Friday, January 24, 2003
Ah. The weekend is upon me. I plan just to veg. The Better Half is off doing a confirmation retreat, so I am flying solo. My plan tonight: bake cookies and work on the Better Half's Christmas present: an orange and maroon sweater (his Susquehanna U colors- yes, they are the same as Tech). Tomorrow, aerobics class and shopping at Target, and then it's Super Bowl Sunday!
Last night, the Better Half and I stayed in, not wanting to brave the cold. We talked about a variety of things. He was telling me about this sicko movie he watched as part of his Classroom Management class about a real school in England that has no rules. Yep. And apparently it's rather Lord of The Flies-esque creep-fest. There was one scene in which a group of boys captured and killed a stray rabbit, decapitated it and brought it to the science teacher! Our mutual friend, Jenny, was ready to lose her lunch. I don't tolerate animal cruelty in any form, and suddenly found myself wishing that these boys and the schoolmasters who foster this dribble all developed comorbid cases of hemmorrhaging anal fissures and explosive diarrhea for the rest of their pathetic lives.
That lead to a discussion of "Lord of The Flies," and a few other pieces of work I like to call (especially to peeve the Better Half) "Stinky Boy Stories." It was derived from the statement I made in response to the Better Half's disbelief that I didn't enjoy the Golding classic: "No, because I don't like stories about a bunch of stinky boys doing their homoerotic stinky boy crap on an island!" Also, disliked reading Twain and Hemmingway for the same reason. I just couldn't relate to all the heaping helpings of testosterone. But I do love many male writers, including Poe, who I think wrote specifically for women, and Fitzgerald, who had a wonderful muse in his wife, Zelda. We talked a bit more about other things as well, those talks where you and your signifiant other bond over some weird thing, but you find it so comforting and pleasant just the same. And it makes you happy that you have the opportunity to bond again many times over the next 70 or so years of your lives.
Last night, the Better Half and I stayed in, not wanting to brave the cold. We talked about a variety of things. He was telling me about this sicko movie he watched as part of his Classroom Management class about a real school in England that has no rules. Yep. And apparently it's rather Lord of The Flies-esque creep-fest. There was one scene in which a group of boys captured and killed a stray rabbit, decapitated it and brought it to the science teacher! Our mutual friend, Jenny, was ready to lose her lunch. I don't tolerate animal cruelty in any form, and suddenly found myself wishing that these boys and the schoolmasters who foster this dribble all developed comorbid cases of hemmorrhaging anal fissures and explosive diarrhea for the rest of their pathetic lives.
That lead to a discussion of "Lord of The Flies," and a few other pieces of work I like to call (especially to peeve the Better Half) "Stinky Boy Stories." It was derived from the statement I made in response to the Better Half's disbelief that I didn't enjoy the Golding classic: "No, because I don't like stories about a bunch of stinky boys doing their homoerotic stinky boy crap on an island!" Also, disliked reading Twain and Hemmingway for the same reason. I just couldn't relate to all the heaping helpings of testosterone. But I do love many male writers, including Poe, who I think wrote specifically for women, and Fitzgerald, who had a wonderful muse in his wife, Zelda. We talked a bit more about other things as well, those talks where you and your signifiant other bond over some weird thing, but you find it so comforting and pleasant just the same. And it makes you happy that you have the opportunity to bond again many times over the next 70 or so years of your lives.
