This morning, in the kitchen:
Beast: We need to get rid of our sugar bowl.
Foodie: No we don’t.
Beast: Yes we do. And that little plate it sits on too.
Foodie: No we don’t. I love them both so much.
Beast: They look like they belong in a fucking dump: like they belong to a character in a Miranda July novel.
Foodie: What novels are you going to bring to Cuba?
Beast: I haven’t decided.
Foodie: Well, bring a lot of them because when Erinn and I went we both finished like six books in seven days.
We are going on vacation. Because he hates both sand and the sun, the Beast has shown no interest in taking one of the beach variety. But after weeks of cold weather and being in a creative slump, he finally told me just the other day to “book it.”
So I did. Although we both really want to visit my Uncle Ron in Morelia, Mexico, our last-minute vacation window wouldn’t permit a trip that required any sort of detailed planning. So Sol Pelicano in Cayo Largo, a cheap and cheerful Cuban resort where we can also enjoy a day trip to Havana, it is. Erinn and I went in 2011 and had the time of our lives reading on the beach, admiring women wearing bathing suits that went right up their butts (we called them butt blades), eating fish and salad every day for lunch and consuming large quantities of white wine. We came back tanned, rested and re-charged.
That sounds great right about now because the Beast isn’t the only one who’s been in a creative slump. If my boss had a look at my Internet history on Thursday, I think I would’ve been escorted from the building. I started off searching for my favourite Saturday Night Live sketches in advance of the show’s 40th anniversary special, which lead me to movie trailers, blooper reels, some early Melissa McCarthy YouTube bits that I’d never seen before and, inexplicably, to anti-vaccination posts on sites with names like NaturalNews.com. My mood turned from good-humoured to frustrated–I couldn’t find an SNL bit from the ’90s about three-legged jeans–to dark. Although I started writing three posts, including a piece pegged to Gwyneth Paltrow’s vagina-steaming adventure called “10 other things you can give to your vagina,” I didn’t finish a thing.
We’ve both been feeling empty, figuratively. But I’m literally the only one who is starving. In my attempt to lose 15 lb. alongside my colleague, I had some early success. But there’s been no weight loss in the last two weeks, despite me watching the Beast eat an entire leftover cold Pizza Hut pizza while I put a fucking boiled egg on a salad and called it dinner.
Just this morning, naked, I stepped on the scale. The number, down to the decimal, was the same as last week–even when I moved the scale, still naked, into different rooms around the house.
Is it because I haven’t been able to ride my bike (on account of the weather) to work? Was it the sliver of cake I had at a baby shower yesterday? Or the two glasses of red wine I drank last night, which the Beast also enjoyed and used to wash down a box of strawberry Pockys while we watched Spencer Tracy and Katharine Hepburn’s first movie together, Woman of the Year?
It’s a title I won’t be receiving at home anytime soon after revealing on national television that the Beast once faked an orgasm. Actually, he’s not mad at all. I asked permission beforehand. (In short: it was my birthday many years ago, we were very drunk and there was no finish line in sight, so he rolled his eyes a bit and opened up his mouth as if to moan–like he was acting out a scene in a Buster Keaton movie–and thought he’d fooled me. When I asked him about it not five minutes after the performance, he admitted he faked it and we laughed and laughed.)
But family members (his, not mine) are concerned about their reputations. In a series of text messages to us both, they asked: How can we show our faces again? What kind of parents raise their son to fake an orgasm? The Beast responded that he thought it was a rather thoughtful birthday gift.
I’d never thought of it that way. But you know what? He’s right.
As far as I know, he’s only faked it the one time. But considering that I plan on wearing my oversized J. Peterman caftan the entire time we’re in Cuba, I better prepare myself for a repeat fake performance. Actually, this thing is so big that I doubt he’ll be able to find my vagina so we should be good.