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Courtesy of friends JE & AC, who moved out of town over the weekend, we now have a new-to-us ginormous TV in our place. The two best things about this TV, other than the mammoth screen:
1. The Fella will no longer need to complain about “the blacks,” i.e., the fuzzy, indistinct gray-to-black range that hampered dark scenes showing on our previous flatscreen TV;
2. I will stop cringing for a split second every so often because my partner has muttered the unexpected phrase “Wow, the blacks are terrible.”
A conversation, the nature of which makes me wonder why he seems so happy.
The Fella: I’m running to the store, do y—
Elsa: ICE CREAM!
The Fella: [chuckling] I thought you might! What ki—
Elsa: Chocolate with stuff in or stuff with chocolate in.
The Fella: I thought so! Anyth—
Elsa: Or pistachio!
Last night as we settled down to watch a movie, I waggled the DVDs and asked The Fella the greatest movie-night question ever: “So, French zombies or Shatner in Esperanto?”
(Les Revenants isn’t a proper zombie movie: it’s mournful and elegiac and beautifully crafted. Incubus is exactly what you’d expect when a sub-Corman director decides he’s Bergman. In Esperanto. So. Um. Y’know.)
From a recent email exchange:
Jagosaurus: Random thought I keep forgetting to articulate: Sometimes I wish we would jointly post (edited) versions of some of our conversations. We B Funny.Elsa: Oooh, blog fodder! Uh. I don’t have to post that part*, right?
J: You do not.
E: Sold!
J: Excellent. What happens next?
E: Yeeeeeah, I thought you’d know that. I, uh, something.
Here’s what happens next. Let’s start at the beginning. (Salty language and insect horrors ahead.) Read the rest of this entry »
I’ve discovered an unexpected side effect of watching The Karate Kid for the first time in my 40s. For the past few weeks, any time I have to push myself or offer a little self-encouragement, I hear a little internal soundtrack:
Sometimes that soundtrack gets externalized in the form of me singing the chorus — and only the chorus — in a strained whisper-yell as I putter around the house. It’s fitting when I’m lifting weights for my physical therapy or doing crunches for core strength… but even I admit that it’s a little funnier when I’m rolling out pastry dough.
It also intersects oddly with a standard household compliment peculiar to us; we routinely tell each other “Aw, you’re the best girl.”* The conflation leads to exchanges like this morning’s:
Elsa: No hurry! We’ve got plenty of time to get everything done. We’re the best! arou-ound!
The Fella: You are the best.
Elsa: AROU-OUND!
The Fella: I know! You’re the best girl.
Elsa: [punching the air] And nuthin’s gonna EVER KEEP ME DOWN!
*You read that right.
Today I’m making a big ole batch of my brother’s pulled pork recipe, more or less. I like to thin down the BBQ sauce with red wine and add some chili powder or cumin and a clove of garlic, but the process is identical: put it in a pot, clap on the lid, and go to the beach for the whole day go about your business while the pork turns into a delicious tangle of tender meat.
The Fella left the house before it started wafting its enticing aroma out of the oven, which means I am the only one who gets to walk around for the next two hours saying, “Hey, what smells like pork butt?”
Elli
Elsa
