On Saturday we took my mom to the Keg in London, Ont., for her birthday dinner. It’s not often that we’re all–me, the Beast, mom, her partner Russ, my brother, sister in law, and my nephew, who is three and a half, out together.
The very kind server brought her a piece of that Billy Miner pie.
I had one bite and then excused myself to the washroom, which Ben, my nephew, did repeatedly through the course of our meal. I think nearly everyone took him. He kept telling us he had to go poo but I don’t think he really needed to take one.
I thought I had to go poo, too, but nothing happened in the washroom at the Keg.
Just outside of Aylmer, however, I’ve never had to go poo so bad in my life. “The rest stop is just nine km away,” the Beast said. “Can’t you wait?”
But in nine km I would surely shit my pants. It was coming. Luckily there was a country road exit, which I took, and parked in a car pool lot. I ran into the woods and did what Ben couldn’t.
Back in the car, and like a true gentleman, the Beast made sure I felt no shame.
Other than that, summer has been moving along quite nicely. We both had Tuesday off, so we spent it at the cottage. It rained heavily all day but cleared up by evening.
The temperature dropped to 14 or so that night. We slept beautifully–under actual blankets–in the bunkie.
Back at home, there have been sunsets, usually enjoyed with a great deal of rosé.
The Beast is also readying himself for his early retirement at the end of September. For a little while, maybe even a year, I will be our family’s primary breadwinner, and he will be our primary caretaker while he works on his music and writing. I imagine coming home after a hard day at work to find him in an apron offering me a cocktail, the smell of a homemade meal filling the very clean-and-tidy house.
I’m sure there will be a adjustment period: the kind where I come home to find him still in his underwear making hip hop beats with not a single thought during his day dedicated to what the fuck’s for dinner.
Still, I’m looking forward to it. Earlier in the week, he planned a dinner and executed it all on his own: shrimp po’ boys.
They were delicious. We enjoyed them on the deck with a cool, crisp and bubbly bottle of Crémant (rosé, obviously.)
Beast: I think I’ll get a job with a luxury brand when I retire.
Foodie: Like Harry Rosen?
Beast: I was thinking Creative Director of Ralph Lauren.
Foodie: Shooting high!
Beast: I guess that’s Ralph’s job.
Foodie: What about a job at a luxury hotel? That way we could get discounts at fancy places when we travel!
Beast: Did you get that wax today?
Foodie: No. But I was thinking that I could live-tweet it when I do. Did you know that a Brazilian also includes waxing the inside of your butt?
Foodie: I wonder how that grows in…Anyway, I’m going to do it one of these days because when I’m on my bike and wearing shorts I can actually see my other shorts: my hair shorts.
Beast: Let me see your phone for a second.
Foodie: Sure. I really think that if I’d stuck with gymnastics I could’ve been somebody because ultimately, I have the body of a gymnast.
Beast: Sure, only it’s not as flexible, plus it can’t do all the amazing things a gymnast’s body can do. But if you mean short, compact, and squat, then yeah.
Foodie: And strong.
Beast: Yeah, then for sure. Here’s your phone.
Foodie: What did you need it for?
Beast: You’ll see.
This morning, I did see: in less than a minute, the Beast had made a series of collages for me:
I’m sitting here now wondering what the Beast’s early retirement will really look like. I suspect that a rosé-hughed adventure awaits us, maybe one that includes a couple’s butt-waxing at a high end spa. In other words, there will be challenges, but like a gymnast, I am strong. And he is, too.
Besides a few ingrown hairs, what could possibly go wrong?