Before I get to the Consumables, let me just tell you this. Nordic Boy and I went out for breakfast yesterday at a restaurant.I ordered my breakfast, with a side of roasted potatoes. The food came, and there were no potatoes. The server said “I’m forgetting something, aren’t I?” and I said, yes. The potatoes. She said oh yes, and she would go get them, and off she went. We started to eat and minutes went by. And more minutes. And more. The next time she came by, I flagged her down. I am unfailingly, painfully polite to servers, because I think they have a super hard job and I know they get a lot of shit from cranky people. Plus I don’t want them to do weird shit to my food. “I’m sorry, but any word on those potatoes?” She looked surprised, said she was sorry, and said they were coming. I think you know where this is going. Soon, I flagged down a different server. I thought maybe appealing to a third party about the potatoes would help somehow. Could he broker a deal that would get me my potatoes? He was also apologetic, and I saw him go over to our server and talk with her. So anyway. The potatoes never showed up. And our server never came back to explain why. She just came back at the end of our meal to clear our plates and ask us if everything was ok. I said yes, except I never got those potatoes. She smiled serenely and said, “yes, sorry about that” and went on her way. And then she brought us our bill. And the potatoes weren’t on there, but I was sort of galled at this. Shouldn’t she have given us a free dessert or not charged us for our orange juice or something? Or at least seem a show of concern about the potatoes? Right?
This is the part where I hear Nordic Boy in my head saying “OH MY GOD ENOUGH ABOUT THE POTATOES.”
Ok, that is all. I shall never mention the phantom potatoes again.
On Wednesday night, some friends of ours scored free tickets to see the play The Scarlet Letter. It was pretty good. There are a few parts of the play where Hester and Dimmesdale (oh Hester, couldn’t you have picked a dude with a sexier name?) make out, hot and heavy. Although it didn’t make me uncomfortable, it did occur to me that it’s not very often in life where it’s totally socially acceptable to stare at people while they are hardcore sucking face. In movies, sure, but not right up in person. We were in the 5th row. I could see when they were using tongue and when they weren’t. A room full of us, old and young, all staring in silence. I’ve seen plays with nudity and much more racy content than this one had. I’ve been in strip clubs, burlesque shows, that sort of thing, sure. But for some reason this thought has never occurred to me. Maybe because prolonged kissing seems more intimate somehow, or something.
A tv show:
Nordic Boy and I have not been spending a ton of time at home this week, and when we are home, we’re tired. As a result of this, plus the uber-coziness of the weather and the time change, we have been wanting to watch something beloved, something that makes us feel warm and snuggly. So, we re-started watching Deadwood. Hey, for some people, holing up and watching Miracle on 34th Street makes them feel fuzzy inside. For us, it’s watching dirty people call each other cocksuckers in flowery borderline blank verse.
Nordic Boy is a big reader, but he does not read fiction. Ever. I really don’t think I have ever seen him read anything fiction, not even once. Nordic Boy is also someone who is a fan of the Harry Potter movies. Not the books, since, obviously, he has never read them. He is dying to know what happens in the last installment. He keeps asking me, “what happens in the last book? How does it end?” For those of you who have read the last book, I think you will understand that there is no way in hell I can summarize that shit. Too many things happen. He just needs to wait for the movie to come out, or read the dang book. But he can’t wait, and he won’t read that book. So, I went out and got the goldarn Sparknotes for it. Yes I did. This week, before we went to bed, Nordic Boy asked me to read him the first chapter aloud. “We can do a chapter a night,” he said.
I started to read, and although I am paraphrasing, it really did go something like this:
“Snape and Voldemort meet. Snape tells Voldemort where Harry is hiding and what day he is going to be moved to another location. Deatheater Yaxley disagrees and says it’s a different date. Voldemort believes Snape, showing his confidence in him. Voldemort then kills a Hogwarts professor who has been captured.”
Me: (closing the book)
Nordic Boy: That’s Chapter One?
Nordic Boy: Maybe we’ll read a few chapters every night.
Me: (opening the book) Good idea.
I had yesterday off for Veteran’s Day. This made Wednesday feel like Friday, and yesterday felt like Saturday in the morning, but Sunday at night. Today I woke up totally thinking it was Monday. On my favorite radio station, KEXP, the morning DJ tends to play “You Push, I’ll Go,” by Baby Dayliner on Friday mornings. It was only on my drive in to work, when that song came on, that I realized it was Friday and that the weekend is almost here. That song has a Pavlovian response for me. I hear it and I get happy. Friday! Sweet!