The Beast was responsible for two weeknight dinners in a row. I know, right? Like, it’s totally shocking.
He picked up a gigantic flank steak on his day off yesterday, marinated it, grilled it and served it with little yellow roasted potatoes and Boston leaf lettuce. All I had to do when I got home was make the cilantro garlic sauce.
We both agreed that it was one of the best dinners we’ve ever had. It was restaurant quality. No joke.
We didn’t eat dinner together the next night: I had a work engagement to go to and the Beast was invited over to our neighbour’s place.
I don’t even know our neighbours’ names. That’s how selfish I am. I do know that they strike me as slightly odd. I won’t go into detail about it. But one of the men who lives there writes poetry and he knows that the Beast makes music–he can hear it, after all–so he asked him if he’d come over and help him set his poetry to music.
How do I say this without sounding like a monster. But I would NEVER IN A MILLION YEARS SAY YES TO THIS. I would lie my ass off. I’d say that I have a night job. I’d say that my fake grandfather was in the hospital and I had to visit. I’d say that I had a fake leg and I had to take it off. I’d say anything just to get out of such an engagement. But what does the Beast do? He agrees, and sets a time.
He’s over there now. He could be getting murdered for all I know.
Anyway, he left out the ingredients for me to make a flank steak sandwich. He even caramelized onions for crying out loud. All I had to do was warm up a chunk of baguette, slather it with mayonnaise, add the steak, onions and lettuce.
I just had to figure out how to download the last two episodes of the HBO show Girls so that I could watch them with my dinner.
I both love and sort of hate the show. There is certainly a lot of envy: the writer, director and star, Lena Dunham, is 26 years old. The Beast thinks I watch it because I want to identify with twentysomethings more than I want to identify with women my own age, like the ladies from the other show about four females making a go of it in New York City, Sex in the City. Those ladies seemed old even in the episodes when they were younger than I am now.
He is probably right. Women my own age are, for the most part, very professional. They own houses and cars and they make babies and they are married and they have these life plans.
I don’t have any of those things. I don’t even know if I aspire to have any of those things.
Is that why I like Girls? Because they’re not really grown up yet? Do I get some sort of perverse pleasure re-watching all the stupid shit those girls do in order to make myself feel better about all the stupid shit I did? I once fake-dated a boy who really liked my personality , he said, but didn’t want to take me to prom because, and these are his words, “your body isn’t good enough.”
But I still said yes when he asked me to the prom! And I continued to fake-date him during my first year of university. What kind of an asshole agrees to do that kind of a relationship? I still shake my head in bewilderment when I think of it.
The bad boys, the bad parties, the bad decisions, the bad jobs, the no ambition, the wasting of time and not getting down to business, the selfishness, the anything is still possible.
The Beast does not like the show at all. He can’t even watch it because he says “it’s gross.” Meanwhile, I can’t stop watching it. It’s like a train wreck sometimes.
I feel like I’m caught in some mystical world–I’m too old to be in my 20s and I’m too young to be in my mid-30s. But I’ve never really been comfortable with my actual age, no matter what age that was.
Here’s an example: do you know that back when I used to pray–from roughly the age of eight to 14–I had this little prayer that I’d recite to God asking him to bless all my family members and I may have even listed off some pets, including Big Balls the cat–wherever he was–and I’d end it with this: “and please God, don’t let me get my period until I’m at least 15.”
I have never even read a Judy Blume book. I just did not want to grow up. PERIOD. No thank you!
Spoiler alert: I got it. And I haven’t dated an asshole in at least 18 years, so there’s that. Plus, I can hear the Beast coming up the stairs right now, which means he wasn’t murdered.
Categories: At Home