A conversation between Carter and Me:
(Warning: If you know nothing about Lord of the Rings, you may want to come back tomorrow. Also, if you are tired of reading about my reproductive system because you don’t have lady-parts, you might want to try to find some common decency.)
CARTER: So I read about that dinosaur thing after you posted about it on your blog. The Eye of Sauron dinosaur?
ME: How cool was that!? And I was serious. I’m going to refer to my period from here on out as Sauroniops pachytholus.
CARTER: Your period is the Eye of Sauron? Then you’re Saruman.
ME: I really don’t appreciate you calling me Saruman. I’m not evil. My period is evil. As far as Sauron is concerned, I’m a f*cking hobbit. And it’s trying to murder me and take my precious.
CARTER: Your precious being what?
ME: It doesn’t matter. Anyways, if my lady-time is the Eye of Sauron and I’m Saruman, then that would make my va-jay-jay Mordor. And nobody ever wants to go into Mordor.
|Go ahead, ladies. Tell me this isn’t EXACTLY what it’s like.|
CARTER: I wanna go into Mordor.
ME: No one asked you. My uterus is Mordor, from whence the Eye of Sauron operates. I’ll give you that. But I am just a lowly hobbit. A victim! And my va-jay-jay is not Mordor. It’s… it’s….
CARTER: The Shire?
ME: F*ck no. Where’s that place where all the elves live?
ME: Yea, that’s it. My va-jay-jay is Rivendell. Where no one ever ages or dies. Or has to have “rejuvenation surgery.” Or episiotomies. I think that’s the ideal for everyone – for their lady-nest to be the fountain of youth where nothing ever gets sick. Or broken. And everything is sparkly. But not in a va-jazzled kind of way.
CARTER: You’ve put a lot of thought into this.
ME: Not really. Just in the shower this morning. And after I wrote about it on the blog yesterday. And after girl’s night.
CARTER: Ok. So you’ve put a lot of thought into this.
ME: And so what if I have? It’s not like Peter Jackson is doing anything with his life!
CARTER: Ok. So let me get this straight. Peter Jackson is done making Lord of the Ring movies, not because he wants to, just because he ran out of books to make into movies. And this means that you are still trying to keep LOTR relevant by comparing your lady-time to the Eye of Sauron and your va-jay-jay to the magical and ethereal place that is Rivendell. Did I get that right?
ME: Hardly. I’m really just bitter that Peter Jackson’s new J.R. Tolkein movie, The Hobbit, isn’t out yet. And I know that my lady-nest is about to be devastated by Sauron in about a week. Which makes me emotional. Which makes me angry. Which reminded me that I’m pissed about both my period and Peter Jackson and so I started to draw lines of comparison.
|This one. This is me when Sauron’s in town. (Ok. Who am I kidding. That one is me all the time.)|
CARTER: Who is Peter Jackson in this scenario?
ME: I haven’t gotten that far. But I’m leaning towards Rigby. She’s growing some fantastic facial hair and really has an eye for the minute details that really matter when adding texture and authenticity to a film.
CARTER: You’re ridiculous.
ME: I know you are, but what am I?
CARTER: At the risk of maybe needing to divorce you because of your answer, who am I in this little analogy?
ME: As much as I’d like to say Grima Wormtongue right now, it doesn’t really fit the image system I’ve created here. I guess you’d have to be Legolas.
CARTER: I love Legolas. So I’m Legolas in the bad-ass “I have an eternally-full quiver of arrows and will defend the wonderful Rivendell from the evil Sauron by killing orcs and murking some Nazgul” kind of way?
ME: No. You’re Legolas in the “Help me. I’ve been sent out on a friggin’ quest to defeat Sauron because if I don’t, Sauron’s going to invade my beloved Rivendell and destroy everything and I’ll be left with nothing.” In case you aren’t on the same page as me, your “quest” is to go to Pinkberry to get me some frozen yogurt so that “The Eye of Sauron” doesn’t destroy me and turn me into a quivering, sobbing, emotional mess who thinks that you don’t love her. It’s also worth noting that, like in the books, if you don’t return from said “quest” victorious, you will not see Rivendell for a very, very long time.
CARTER: Get married, they said. It will enhance your life dramatically, they said.
ME: Hasn’t it?
CARTER: [Blank, weary stare]
ME: Hey. Look on the bright side. I’m not comparing that area to Harry Potter.
CARTER: Thank God for that.
ME: If I did, you would definitely be Salazar Slytherin.
CARTER: Stop. Just…. Stop.
I guess this might be his kharmic bitch-slap for almost burning down the apartment while I was out of town last weekend. With a pizza box lid. And a candle. (Note: I do not burn candles. My grandfather was a fire chief for 30 some years. You can’t even light a match in an inappropriately dry house without him getting twitchy and nervous. [humidifiers, people. And you won’t die during allergy season. So really it’s a win/win.] Ergo, I grew up in a candle-less home.)
Or maybe it’s the universe punishing him for not taking me to see Hotel Transylvania.
Or maybe, I’m The Precious and he should be grateful to have me and should stop complaining that sometimes I cause night-sweats, hallucinations, and crazy horse-birds to chase him.
Yea. Let’s go with that one.
Happy Friday, y’all!
The Hobbit: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0903624/