I haven't been able to respond to comments, I haven't been able to respond to emails. All I do is take care of Tiny Charges, order supplies, go to (Punk Rock/SCAian/Witchy/Indie) shows, make more of everything, eat dinner, sleep and occasionally shower. It is absolutely as sexy as it sounds.
Jow has been a total mensch this Busy Season. Usually there's a lot of bitching and complaining. Blahblahblah why is there a whole filthy sheep fleece in the bathtub when I need to take a shower, blahblahblah why is there beeswax in my food, blahblahblah I'm not a lab rat and that burns when you test it on me, blahblahblah why is there a dead body on my side of the bed. You know, standard Busy Season Spousal Problems.
But ever since I distilled my shows down to events full of gorgeous youngs who bat their eyelashes and giggle at him and have bountiful taco trucks, he's been more than tolerant of my small business psychosis, he's become invested. He's been labeling things, distilling things, mailing things and here's his darkest secret: He's an amazing salesbag. It's true! Rarely does anyone leave his clutches without making a purchase. He's frankly better than me which would be totally annoying except I'm secretly cranky and misanthrophic so it works out.
So last night, we were both pretty punchy.
DEB and JOW are "doing feets*" on the couch. An episode of Judge Judy plays on the television. JOW is very tired from work and DEB is halfway to a (prescribed and necessary for fibromyalgia management) pill coma.
Jow: Okay. I'm just going to say it. I'm 99% sure the defendant is a fishwoman from Innsmouth.
Deb: God, thank you! I kept thinking there was something wrong with her but I couldn't put my finger on it. The glassy eyes, the lank hair, the mumbling, the inability to accept obvious blame for her actions.
Jow: Exactly. I'm pretty sure her brain compressed a little once she left her ocean dwelling.
Deb: And obviously she has gills under her sweater.
Jow: Obviously.
Deb: So . . .was her mom a fish or her dad?
Jow: Her mom, probably.
Deb: And she wasn't that great in fish society either. So her mom was like, honey you need to get to land and get at least three fish babies in belly by the age of twenty three because it's your best chance for survival. And she was like, done and done!
Jow: Yes! I just feel like her sweater has been soaked in a swamp previously because she gets homesick sometimes.
Deb: So . . .you know what would be awesome? If instead of turkeys, we hunted huge crabs. Crabsgiving. Bam.
Jow: Like . . .people sized crabs?
Deb: Yes. And since all you need to go with eating crab is corn and potatoes, you don't need all the Thanksgiving prep. So the whole family hunts the crab together.
Jow: Hmm. The crab would need to be bigger than a person then for it to be a fair fight.
Deb: Okay. Fair.
Jow: And I'd feel bad if they had this, like, peaceful sentient crab society and we just murder them annually.
Deb: No, they're assholes. They're like daleks. They only have one purpose and that's to fuck us up and end the world.
Jow: Let's kill us some crabs!
Deb: So, how would that work? How would the labor be divided? I mean, a vegetarian could hunt seaweed and kelp and then be responsible to make it into some kind of side dish.
Jow: That seems reasonable.
Deb: Mom would be in charge, barking orders. She would be on the sidelines.
* "Doing feets" is defined as when my head is on one side of the couch and Jow's head is on the other side and we are both lying down with a blanket and our feet overlapping.