Food Types and Body Parts

My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh phoned me yesterday.  He's wonderful.  He lifts my spirits instantly and says the most wonderful things: "Pant, you are so skinny", "He'd be lucky to have you, Panty of My Heart", "You're a talented writer, Pant.  You should write a book", "Oh. My. God.  You look amazing".  Those kinds of things.  He rocks.  Even though his compliments are, at very least, fabrications of the truth.

Yesterday I had a truly difficult day.  Not horrible.  But difficult.  You see I had proper insomnia on Sunday night - I think it's a Sunday night thing.  And The Pant struggles through a day on 3 hours sleep. But the reason for my insomnia (apart from having slept in and lazed around for the majority of the day) is because my head has been a-ticking.  I read the new Fair Lady and learned that I was born in the year of the pig.  A pig of a year, for some.  But because I'm a pig (and that's no reference to my filthy mouth and mind), I need to take the bull by the horns this year. (Evidently Larry was born in the year of the bull. I might have to take the bull by the horns and kick it repeated in the effing face?)  I've got to make the monkey jump.  I've got to pull some magical rabbit out of some illustrious hat.  I've got to change my life around.  And that takes some thinking.

(Plus I had some naughty thoughts which I daren't share with the world.  But, oh my.  Oh baby.  Mmmmm hmmmmm.)

So when My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh phoned, I had the mental and emotional maturity of a 6 year old.  I was barely able to use words with three or more syllables - hence I was totally unable to tell him that I felt like marmalade on toast, or that I should be put into a wheelbarrow and plonked upon the bed.  And the wit?  Well, it was lacking.

He's a good friend, though.  And can force himself to sink to my level when I'm in this space.

The Pant:  You should have seen what she was wearing.  Fish nets!  And a fanny flap!  At her age!

My Darling (it's shorter than My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh):  You kidney.

TP:  I kid you not.  I'm being cereal.

MD:  How can she liver with herself?

TP:  I nose.  And it's not the first time she's been seen looking like a tranny in the most off-the-wall clubs.  What's neckst?

MD:  Sounds like she ought to be working Point Road.

TP:  That's eggs-actly what I was thinking.  Never in my entire eggs-istence have I seen an outfit like that.

(That was a lie.  My Darling and I have been known to enjoy the odd fancy dress evening - particularly those themed 'Trannies and Grannies'.)

MD:  The last time I saw her I nearly had a heart attack and pasta whey.

TP:  You nearly died?  A bit eggs-treme, don't you think?

MD:  It was bad, Pant.  She is obviously skint because she clearly has no fashion cents.

And.  That was me.  A puddle of human laughing matter all over the kitchen floor.  Hysterics.  Probably not so funny now.  But at the time, on that little sleep, it was hilarious with a capital H.

Which gets me, really, to the point of this blog.  There are things that I like about being an adult, sure.  Particularly the x-rated stuff.  But the domesticity and the grown-upness of it all can sometimes get me down.

Take our general conversations, for example.  They're about the following thing: money, weather, food, sex (or lack thereof).  And what do not-grown-ups talk about.  Fantasy.  And they say kaka and weewee and all sorts of really stupid things.  And then they laugh uncontrollably at the absurdity and outrageousness of it all.  I know, I've seen The Daughter.  Last night she told me it was okay to eat meat balls but not poo meat balls.  And then, I promise you, she laughed such that she lost the ability to hold her body upright.  Earnest Hemmingway.

And I think letting go and having fun is kiff.  It's what I want to do.  Every day every day.

And so, in a 2011 attempt to become less grown-up and have more fun, The BF, my people, and I have come up with a fabulous solution: we alternate cooking weeks.  It's her week to cook.  My kitchen is spotless.  I read all afternoon.  The food was super effing delicious (it always is when someone else cooks).  And I got to focus on having fun.

I had that conversation with My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh.  I played with The Daughter.  I cuddled.  And I had, thank you very much, a very super effing rad day.  Even on 3 hours sleep.