With Carlos away, and Other Close Friend's house a potentially unsafe dwelling zone, coupled with my own eager enthusiasm, every night is girls' night. (And no, Carlos, not in that way. There are no photos). Amen.
I am absolved of all duties domestic as it is The BF's cooking week. Therefore she is planner of menu and, as such, ultimately controls what my energy input will be for the day. I figured, then, that it would be somewhat rude to bbm her: Pal - feel like sushi tonight. You keen?
And so, instead, I opted for the slightly more subtle yet (as it turns out) exceptionally effective approach: I sent a tweet out into the universe.
@pantaholic Dear Anyone Who Loves Me, please pick up 3 x portion salmon roses, 2 x tempura prawn bamboo rolls & 2 x salmon sashimi. Thanks muchly.
The BF arrived home laden with fishy delights. God. Bless. Her.
And so, there we were, us four girls seated around the table, making exceptionally technically apt remarks about our fare:
The BF: Mmmmmm... the salmon is fresh (a good thing, I suppose).
The Pant: (Munch munch munch) be careful of the soya stuff I made - it's quite wasabi-y. Maybe add some more soya. But not too much. Don't want to it too soya-y (Jamie Oliver would be proud).
Other Close Friend: Please pass my fork. Only eating with a fork because they only had two sets of chopsticks.
The Pant: Oh, I've got tons of chopsticks downstairs. I'll run and get you so-
OCF: No (emphatic). You don't want to go all the way downstairs on account of me. I'll just eat with a fork. Really. It's fine.
The BF: Careful with the salmon roses - best to use your hands - they're quite fally aparty. (See, jargon of culinary experts. Culinese, I like to call it.)
And so, there we were, dip dipping, munch munching in complete satisfied silence. Well, not in complete satisfied silence since all of us were secretly think, "Man alive, would this be tasty with wine... Hmmmm... If I bring up wine, I'll appear like an alcoholic. Best keep quiet and try and imagine exceptionally complementary palate of wine with this outstanding sushi. La dee dah dah. Wine wine wine."
And then The Daughter piped up:
The Daughter: Why do you never have to finish your food and I always do? It's just because you guys are adults and I'm just a kid. (I have no memory of giving birth to a small-sized goat, to be honest.)
The Pant: You need to grow big and strong, that's why you have to eat all your dinner. Now, don't whine and eat up.
OCF: Wine? Did you say wine? Yes please!
The BF and The Pant (in chorus): Me too!
And thus, within seconds a bottle of the finest white was uncorked. We sushied and wined in a profound state of merriment. And then we did what all girls secretly do but pretend like they don't do: we snoop doggy dogged all over Facebook.
In fact, we were such hardcore snoop doggy doggers, the only thing that was missing from the picture was three leather skull caps, three gold teeth, three belt-loop-to-pocket chains and a bevy of scantily-clad go-go girls who we'd collectively refer to as "Our Bitches".
And our snooping went in this order:
1). Baby photos and uneducated dress sense of certain mothers. (A three-month-old in a pair of jeans is not cute. In fact, it's all kinds of weird. As are three-year-olds in black satin dresses.)
2). Hideous Weddings. (And the shoes? What is that - a man or a woman? No! She could have at least ironed the hem of her dress.)
3). Ex-boyfriends. (It must be noted that The Pant avoided all things ex but did get to offer several judgemental interjections: What were you thinking? Were you thinking? Please tell me you were drunk for the entire duration of that relationship.)
4). Pregnancy Photos. (Why do we do that to ourselves? Seriously. Sure, miracle of life and all, but why broadcast to people who have not seen you naked what you look like at your most bloated and undesirable? When you pack on 20 kgs on your face - don't record it. Or record it but don't broadcast it.)
Note to self: remove all pregnancy photos soonest.