Well, so far, things have worked out okay because The Boys have no time to talk to me and even to each other; it's: "Boy, I slept badly!"; "God! am I stressed out!"; "What time will you be home?"; "G'morning."; "G'night."
Not exactly the Algonquin Round Table, is it? In between they bounce off the walls. Skeeter is having troubles with his benefits, with his health, with doctor and nurse appointments, with tidying the house and with trying to keep meals down. Thank all that is holy! that he's got his fucking iPad and can go to bed and watch Mad Men...or, rather one Mad Man—you know the one—if you know what I mean, and I think you do.
But Boo is a worry. He cannot relax. It's that simple. While Skeet peels himself off the walls by reading The Millenium books (he's got a non-boner crush on Salander) and watching TV and listening to stand-up (Kee-rist he's got a loud, obnoxious laugh!), Boo has nothing that gives him pleasure. Sure, shit food makes him hum for a bit, but then he deals with heartburn and stress and that's when he hits the computer—hard!—for work or, in bed (late night and early morning) stares at the walls for long, long moments. I even thought I'd have a little chat with him last night to see if getting it out of his system through talking would help, but he just stared at me when I said, "Want to talk?" He does that with Boo too when Boo asks him what's wrong.
But there is a silver lining here, for me at least. Normally they close the door of the bathroom as it is the only room, in the autumn, they heat and they don't want all that toasty warmth to get out. But because they are busy bouncing about they forget to close the door and I can go in, cozy up to the radiator or even snack. Snack? you ask? Have you ever tasted the wondrous, unparalleled flavour sensation that is an Ivory soap bar (with aloe)?!?!?! O...M...F...G!!!! First there is that melt-in-your-mouth, unctuous texture! Then it explodes into a tongue-tickling fireworks of bubbles! And then, after you swallow it. there are the delicious, perfume-scented burps for hours and then the delighfully cleansing floral-farts. It's THE edible gift that keeps on giving.
Of course, me eating soap mortifies The Boys and they will even take a moment out of their insane lives to tell me how both their mothers used to threaten them with washing out their mouths with soap when they cursed. (Jesus, they're so fucking old.) And they're not fond of the rabid-dog lather that covers my face for a bit after I dine.
Just goes to show you: we are different species. Dogs have no stress. Humans apparently thrive upon, live and die for, it. Dogs eat things humans can't imagine. Humans eat slugs and call them "escargots" and devour the babies of animals like sheep and cows. Go figure.
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