Eight-Legged Kittens

My friend Wetsoks text me the other night from her flat, which is unfortunately situated near to the field where my old house was, and therefore is perfectly positioned for constant attacks by the... well. The following text conversation should explain everything.

Wetsoks: OMG KITTEN INVASION!?!?!?!

Me: Ahh! What?!

Wetsoks: Two is classified as an invasion, right?

Me: Get the lighter and the spray! Man the boundaries! Do your duty!

Wetsoks: Okay, good plan.

There was a brief pause while I waited anxiously.

Wetsoks: Uh oh.

Me: Sweet baby Jesus, what have you done?

Wetsoks: There are spider guts all over the wall, brah.

Me: Don't use the S word!!! You know how I feel about that.

To read the original recap of why we refer to spiders as kittens, please read this earlier post - http://witandpendulum.blogspot.co.uk/2011/10/uninvited-houseguests.html

Wetsoks: I didn't even know that 'kittens' had guts. They do. They're pinkish yellow. In case you wondered.

Me: I never wanted that knowledge. I'll cry forever now. Thanks.

Wetsoks: Sorry buddy! Truthfact!

I waited a couple of minutes to allow her to carry out her mission.

Me: Have you executed the kittens yet?

Wetsoks: Yes, and there are kitten guts all over my wall.

Me: I don't know whether to be happy or sad about that.

Wetsoks: Technically only one left its guts on the wall. I hit the other one real hard with a book I didn't like.

Me: At least you had time to choose your weapon. I almost hate to ask but how big were they?

Wetsoks: I chose this book specifically because I wasn't sure I could touch it again, far less read it. And the kittens were huge. Properly huge.

Me: I need to know my enemy. 

Wetsoks: Let me put it like this - there aren't just guts on my wall, or a red mark, there are actual organs.

Here please just put some imaginative expletives in place of what I actually said in response to this, which I am sure was much worse.

Wetsoks: I know, right? They were so big I almost offered them coffee.

Me: I'm going to have to blog about this this. And then weep copiously.

Wetsoks: Why? There aren't any giant kittens in your house, smushed over your furniture and wallpaper.

Me: Yes, but its just a matter of time before they come looking for me.

Wetsoks: Ha! Guess who wrote the book I killed the second one with? Karin Slaughter. 

Me: Genius. However, I worry if something happens to me right now and then someone finds my phone, checks the texts, and the last thing they read is something about killing kittens.

Wetsoks: You know who can deal with that? Future you.

Me: Totally. She's great at that stuff.

Give The Otter A Little Sugah, Sugah

Wetsoks and I were in her room the other day, looking at something on the internet, when one of those erotic pop-up ads sprung up from nowhere.

Me: Wow, look at that!

Wetsoks: I'm good, thanks.

Me: No, seriously, look! It's called Hunter's Revenge!

Wetsoks: I don't think anyone is getting revenge. Someone might be 'getting' something else, if you know what I mean.

Me: I don't. I'm very innocent. Click it.

Wetsoks: No.

Me: Click it.

Wetsoks: I'm not going to click it.

Me: Click it!

Wetsoks: No! What if I die and the last thing someone sees on my browser history is Hunter's Revenge?

Me: It's worth it.

Wetsoks: No! 

There was  a brief silence.

Wetsoks: Okay, fine, I'll click it.

I hate to admit it (actually I don't because I have no shame, as anyone who has read this site already knows) but our clicking led to an adult toy website (where our minds were, for want of a better word, stretched) by all the products on offer. My expression was mirrored on Wetsoks face - much like if Hansel and Gretal had discovered  the witch's gingerbread cottage hidden in a very realistically phallic forest.

Me: Do you suppose... Nevermind.

Wetsoks: What?

Me: This might be a stupid question, but could you wash those in machines?

Wetsoks: What kind of machines? Like a washing machine?

Me: (nostalgically) As a child, I broke our washing machine by putting Lego bricks in it.

Wetsoks: That's... a.totally similar situation. Yes, look, it says right here - dishwasher proof.

Me: Dishwasher proof?!

Wetsoks: Oh. Yes. That's kind of messed up.

There was another brief silence. 

Me: Well, it's good to know that they're promoting proper hygiene, at least.

In summary, practise safe sex and remember, almost everything can be put in machines now. 

Do try this at home. 

But not with Lego.

Conversations With Other Half - Round One: E.Honda vs Blanka

Firstly, I'd really like to thank you all for reading my blog. I never imagined that anyone would care about the life and times of an Otternator. Even more thanks go to the people who inspire me - mainly Other Half, my family, and people on Twitter, who have been wonderfully encouraging and complimentary. You guys freaking rock! Okay so yes, maybe I've been watching the Oscars a little bit, and maybe I've been giving my acceptance speech for Best New Most Awesomest Blogger With Totally Awesome Non-BieberHair to the bathroom mirror, clutching a bottle of shampoo to my chest with delight and gesturing emphatically to the imaginary crowds. Nonetheless, I thank you all, and hope you enjoy reading the following post as much as I did writing it.

Other Half and I were in the study the other day, each wandering aimlessly through the internet on our own laptops and occasionally exchanging links to pictures of kittens (the foundation of the internet) and some rather surreal song parodies, when she turned her laptop to face me.

Other Half: Look at my old school.

Me: (obediently looking) That's a very nice, fancy school, dear. Not at all like the shithole I went to.

Other Half: It really is fancy. It costs thousands of pounds to send your child there, even for one term.

Me: My education, and the lack of enthusiasm my peers had for learning, was completely free.

Other Half: (ignoring me) Look at all the ex-pupils who are famous now - there are scientists, and doctors and writers...

Me: A guy who went to my school won the X Factor a couple of years ago.

Other Half (pointing): ...and a Nobel Prize winner!

Me: X Factor.

Other Half: Nobel Prize.

We exchanged a long stare.

Me: What field was it in?

Other Half: Peace.

Me: (sniffing) Well anyone can do that.

This is a perfect example of an ordinary conversation with Other Half. I'm sure if you videotaped us on a daily basis you would find thousands of small moments of pure genius, but my brain can only hold so much information at one time and it's really anyone's guess what I'll remember by the time I've found paper and a pen. Some conversations, however, are too good to forget. We went to bed rather late at the weekend, because of all the moving house malarkey still going on, and as I turned off the light I leant in for a goodnight kiss. After a moment Other Half pulled back rather suddenly.

Other Half: Are you okay?

Me: Yes, why wouldn't I be?

Other Half: Your head is shaking.

Me: Is it?

Other Half: You can't feel that? It's kind of trembling.

Me: (intrigued) Maybe I'm having a stroke.

Other Half: Oh god!

Me: How does my face look? Is it squinty?

Other Half: The parts of it I can see look alright, I guess...

Me: Then we're fine. Kiss me.

Other Half: Sweetheart, I really think we should-

Me: KISS ME.

Other Half: Okay fine. Have it your way. But if you're really having a stroke don't come crying to me about it afterwards.

Me: (happily) Okay!

A Twitter friend referred to me today as a "weaver of fables". I really like this phrase. I wish it was true. In reality, it's more like I catch small, silvery fables in the imagination stream with a old and fraying net, drag them onto the bank and bludgeon them until they stop wriggling before I drag them back to my lair to fashion them into roughly hewn blog posts. It's not an easy job being this surreal, but someone's got to do it. 

In conclusion, please don't be afraid to comment if you like what you're reading. Unless you're a fable, in which case you better swim fast.

Cannibalism and Other Social Faux Pas

A few months ago, the Other Half and I were settling into bed. She had her puzzle book. I was pretending to read a real book. I had been reading like a real human, rubbing my eyes all over its papery goodness, up until a few seconds previously, when something had dawned on me.
Now, if you read my previous post, you'll know I have OCD. I don't like to find myself in situations where control and rules are far beyond my grasp. It really stresses me out. So to ease my anxieties, I have little rituals. I rate things according to a Scale of Awesome or Lame, although that comes with its own special set of problems when I find myself still awake at 4am, worrying about the placement of an item on said Scale.
I also make plans for every conceivable situation so that, for example, if  a  zombie apocalypse happened, I would be immediately able to recall the instructions I had decided upon and act on them, while everyone around me is flailing wildly, making spontaneous, foolish plans that aren't fooling anybody and being bitten by the drooling undead.

Back to the story. It occurred to me that we'd never discussed, as a couple, the appropriate procedures for a plane crash and subsequent potential cannibalism. At this point, Other Half and I had only been together for about a year and a half, so she'd had plenty time to get used to the mountain of crazy that is Otternator. Still, I did see a look of real worry flicker over her delightful face when I turned to her and had the following conversation:

Me: Darling.

Other Half: What?

Me: Sweetness and joy of my life.

Other Half: What?

Me: I love you.

Other Half: (peers at me suspiciously) Where's this going?

Me: Say, just as a casual example, we were in a plane crash. There were other survivors but they've been all KAPOW'd *makes hand gestures to indicate general melty-blown-to-smithereens-dismemberment* in the aftermath of the explosion.

Other Half: How did we manage to-

Me: It's not important.

Other Half: ...Okay.

Me: (looking earnest and puppy-eyed) We need to talk about this now. Otherwise, if we do crash on a mountain, we're going to waste valuable time discussing the plan of action. So, plane crash, we are the only survivors, you're kind of weak and/or dying and I might have a chance to live if I feast off your flesh. What's your take on that?

Other Half: WHAT? I don't want you to eat me! Especially not if I'm still alive!

Me: I'd fix that for you. Mountains are covered in nice, big rocks. You'd never even see it coming. 

Other Half: This is really disturbing and inappropriate before bedtime. Can I please go back to my crossword?

Me: It'll be a lot more disturbing on that mountain. In the cold. In the dark. And you'll wish you'd talked it through with me.

Other Half: Wasn't here a film about something like this?

Me: Yep.

Other Half: What happened to those guys?

Me: They ate each other. Nom nom nom. Come on, be a team player! I'll let you eat me!

Other Half gives me such a look of terrified despair that I subside and pet her hair.

Me: Okay, okay. I can eat you, but only when you're dead. Right?

Other Half:...Kay. But you're not allowed to kill me and claim that I was dead already.

Me: You always find my loopholes. That's why I love you. Smarty-pants.

Other Half: I love you too. Please don't kill me, okay?

Me: Sure, sure. (nodding quietly to myself, thinking that if she's weak/dying anyway it's practically a kindness to put her out of her misery. Like a wounded deer. Besides, she's a vegetarian. I bet they taste real good.)

Other Half: I MEAN IT!

Now I never said life with me was easy. It probably isn't. But isn't it better to know what you'd do beforehand? I don't want to approach her, topic unbroached, on that mountain with the plane wreckage burning behind us, wielding a sizeable rock in my hand and grinning innocently. It feels like cheating. And I like playing by the rules.