The Introduction of the Swap Meet
Chicken, the light of my life, had another episode. The uncontrollable pooping and hurling varietal. It's at best disconcerting. At worst, I find my hand on his ribcage. Movement detection. I try not to let him see me cry. He's a very sensitive cat who doesn't like me to see him in less than optimum health. He only presents me with his best. If he's too tired he doesn't come out to play. If he's in a foul mood he'll shoot me a look and that's pretty much all I need to back away from him. When he's sick he recoils from me. There's really nothing I can do for him. He hates pity anyway. It's a trait he's picked up from me.
Last Monday at my once a week night of employ at the Cheer's Equivalent bar, I was having a discussion with Cupcake, the chef formerly known as Cartman sounding Mike. The topic was the timeline in which I thought a natural relationship trajectory should go.
The Comrade's Timeline
Date 1: The sniffing of butts
Date 2: If a second date is warranted, there's more than a slim chance in hell that it could turn into a relationship.
Date 3: Back seat or on the beach - sex, sex, lurid sex.
Date 4: Invitation to inspect living quarters/ meet roommate.
Week 3: Respective introduction to the most significant friends.
Month 2: Meet the family (unless there are extraordinary circumstances which are made clear from the start).
My darling Fatty, the man who shares my life and my bed along with Chicken, is fully aware that I have mentally divorced my family by reasons of emotional damage and irreconcilable differences.
Cupcake thought the timeline for familial introduction was a bit premature. His Stupid Bitch, and I say that most lovingly as I quite adore her, has not yet met his family though they have been romantically linked for nearly a year. The reason I call her his Stupid Bitch is because of Interpol.
The preamble to the most anticipated concert of Summer 2004
Cupcake gets a new girlfriend.
And brings her to the concert.
As mentioned in a previous post
This is not done.
Having not yet met her, though in her presence
The Comrade: Dude, you brought your fucking girlfriend? Stupid bitch.
Though this comment was geared solely at Cupcake
She hated me for 6 months.
(Sometimes I'm not funny to everyone)
But then she got to know me and we now quite love each other a lot.
The Comrade: Do they live really far away?
Cupcake: No, not really.
The Comrade: Then why?
Being embarrassed of your family is an extraordinary circumstance.
Cupcake comes from Germanic stock. Strong, proud and resourceful. He takes great pride in carrying on traditions in his kitchen that his grandmother passed onto him. Cupcake's coveted potato salad is second only to my ex-mother-in-law's. Her salad is nothing to look at, especially with the addition of canned peas and carrots, but man that was savoury confection perfection on a spoon. Bite after compulsive bite, Ack, the ex-husband/ best friend, is now the only one subjected to exponentially growing hips.
Cupcake's Stupid Bitch, who happens to be one of the most beautiful, smart women I know, is in the natural healing profession. Occasionally she will visit us on a Monday night for a light supper, a bit of conversation, company to smoke cigarettes with and is always available to discuss alternative health procedures. We never have a shortage of things to talk about.
Cupcake: My mom's been sick for a few years. She's on anti-depressants.
The Comrade: Are they helping?
Cupcake: No. When she does get out of bed, she just gets into her bathrobe and watches television all afternoon. I don't want my girlfriend to see that.
The Comrade: Your Stupid Bitch could help.
Cupcake: I know. It doesn't make any sense, really.
The Comrade: Have you talked to her about them?
Cupcake: Sort of. I just remember them strong. I wish she had met them then.
It's a rather terrifying spectacle watching your parents age. People who seemed invincible at one time, moving towards the mark of weakened, slightly feeble.
Fatty and I hosted a send-off party for his parents the other night. We prepared another tasting menu. This time it wasn't 10 courses. We reduced it to 5.
Aperitif: Kenya's Tusker lager.
Course 1: Risotto with oyster mushrooms, garlic scapes, seared mammoth scallops with a truffle oil drizzle. Paired with Veuve Cliquot champagne.
Course 2: Fried Kumo oysters with debretziner sausages on homegrown raddicchio leaves. Served with Quebec's Fin du Monde ale.
Course 3: Panko fried chicken wings with spicy Thai mango salad. Accompanied by Marlborough, NZ's Babich sauvignon blanc and Goldridge Estate riesling.
Grilled individual whole sea bream with baby bok choi, fennel and red onion. California's Kendall Jackson and BC's Mission Hill pinot noirs to quaff alongside.
Artisanal cheese plate with red grapes and fresh figs. Malivoire ice wine and Cockburn port to cap.
We killed it.
I asked the dad, my potential future father-in-law, the British doctor who did something rather massive during his medical career not unlike Russell Crowe had in the Insider, why the pronunciation of Cockburn was changed to Coburn.
My supposition was the original Cockburner must have either been a male chicken roaster (sorry for the imagery, Chicken) or the town's highly chafed celebrated bachelor.
I didn't really get an answer.
Thought not quite as extravagant, I used to do these kind of meals for my own family. I think after the 3rd straight year of Christmas dinner at my home, without a word of grace nor gratitude from my father, as it seemed almost expected, I stopped. I'm hard pressed to do anything without at least a whiff of incentive.
Throughout Fatty's family dinner there were earnest queries as to the preparation or ingredients chosen. There was no shortage of appreciation. There was no shortage of laughter. There were real conversations. Not the best stock option to buy or the latest media scare of some virulent disease, something that would keep one scared, safely tucked at home, computer on, television glowing, an online or phone line purchase - the best option for connection to the world. They didn't do any of that. They didn't foist their opinions on their sons or on me. They listened to each of us. And we them. Every opinion counted.
And they wanted to know about me. About my relationship to my family. How I felt about it.
They understood without trying to change my mind with the static, demoralising statement of, "But it's your family. It's the only one you've got. You ought to try."
Maybe they didn't press because both the parents came from less than desirable familial circumstances themselves. They moved to a different land to get away from their oppressive pasts. They started a new family, a rare and beautiful gem, one that welcomes Comrades.
Being a true adventurer and marvellous guest, after several glasses of everything, my future father-in-law was more reputedly "blotto" (his word) than he'd been in 10 years.
He stumbled to the bathroom in a wave pattern.
He fell asleep in the adirondack chair.
It was the first time Fatty had seen him look so vulnerable.
Older.
It made him consider his father's mortality for the first time.
This scared the crap out of him.
The Comrade: How are you doing, darling?
Future father-in-law: [very British accent] I am chilling.
Future mother-in-law: [high pitched British accent] Are you cold?
Future father-in-law: No, I am cool.
Though the rest of the family was holding their heads in mock horror, there is something rather adorable about a Dr. Mac Daddy feeling safe enough to conduct experiments in street vernacular within a controlled environment.
It was the first time we'd entertained Fatty's family here. I can't wait until the next time.
I've modified Chicken's diet. He's now receiving a combination of 3 different types of cat food. He seems to have taken to it. He's still blind as a bat, still can't hear me yelling at him, but he's starting to put on a little weight. Thank God. His poops are of a healthy consistency. And yes, I look at his poop as scientifically as I do my own. He hasn't thrown up and he hasn't crapped uncontrollably for a little while now. He's on yellow alert. He'll always be on yellow alert.
My little boy
Who will be celebrating his Sweet Sixteen this year.
Off to college soon,
Where he'll probably find a girl.
I hope he'll want me to meet her.
Last Monday at my once a week night of employ at the Cheer's Equivalent bar, I was having a discussion with Cupcake, the chef formerly known as Cartman sounding Mike. The topic was the timeline in which I thought a natural relationship trajectory should go.
The Comrade's Timeline
Date 1: The sniffing of butts
Date 2: If a second date is warranted, there's more than a slim chance in hell that it could turn into a relationship.
Date 3: Back seat or on the beach - sex, sex, lurid sex.
Date 4: Invitation to inspect living quarters/ meet roommate.
Week 3: Respective introduction to the most significant friends.
Month 2: Meet the family (unless there are extraordinary circumstances which are made clear from the start).
My darling Fatty, the man who shares my life and my bed along with Chicken, is fully aware that I have mentally divorced my family by reasons of emotional damage and irreconcilable differences.
Cupcake thought the timeline for familial introduction was a bit premature. His Stupid Bitch, and I say that most lovingly as I quite adore her, has not yet met his family though they have been romantically linked for nearly a year. The reason I call her his Stupid Bitch is because of Interpol.
The preamble to the most anticipated concert of Summer 2004
Cupcake gets a new girlfriend.
And brings her to the concert.
As mentioned in a previous post
This is not done.
Having not yet met her, though in her presence
The Comrade: Dude, you brought your fucking girlfriend? Stupid bitch.
Though this comment was geared solely at Cupcake
She hated me for 6 months.
(Sometimes I'm not funny to everyone)
But then she got to know me and we now quite love each other a lot.
The Comrade: Do they live really far away?
Cupcake: No, not really.
The Comrade: Then why?
Being embarrassed of your family is an extraordinary circumstance.
Cupcake comes from Germanic stock. Strong, proud and resourceful. He takes great pride in carrying on traditions in his kitchen that his grandmother passed onto him. Cupcake's coveted potato salad is second only to my ex-mother-in-law's. Her salad is nothing to look at, especially with the addition of canned peas and carrots, but man that was savoury confection perfection on a spoon. Bite after compulsive bite, Ack, the ex-husband/ best friend, is now the only one subjected to exponentially growing hips.
Cupcake's Stupid Bitch, who happens to be one of the most beautiful, smart women I know, is in the natural healing profession. Occasionally she will visit us on a Monday night for a light supper, a bit of conversation, company to smoke cigarettes with and is always available to discuss alternative health procedures. We never have a shortage of things to talk about.
Cupcake: My mom's been sick for a few years. She's on anti-depressants.
The Comrade: Are they helping?
Cupcake: No. When she does get out of bed, she just gets into her bathrobe and watches television all afternoon. I don't want my girlfriend to see that.
The Comrade: Your Stupid Bitch could help.
Cupcake: I know. It doesn't make any sense, really.
The Comrade: Have you talked to her about them?
Cupcake: Sort of. I just remember them strong. I wish she had met them then.
It's a rather terrifying spectacle watching your parents age. People who seemed invincible at one time, moving towards the mark of weakened, slightly feeble.
Fatty and I hosted a send-off party for his parents the other night. We prepared another tasting menu. This time it wasn't 10 courses. We reduced it to 5.
Aperitif: Kenya's Tusker lager.
Course 1: Risotto with oyster mushrooms, garlic scapes, seared mammoth scallops with a truffle oil drizzle. Paired with Veuve Cliquot champagne.
Course 2: Fried Kumo oysters with debretziner sausages on homegrown raddicchio leaves. Served with Quebec's Fin du Monde ale.
Course 3: Panko fried chicken wings with spicy Thai mango salad. Accompanied by Marlborough, NZ's Babich sauvignon blanc and Goldridge Estate riesling.
Grilled individual whole sea bream with baby bok choi, fennel and red onion. California's Kendall Jackson and BC's Mission Hill pinot noirs to quaff alongside.
Artisanal cheese plate with red grapes and fresh figs. Malivoire ice wine and Cockburn port to cap.
We killed it.
I asked the dad, my potential future father-in-law, the British doctor who did something rather massive during his medical career not unlike Russell Crowe had in the Insider, why the pronunciation of Cockburn was changed to Coburn.
My supposition was the original Cockburner must have either been a male chicken roaster (sorry for the imagery, Chicken) or the town's highly chafed celebrated bachelor.
I didn't really get an answer.
Thought not quite as extravagant, I used to do these kind of meals for my own family. I think after the 3rd straight year of Christmas dinner at my home, without a word of grace nor gratitude from my father, as it seemed almost expected, I stopped. I'm hard pressed to do anything without at least a whiff of incentive.
Throughout Fatty's family dinner there were earnest queries as to the preparation or ingredients chosen. There was no shortage of appreciation. There was no shortage of laughter. There were real conversations. Not the best stock option to buy or the latest media scare of some virulent disease, something that would keep one scared, safely tucked at home, computer on, television glowing, an online or phone line purchase - the best option for connection to the world. They didn't do any of that. They didn't foist their opinions on their sons or on me. They listened to each of us. And we them. Every opinion counted.
And they wanted to know about me. About my relationship to my family. How I felt about it.
They understood without trying to change my mind with the static, demoralising statement of, "But it's your family. It's the only one you've got. You ought to try."
Maybe they didn't press because both the parents came from less than desirable familial circumstances themselves. They moved to a different land to get away from their oppressive pasts. They started a new family, a rare and beautiful gem, one that welcomes Comrades.
Being a true adventurer and marvellous guest, after several glasses of everything, my future father-in-law was more reputedly "blotto" (his word) than he'd been in 10 years.
He stumbled to the bathroom in a wave pattern.
He fell asleep in the adirondack chair.
It was the first time Fatty had seen him look so vulnerable.
Older.
It made him consider his father's mortality for the first time.
This scared the crap out of him.
The Comrade: How are you doing, darling?
Future father-in-law: [very British accent] I am chilling.
Future mother-in-law: [high pitched British accent] Are you cold?
Future father-in-law: No, I am cool.
Though the rest of the family was holding their heads in mock horror, there is something rather adorable about a Dr. Mac Daddy feeling safe enough to conduct experiments in street vernacular within a controlled environment.
It was the first time we'd entertained Fatty's family here. I can't wait until the next time.
I've modified Chicken's diet. He's now receiving a combination of 3 different types of cat food. He seems to have taken to it. He's still blind as a bat, still can't hear me yelling at him, but he's starting to put on a little weight. Thank God. His poops are of a healthy consistency. And yes, I look at his poop as scientifically as I do my own. He hasn't thrown up and he hasn't crapped uncontrollably for a little while now. He's on yellow alert. He'll always be on yellow alert.
My little boy
Who will be celebrating his Sweet Sixteen this year.
Off to college soon,
Where he'll probably find a girl.
I hope he'll want me to meet her.
posted by Comrade Chicken at
7:55 p.m.
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