think every young adult male has a theory (or twenty) like this.
Yes, my son’s BFF – let’s call him Blustin (which is pretty close to his actual name, and no, it’s not Justin or Sustin) – would probably do very well on a show like Jeopardy or Family Feud. But like everybody else in the world, Blustin doesn’t know everything.
I had to laugh the other night. He was over, telling us about his “bad” experience at the sushi restaurant. He’d gone there with his girlfriend, and – typical guy trying to show off and be healthy – he ordered a plate of edamame beans.
“They were terrible,” he said. “All stringy and gross. I ate a few, and then stuffed the rest in my pocket. You know how they are at sushi places when you order stuff and don’t eat it.” This, just after he’d showed us a Youtube video about singing dogs.
“What do you mean stringy?” I asked. “Are you sure you were eating edamame?” If memory serves me correctly – and I was just eating some last week – “stringy” is not really a word I’d use to describe them. “Boring”, “bean-like”, “definitely not as good as brownies” perhaps, but not “stringy”.
“Yeah, those green things in a pod.”
And then it came to me. “Were you eating the shells?” I asked, chuckling. “You are not supposed to eat those. They’re poison.” OK, so I don’t know if they are actually poison. I’ve heard yes. I’ve heard no. I think it’s one of those urban legends, like the fact that Mr. Rogers was a Navy Seal. I like teasing Blustin though. Besides, he’s still alive.
“What?” For a split second – before he realized that too much time had passed since he’d eaten them to make this true – he thought he might die. I saw it in his eyes. Poor guy.
“Didn’t your girlfriend tell you not to eat them?”
“No.” I’m sure she knew. She probably enjoyed watching him struggle. We females can get like that after we’ve been together with someone for a while. Sex is no longer blinding, and it makes up for the fact that we only got the right to vote less than one hundred years ago.
“Why didn’t you ask her, if they tasted so terrible?”
“I don’t know.”
“You learn something new every day,” I said, wiping the counter. Men – while dense in some areas, and stubborn in others – are also very messy.
“I guess so,” he shrugged.
Pride can be a factor as well. Yesterday, my younger son ate one hundred Oreos. They were “making a video” apparently. He’d probably eat rabbit poop if someone dared him.
Oh well, somebody has to be willing to sacrifice themselves to the zombies should they come. I sure as hell ain’t going to do it. I’ll be hiding in the ice cream parlour eating a big waffle cone – one scoop rocky road, one scoop pina colada, one scoop banana chocolate swirl – and praying that my husband doesn’t suffer too much.
A few people in my family – my know-it-all, young adult, precocious, I raised them, what am I complaining about, children – think the word “feminism” is outdated. We have this discussion quite frequently. “Are you a feminist, Mom?” It’s a trick. They know what I’m going to say. I was born in the 60’s. Of course I am.
“Why are you still stuck in the dark ages? We are all equal. That’s what’s wrong with the world.” It’s my oldest son – again. He’s thinks he’s Buddha. Or Gandhi. I think he’s more like Leon Trotsky (mainly because he lives in a “permanent revolutionary” state) mixed with Neil deGrasse Tyson (for his “we are the world in an immeasurable cosmological way” dogma). Nothing is ever as simple as just washing the dishes when he’s around.
As usual, he keeps going. “We can’t keep putting people in groups – like women, blacks, gays, whoever. Then there is the tendency to rank one group as being better than another. We are all members of the human race. In fact, we are all part of the endless megacosm that is the universe. Did you know that even rocks breathe? Buildings breathe. Traffic breathes. Everything has a flow and life to it. It’s simply a matter of recognizing and accepting that – no more, no less.”
OK, OK, I get it. And “feminist” or “no feminist/lover of all things”, I would classify myself as someone who fervently supports equal rights. For men too, even though I don’t think they have a clue what it’s like to “do it all” per se.
For example, as much as my husband and I divide household chores – even in times when we are both equally busy with school or work – the laundry somehow falls on my shoulders, as does making sure the kids are still alive should they be throwing up uncontrollably. Put your foot down, you say. Just take a little “two day vacation” the next time someone complains that their stomach is feeling a little “off”.
Great suggestion, but it’s not that easy. In times of need, kids want their mothers. Well, mine do anyway. I’m nicer, that’s why. Even something as simple as heading off to lunch with a girlfriend when those little sick eyes are staring up at you from the couch can make a person feel guilty as hell. Men don’t seem to have the same trouble. “Just get a bucket,” says my husband. “He/she’ll be fine.” That’s his “not-quite-as-biologically-attached-because-he-never-birthed-anyone” attitude. No warm compresses from Daddy, my little ones. He’d rather go to the hardware store.
Admittedly, I’ve purposely stepped back a bit when it comes to my own career. I make room for the “kid” things, the “family” things, the “house” things. Why? Because someone needs to take care of that stuff. Sure, I could’ve hired a full time nanny/housekeeper. Some people do. I still could. The housekeeper anyway. The nanny seems a bit redundant for three spawn over the age of eighteen, even though emergencies – mostly mental ones – still seem to strike at our house almost daily.
Sadly, it broke my heart to put my kids in before- and after-school care for a few years so I could “make something of myself” – my words, nobody else’s. It’s hard for women. Trying to combine our roles as mothers, partners, and workers can be tricky. We work too much, we are neglecting our families. We spend all of our time with our families, we are being over-protective, helicopter-ish, not driven, unambitious, unduly selfless. We can’t win. If we put ourselves somewhere in the middle, we get to feel shitty about both.
My oldest son’s girlfriend is in law school. She just said the other day that she doesn’t know how she is going to manage both a career AND a family. How does a person do everything and be everywhere? Sorry, younger version of myself. I haven’t figured it out yet. I have absolutely NO advice to give. Maybe one thing. Just don’t tell your husband that you have a crush on The Rock or Mark Wahlberg. As open and as “new age” as he says he is, he’ll bring it up routinely, and then you’ll owe him sex – and it’ll happen on days when you are tired and bloated. Nobody wins then.
On the subject of “things women have to worry about that men don’t”, there’s also that whole issue of how we look, or how we should look, how we behave, or how we should behave. We are too fat, too skinny, too muscular, too loud, too opinionated, too wide in the vaginal region (of that, I do not joke). Fucking babies.
So many of us can’t go anywhere without our “face” on. It’s ridiculous, the expectation that as a woman I’m supposed to pretend – in so many ways – that I’m not real.
And what about that pooping business? Yeah, women do it. I’m not going to lie. And I’m not going to pretend that I don’t. Might as well start somewhere.
Oh, small pot,
That day at the thrift store, when I saw you jammed haphazardly on the bottom shelf,
I knew we were meant to be.
I needed you -
Mainly because I was planning on melting some wax for a crazy scheme that I’d seen on the internet for making homemade deodorant,
And I didn’t want to use any of my GOOD pots.
I just needed something cheap,
Something that could be destroyed without care,
Something that I could use without my husband complaining that everyone (except for him) is hell bent on ruining our house and everything in it.
When I went out to escape just this sort of harassment,
I ended up wandering around the Salvation Army -
After first buying some chocolate and a few avocados at Loblaws.
As I walked past a sketchy character in the men’s pants section,
I saw you there, amidst the rest of the junk and clutter and a few shadeless lamps,
There was also something beside you that could’ve been a sex toy but was probably just a strange kitchen utensil.
It always amazes me the kind of stuff that winds up in these places.
Anyway, I knew I’d have to bring you home.
$2.99 – I couldn’t beat the price.
And you were SO cute,
Plus, I was starting to sneeze.
Second hand shops do that to me sometimes.
I had to get out of there.
And now – after successfully melting that chunk of wax,
But not using the homemade deodorant because it didn’t work very well -
Here you are,
So helpful in cooking two boiled eggs without having to use a regular-sized pot.
We love you.
At least I do.
My husband doesn’t.
He says you are probably toxic because you are made of Teflon.
Besides, marriage is about compromise,
And I have to ask myself,
Do I really NEED you?
Or would I rather make my husband happy
So that someday he will get less angry when I buy something a lot more expensive like that $500 pair of boots I’ve been eying for a while now.
I’m afraid it may be adios to you, small pot.
Don’t hater the player.
Hate the game.