October 18, 2018

pirate in the kitchen

I have to keep writing through the floating Tramadol-somnolent haze that has gripped me for days, in spite of my current ontological crisis.  I got a thoughtful discussion and a loving bollocking yesterday, respectively, about all that, but it remains for me to work through on my own.  Something along the lines of "sense of self is merely a byproduct of consciousness and what you're after is purpose but purpose is a choice and not backed up by anything objective, so really, it's freedom".  Which is in turn the byproduct of having a brilliant wife and a brilliant friend, both of whom I must tolerate as incendiary gifts at times.

So I'll answer the question of what on earth a pirate was doing in our kitchen, lo these many years ago.

Am terrifying pirate!


It was a rather diminutive pirate, to be fair, with plastic accessories and a hat that was a dead give-away in terms of the pirate being lacking in serious business.  While I have exactly zero expertise in general pirate couture, I believe that pirates most likely do not conduct their business, serious or not, in their underwear and a Hanes t-shirt.

Nevertheless, there was a pirate in our kitchen.

The Kid was four years old and immersed in the universe of Pirates of the Caribbean, a product of his Happy Meal- and Disney Store-fueled generation.  He was a kid who would go balls to the wall with his character and franchise obsessions.  He began reading at three and took in information that we were not prepared to help him incorporate into his worldview.  His mind was, to put it lightly, an interesting place.  It always has been.

I digress.  P.J. and I had tucked him in several hours earlier and indulged in the reasonable expectation that he slumbered peacefully and that we, in turn, had peaceful time to ourselves; and as we were a couple, we did what any couple would do on a Saturday night.  [Insert implied graphic description of gay lovemaking here so as to spare the faint of heart, who really have no business reading this blog in the first place and I did warn you, but you didn't read the stuff in the side column, so whatever.  That's totally on you.]

After [whatever you want to believe happened] happened, I was thirsty, and emerged from our bedroom and entered the kitchen, wearing only a black camisole.  Only.  A black camisole.  And there, in front of the refrigerator, blocking the water dispenser, I was met with the above apparition, gritting its teeth in a fiercely pirate-esque manner.

God fucking knows how long he had been standing there, waiting.

I'm pretty sure I yelped and ran back into the bedroom and slammed the door.  This had the desired effect for two of the three people involved.  The Kid was gratified because my reaction affirmed that his character's attributes instilled fear in the hearts of all who beheld him - to wit, me and, possibly, one of the dogs.  I was gratified because I got to hide quickly and avoid scarring my child for life, because, frankly, my body has never been fit for display and he was only four but the possibility existed that he possessed my photographic memory.

P.J., however, only saw me enter the kitchen momentarily, heard me yelp, and saw me run back into the bedroom and slam the door.  There was a space of time in which the cause of this rapid series of events was left solely to her imagination, and it could have involved my having just seen anything ranging from a sizeable cockroach to Ronald McDonald with a live chicken and a butcher knife.

"Um, dear?  There's a pirate in the kitchen."

This did not help.

I leave the rest to you.

1 comment:

  1. Love it!! and thank you. Yup, you do have to work it though on your own. I do love you, so will dispense bollocking as and when, just as you prod me when I need it, whether I want said prodding or not 💜

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