Muse likes to remind me of the story of mine and Boyfriend's first New Year's Eve together. She only knows the amorous version of the tale. She knows the classy story. Not to say that the classy tale of said New Year's is fraudulent...it was just missing the ending. The version Muse knows is that Boyfriend cooked us a romantic lobster dinner and we had free-flowing champagne which saw us into 2009 with clinking glass flutes filled with the bubbly. The part of the story that I left out when I told Muse originally was the next morning where I literally kicked Boyfriend out of the bathroom so I could revisit that beautiful, rich dinner – it's not as delicious on the way out. That lobster climbed up and out of my esophagus like a freaky masticated survivor. Boyfriend and I also share the same affliction when it comes to hearing or seeing other people spew – it's a domino effect and causes both of us to choke back our own heaves. While I locked him out of the bathroom I swear I heard him clawing at the door and dry heaving. I'm not just writing this to share the grossness, but I feel like this moment is a true depiction of our relationship. Boyfriend tries to class things up and I puke all over his attempt...sometimes metaphorically, but in the case of New Year's 2009 and my 25th birthday, quite literally.
That being said, this post has to do with being classy, lobsters and the overestimation of my ability to do cruel things. Not long after the New Year's verb-fest (pick whichever verb appeals to your that is synonymous with vomit), Boyfriend made us lobster again...take two if you will. This time he asked if I wanted to share in the murdering and put them into the boiling pot of death. Sure. Yeah. I can totally do that. This won't be what sends me to hell, is it? If I'm heading downward, I want the reason to be something fabulously evil. Perhaps some sort of cruel behaviour involving two-way mirrors and those knarly fetal pigs used in high school dissections that are preserved in formaldehyde. I haven't entirely figured out the details that will be my ticket to hell. Though, if you read that book Damned by Chuck Palahniuk, you'll find we're all going to hell for a lot less. Some sort of circus-inspired evil doing for the price of my eternal soul? Sold.
I picked up the first little lobster beasty. It squirmed in its armour trying to break free of my grasp. When that proved futile, it turned to look at me. "Put me down you vile wench!" It yelled at me, throwing me off with its asian dialect and a statement that didn't suit his manner of speech. I tell you, that was enough. I set the lobster back on the counter, raised my hands and backed away slowly. Boyfriend took care of him, and I had great gratification when Boyfriend cracked open the shell of that horrific Atlantic bastard and put the lobster meat on my plate.
Yeah...uh, Boyfriend takes the shells of my lobster and crab because I would starve otherwise. Also, I'm mean when I'm hungry, so really, this is a survival tactic for Boyfriend.
A few months later the Eastern-Canadian side of Boyfriend beckonned him again. It was lobster time. I guess this is the equivilent of PMS. Boyfriend needs to have lobster several times a year or he gets bitchy. Always afterward he complains about being bloated. Men. Sheesh.
This time when Boyfriend asked if I was ready to put the lobsters into the pot I was definitely ready. I'd been practicing with Fat. If I could wrestle an obese cat into a stovetop pot of water, a lobster with tied pinchers would be SUPER EASY. I suppose I should mention that the stove wasn't on when we practiced or PETA will be charging through with Pamela Anderson and Ron Jeremy leading the brigade.
Sidenote: Worst superhero name ever...SUPER EASY. Man-slut powers activate! Or woman-slut powers...I'm for equal opportunity. No. That's a lie. Women best men all the time. Glass ceiling my ass.
Anyhow, I found myself in the position to end a life. I eyed up my lobster foe. I'll kill you, you nasty little sea rat. Then I'll eat you. I'm going to do it this time. For real. Into the bubbly tomb of death you go. I grabbed the tiny monster in my hand and lifted him off the counter with malicious intention. At this time I would like to give a tremendous pat on the back to me, by now I'd done better than the last time. I brought him over to the cauldron, remembering what Boyfriend said: Put them in head first so they die faster. Alright, cool. The nice person in me hesitated over the pot which let the lobster enjoy the relaxing sensation of the steam. Free sauna, you're welcome. However, it's a good thing I didn't plunge him right in like Boyfriend told me. The squirmy creature opened his tiny lobster mouth and a deep verbrato filled the kitchen. His opera was in its original italian, and though I don't speak the language I was enraptured. I killed the overhead lights and called for a spotlight on the melodious creature. When he sang, his voice carried through the octaves with ease – clearly a practiced talent. Tears sprang from his beady eyes when he sang for his lost love – in spite of the language barrier I always rely on presumption to steer me in a direction that sounds right. It doesn't matter if it actually proves to be right, as long as it COULD be correct. As the performance came to a close, I watched through my opera glasses while his tethered claws rose with his voice to punctuate his final note. I threw long-stem roses in his direction as he bowed, accepting my frenzied applause.
What are you doing? Boyfriend came into the kitchen and seized the lobster that was still in my hand and suspended above the pot. He plunged Opera Lobster into the boiling pot head-first, and we watched him turn from that murky dark colour into a brilliant red. As I had my first bite of Opera Lobster one word fell from my lips, Bravissimo. If that's wrong, I don't speak italian. Shut up.
At least, that's how I'm going to tell the story of The Lobster Opera to Muse. What really happened is the lobster freaked out from the steam and started shrieking, the kind of screaming sound that haunts my dreams. I freaked out and threw him in the sink and ran away. I hoped he wouldn't get out of that makeshift gladiator arena until Boyfriend checked on my lack of progress and punched his clock for me. Like I said, metaphorical verbing (again, anything that means yak goes here...and not yak like the animal).
Time for tea,
K
No comments:
Post a Comment