By Patty Clark
If I had wanted to lose my boyfriend in 10 days, I would have used the reprehensible shenanigans of showing up at his place with flowery needlepointed pillows and wedding magazines while whining incessantly. Or, I could have simply placed a scorpion inside his bedsheets. But because he was a keeper, I chose to hold off on the whining and revealing my mean streak.
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Things to Consider
I spend a lot of time at my boyfriend’s house.
Before I collected enough bravery to forge forward into the mighty man cave, there were things worth investigating. Like if he showered. Or if he kept a clean house. And his bedding. Cotton? Satin? Former girlfriend? I knew I wouldn’t find any potpourri. And did he grill? I have this persistent condition that keeps me from starvation. It’s called hunger.
Cotton? Satin? Former Girlfriend?
Life Imitating Art
If I had wanted to lose this guy in 10 days, I would have used the reprehensible shenanigans of showing up at his place with flowery needlepointed pillows and wedding magazines while whining incessantly.
Or, I could have simply placed a scorpion inside his bedsheets. But because he was a keeper, I chose to hold off on the whining and revealing my mean streak. This man is definitely life imitating art, thus living in beautiful surroundings and setting off a series of elaborate delectables from the outside rotisserie. Every brushstroke of barbeque sauce is his art form and I am in awe of his established patterns of preparation.
Before I delve any further into his awesomeness, there were still some concerns.
Opening anything inebriating and drinking it can therefore alter his main meal responsibilities.
In a split five minute distractment, ye old grillskeeper can char meat if he has inhaled his fair share of spirits and wanders away. It wasn’t too difficult deliberating whether or not I wanted my future dinners to be medium rare or seared to the point of calling the fire department. So I remind the roaster that the grill clock is ticking. I wouldn’t want to read visitants their last rites. Local funeral homes are holding my pre-sworn affidavits in case of botulism or fatal well-doneness. But my man has potential.
First of all he has only incinerated the meat once, and I’ve had some pretty spoiled brats. He does keep the phone number for a good pizza parlor available. Yet he will never have the light-starved stagnation of a cold grill. I did want to send him to a college that offers degrees in eco-friendism and folklore studies, so he doesn’t repeat the same old stories. Hopefully our garden parties won’t take a dreadful descent when my man brags about being politically conservative.
Rest assured though, the resident ambassador of indoor plumbing has fresh towels to accommodate bathroom attendees.
But lawn weeds have popped up all over the place like pimples on adolescents. The bastion of manliness sounded like a broken record when he declared, “I’ve got to call those lawn people.” Knowing his humor, he’ll probably ask me to pull a few of the buggers in exchange for drinks, grilled meals, sleeping accommodations, and swigging his wine.
Waste Not, Want Not
Those man cave-drinking rituals began rubbing off on me.
You can lead a horse to water, but she might prefer several smooth Cabernets. While pouring he tells me, “Say when.” I can’t ever seem to say “Stop.” Thankfully the kitchen didn’t flood. Although there have been times I’ve been on the floor sopping up fermented remains as well as trying to get some back into my glass.
Waste not, want not. It’s never a good idea to get bombed during side dish gestation.
Moving On Their Own
Interestingly enough, walls tend to start moving by themselves.
I never feel particularly inspired scouring my boyfriend’s kitchen floor, which is basically the craziest thing I’ve done in the name of love and inebriation. I find myself delivering slurred soliloquies on how not to screw things up during dinner development. He likes kisses in the interim. Except embracing can lead to varying degrees of difficulty, like the sight of a hickey.
In which case, I’d have to cover it with a turtleneck in 85 degree weather to avoid embarrassing comments.
No Need to Worry
Another downside to man caving is that you can gain twenty pounds sitting in a lawn chair gobbling on grilled goodies and leave needing liposuction.
My belly suddenly drops like a feed sack. I end up having my beau wrap a large beach towel around my waist and shimmy it at the speed of however fast he can turbo twist the fat away. He doesn’t worry like I do. He occupies his time thinking up his next grub grilling concoctions.
The kind of higher superior who created grilling cannot be the same maker who came up with sagging skin. When I praise my guy on his six-pack, he knows I’m referring to his brand of beer.
Now that the king of the cave has made me a queen-like integral invitee, I have given it some rather codified girlie touches.
I do think we make a tightly knit twosome. And on most days, his place seems to be engulfed with nothing more than his sweet beau-ish company, the strums of his guitar, and looking at the grill wondering who is going to clean it. Before ruining my sterling status as his girlfriend, he should know that I don’t have the controlling desire to take over his barbequing enjoyment. Nor do I own a scorpion.