Carnival For Couples

Now that the moderation of Lent is in full swing here in Christendom, we may reflect on those soggy days between Twelfth Night and Ash Wednesday during which, to say goodbye to (figurative) meat, good Christians gorged on (figurative) meat. They call it Carnival, and in a few Southern cities the oldest and richest families indulge their fellow citizens with public revelry in honor of the season. Their intention is to increase happiness, inducing a kind of pan-eudaimonium, but in practice, the second prefix is elided, and the result is just pandemonium, albeit controlled.

As in other less-than lawful contexts (the wild west, prison, inner-city streets), the easiest way to survive and enjoy oneself is to join a gang. You're bound to knock into other people in the close quarters along any parade route, in the shuffle for throws and a view, and it is best for everyone if that isn't your first introduction. If it must be, it helps to have numbers behind you.

Also, it is safer to drink more in greater numbers, and a strong argument could be made that intoxication is a necessary condition for enjoying a Carnival parade.

It should be clear that it is not ideal to go to a parade on a date, or with your partner only, because the result will be that you get bumped into, spilled on, and kept away from the parade route, with no recourse to either friends or liquor.

The ideal way to spend Carnival with your partner is with a bottle of champagne and your own house. That is, I assume, why parades are also televised. The ideal way to spend Carnival at all is by feasting on literal meat, king cakes, and other feast-worthy morsels, and not to go to parades. But be aware of the interference to your route to the grocery offered by parades, and plan ahead.

Buying Flowers

It's a man's job to buy flowers on Valentine's Day. But we do not go to work grudgingly.

I had to hustle after two and some hours of Kant today, to do my duty. I had planned a nice meal, and of course, flowers. And lest you misinterpret this: Buying flowers at the last minute is not the sign of forgetfulness, but a desire for freshness. Who wants flowers that have been all day in the library's cold carrel, or hidden in a closet, or--worst yet--bought at convenience and delivered likewise? No, fresh flowers should be a struggle and a victory, brought home in lieu of a fresh carcass.

I went to Whole Foods because it is closest, and I was on a bike, and still needed to prepare and serve the nice meal, and with Kant eating away the day, hours were precious. In my basket I secured the food (the carcass! lamb), and then made a beeline for the flowers. Others were already in line with bouquets. I joined another man in the perusal of the left-overs. Pick't-over they were, at six-thirty on Valentine's night, as I should have expected. (The price of freshness!)

When I read the other man's face, I understood something new about people. He and I were, in a sense, competing, but flowers are not like other prey, where the best is easily spotted. In his eyes I could see his love, and with it his desire to pick flowers she would like. For some women that means the biggest and brightest, and their men have less work according with their desires than affording their desires, but other women have style--and buying anything for them needs a sharper eye. This man and I were both taking in all the flowers, weighing and measuring, noting color and form. If it had happened that we both picked one flower, maybe it would have come to blows, but short of that, I could feel mutual support. It is not in one man's interest to foul up another's relationship, ceteris paribus.

All that aside, I don't know much about flowers. Neither did my aisle ally. I would venture to guess that our relationships are not so different in duration. But I chose first, whatever that might mean. Another man, ahead of me in line for the florist, asked if he could also buy a vase--maybe he hasn't been in her house ever, or for very long--he certainly doesn't live with her. I think he was looking for a material exchange. In my other compatriot I could sense love, a desire to please, a fear of failure, a sharp awareness of his floral ignorance. The other guy asked the florist if those flowers "would go" with that vase. Totally different question, unless he was buying for the florist.

Maybe I'm making it all up. Buying flowers is expected, it's almost dull--like a cake comes with a birthday, flowers come with Valentine's--but I posit, it is not dull. A dress might not fit, food is for both of us, but flowers are just for her, from him. A chance to match styles is not to be taken lightly.

Of course, I could share the secret of how to get two hunks of lamb, stawberries, three Kant books, and a double-bouquet of flowers home, two miles, on a bike, with no damage, but come on. I'm not gonna make it easier for anyone. Get to work.

The Telltale Start

So long as one lives to tell the tale, the tale is worth the damage.

That's what I discovered upon my first foray into the blogosphere, and it wasn't even so adventurous the first time. But now that I have a partner-in-crime, and a new home like a fat fried pie awaiting the tooth, it feels like it's time to take on the 'sphere again and start blogging like a blumberjack.

Mellie is my new fiancee, and Fat City is our new home. And they have single-serving fried pies here.

Our life here is equal parts homemaking and adventuring, all underwritten by risk-taking. And so long as we shall live, we'll tell the tale.