better find yourself a safe word because I’m…gonna…carve…you… up.
Postscript: Ken found himself a safe word. It’s scrumpets.
Me: “Why is your safe word scrumpets, Ken?”
Ken: “I dunno. I just like that word.”
Me: “It’s not a word.”
Ken: “Yes it is. It’s what British people eat with their tea.”
Me: “Those are crumpets.”
Ken: “Bullshit. A crumpet is like a Bugle.”
Me: “No, that’s a trumpet.”
Ken: “The other kind of Bugle.”
Me: “You mean, those crunchy, salty cornucopia-shaped things people pretended to like in the ’90s?”
Ken: “Who was pretending?”
I don’t even know why I felt the need to have that conversation. Anytime you’re doing something to a man and he responds by uttering the nonsensical word scrumpets, your next move should be to immediately stop what you’re doing and check the other three signs of a stroke because he just met one1.
* * *
1 Because I’m in the business of saving lives here, the acronym you need to remember when identifying a potential stroke is FAST. The F stands for Face drooping. The A stands for Arm weakness or numbness. The S stands for Speech difficulty. (Ahem, scrumpets.) And the T stands for Time to call 911 if you see any of these signs.
Of course, if Ken is safe-wording on me, I should probably call 911 anyway because I might have just accidentally clawed out his pancreas.
So, either way, scrumpets is shaping up to be a pretty expensive word.
Super Private Journal That Ken Is Never, Never Allowed to Read Ever—Entry #6
I must be drunk. I just flipped off my husband. I don’t feel that dru—
Shit.
I do totally, actually feel that drunk. But I only had one glass of cheap pinot G!
(FYI: When I say one glass, I mean, one teeny, tiny little glass filled all the fuck up. I have to compensate, Journal! These wine glasses are miniature! They’re basically aperitif flutes. I swear!)
Whatever. It doesn’t matter how I got here. What matters is that I am presently at that magical, elusive just-right amount of drunkenness where I could either instigate a fistfight OR anal sex (Two things that would never, ever happen, EVER, unless I’ve had the perfect amount of white wine on a slightly empty stomach and Mercury is in retrograde) and still be conscious enough to actually show the fuck up and perform.
So, we’ve established that Ken refuses to compliment me. But it’s almost like a phobia, Journal. In fact I just Googled fear of giving compliments, thinking surely there’s a term for this sick pathology. And guess what? I got nothing. There is a fear of receiving compliments, which, of course, Ken could do while standing on his head, but not of giving them. You know why? Because no one has ever been pathologically averse to complimenting his or her spouse ever. Because it’s not a thing.
There’s no term you can hide behind, Ken. No support group. You’re not mentally ill. You’re just an asshole.
Here, Little Guy. Let me give you some background so that you can weigh in on this bullshit…
I’m into photography. I’ve taken classes. I have a fancy camera with fancy lenses. It’s my hobby. I used to paint, but with a baby and a toddler demanding my attention now there is no scenario in the foreseeable future where I will be gifted with ten blissful hours of solitude to smear paint around on a canvas and sing along to Death Cab for Cutie, so if I’m going to make any art at all, it has to occur at the push of a button and with a baby on my hip.
I really like photography. I also really like to think that I’m pretty good at it, but I can’t be sure because the only people who’ve ever validated that hypothesis are my closest friends and family. And let’s be honest, their opinions are pretty fucking worthless. Not that they necessarily have shitty taste, they’re just a little too supportive and awesome to sit me down and say, Honey, maybe don’t spend so much money on camera equipment, okay? Or any. Ever again.
Okay. Now that you’re up to speed, let’s get back to me flipping off my husband.
(Or is it flicking off? I think I use the terms interchangeably, but I don’t know because who does that in the first place? I might as well have mooned him! I mean, seriously, what am I? Some dirty, rascally little orphan in a Paul Rudd movie?)
Anyhoo, I was sitting on my designated side of the couch, using the cherished half hour of free