Ode

I found this mini canvas in my mounds of unpacked things. Being as I have been on some serious artistic kicks, I whipped this one out in a couple hours..

(12"x8")

Pickles and Pizza

I drop things. It happens a lot.

One morning, I wanted to be helpful in the kitchen while Chris was cooking breakfast. I offered to cut up the avocado because I am unusually excellent at skinning an avocado and I figured it was difficult to mess up. I happily started cutting around the avocado, hardly paying attention to what I was doing (because I am such a profound avocado cutter) until I noticed that the cut I intended to completely encircle the fruit was more of a jagged diagonal line. I tried to pull the avocado apart and it kind of crumbled into a sloppy green heap. Having little tolerance for imperfection, Chris suggested that I just put away the materials he had finished cooking with. Demoted but not demoralized, I grabbed up a few refrigerator items and began strategically balancing them in the overly full fridge. Not soon after I started, a large jar of pickles fell from the fridge and shattered on the floor. The pickles sprawled across the floor, looking like a fleet of green turds, laying in their own pungent juices. Expecting my laughter to be echoed on Chris' face, I looked up to find a stern face shaking slowly from side to side. Misfortune really does come in threes: avocado, pickles, disappointed boyfriend.

I agreed to take Christopher to the store so he could get some deli meat.
First, we decided to stop by Great Harvest for some fresh bread and I figured while we were there, I would grab a sandwich for dinner. We bought the bread but I was disappointed to find that the sandwich makers had called it quits for the night. By that time, Chris was also ready for dinner. As we left the parking lot, he suggested Falafel King but we agreed that finding and paying for a parking spot on Pearl Street was not favorable. As we continued to head downtown, Chris suggested Heidi's Deli, a place I had heard served great sandwiches. We parked on the outskirts of Pearl Street and walked to a very quiet, mostly deserted deli. Similar to most times I order food, I wasn't prepared when I was asked what I wanted so Chris went first. “Could I have the ?”. The sandwich artist got to work but was quickly stopped by the absence of avocado. “Sorry, we're out of avocado”. Equally disappointed, I mentally made a different sandwich and Chris agreed to have his sandwich sans avocado. The artist continued. “Sorry, we're out of bacon.” At this point, Chris' sandwich was reduced to two measly ingredients. I volunteered to order while he perused the menu for a second choice. Without avocado, I resorted to a sandwich of cheese, sprouts and mustard. “Sorry, we're out of sprouts”. Needless to say, we decided to leave. Now, we felt starved.

As we walked out of the highly overrated Heidi's, Chris noticed Nick 'n' Willy's take and bake pizza. Desperate, we agreed. Twenty dollars later, we brought it home and promptly preheated the oven. As soon as the oven started beeping, signifying its eagerness to envelop our beloved pizza, I scrambled to unwrap the plastic surrounding the pie. Unbeknown to me, the pizza had been wrapped with ninja-like efficiency. With my final tug to safely unwrap the coveted meal, the pizza unexpectedly jumped off the counter and crumbled onto the floor in a big doughy mess.

First, something must be said about the condition of the floor. The unspoken rule of the house was that anything to fall on the floor was exempt from the five second rule and must immediately be thrown away. The large area rug covering the majority of the kitchen floor was probably, at one point, a light cream color. Over time, it took on a dark tan color and was riddled with mysterious stains that extended from one side to the other.

I gasped while simultaneously having pickle flashbacks. From his chair, Chris sensed my anxiety and slowly turned to see me crouched above a heap of what was formerly dinner. Again, he shook his head. No words, just disapproving head shakes. I burst into tears. The pizza that I hoped could be salvage had taken on a new texture with hair and crumbs poking out between the loose ingredients.

To make matters more unthinkably unfortunate, Chris resorted to the most pitiful pizza alternative for dinner: a toasted slice of bread with cheese.

This story cannot end without redemption. The next day, Chris surprised me with a frozen pizza. At least this time, if I dropped the pizza, all the ingredients would stay put. We ate the entire thing.

A Quirk

Chris will only eat food with either a big spoon or a small fork.

Hot Sauce

Christopher was a crack baby.

Well, not exactly a crack baby. Instead of smoking crack while he was in the womb, Christopher's mother bombarded her fetus with spicy foods; ensuring a lifetime addiction hot sauce.

Like his mother, Chris is an excellent cook. Also like his mother, Chris has lost all taste bud sensation. “Mild” and “Medium” are frequently scoffed at in favor of “Burn Your Face Off” or “Flaming Red Asshole”. Now, I suffer the consequences.

Every meal Chris prepares for us is ripe with chipotle powder, chili powder or ground red pepper. He is a master at justifying putting a little more “seasoning” on the hashbrowns by claiming they are still too bland or that they need a little more kick. I have learned that every meal must be accompanied with an extinguisher: milk, fruit or some other neutralizer to put out fire in the mouth.

When Chris visited my family around Christmas time last year, he was greeted with open arms and bloody marys. My father, having always been the master of spice when I was growing up, proudly asked Christopher if he wanted any Spontaneous Combustion (once my brother put a drop of Spontaneous Combustion on the end of a toothpick and made me lick it. I cried for an hour) in his drink. Christopher eagerly accepted, agreeing to handle as many drops as my father. When my dad returned, drink in hand, he proudly warned Chris to “watch out”. Christopher took a drink, frowned and told me it was hardly at his level. Being as he did not want to choke down something so pitifully unspicy, Christopher asked for some more hot sauce. This came as a great challenge to my dad and wanting to match Chris' threshold, nearly keeled over from hot sauce overdose.

For Christopher's past birthday, we went to Tortuga's, a small seafood restaurant in Longmont. When we were seated at the table, he practically peed his pants upon seeing Pete's Heat, Tortuga's exclusive hot sauce. “This is the best hot sauce I have ever tasted,” he told me.

We returned to Tortuga's a few weeks later just for the sole purpose of hot sauce. “Four bottles, please,” he said as we walked upstairs to the bar, leaving me to wait for the sauce to be bottled. Just before the hostess returned with four bottles, Chris came downstairs and placed three more bottles of hijacked hot sauce in the purse. Now I was an accomplice in fueling his addiction.

Currently, there are ten bottles of hot sauce in the kitchen, one in the glove compartment and one in my purse.

Burritos

Everyone, at one point, obsesses about something. Typically, obsessions fade as something new and better comes along. This is not the case with Chris.

Chris loves burritos.

We cannot pass by a burrito joint without, at the very least, a gasp of excitement and wonder. If possible, Chris would eat them for every meal, every day, all year, every year.
One day, I asked Christopher what kind of super power he would want. I assumed to hear the standard flying, time traveling or invisibility but instead, he looked me straight in the eyes and said, "I want the power to summon burritos." He then proceeded to extend his arm straight in the air and and shout, "BURRITO!" all the while, maintaining a superhero smirk.

The Chair

Chris has this chair.
The chair is strategically placed to gain the most advantageous view of the television and surrounding furniture; it is in the center of entertainment and most likely at the center of the universe.

One day, I decided that the chair was fair game to the closest person. This was a terrible assumption. I planted myself in the chair and was beginning to get comfortable when I heard a pronounce "AHEM." Chris was standing above me waiting for me to move. "What?" I said innocently. I gestured around the table at the many other seating options but he was having none of it. Reluctantly, I got up.
In an attempt to explain the power of the seat, Chris explained, "I don't even let my friends sit here, why would I..." He caught my "if you finish that sentence you are dead meat" look and proceed to fumble with his words until he finished with "I love you?"

When I discovered that I could also wield the power of a personal chair, I moved my papa-san into the TV viewing area. No modifications were made to the other furniture so my chair remained on the outskirts, providing an awesome view of the side of the television. Eventually, I abandoned my attempts at straining to see each show and reverted to my old position with a frontal view on the love sac. Unfortunately, it is difficult to get comfortable on the giant pillow and I frequently end up in an upright fetal position, guaranteeing eventual neck ache. Now, my chair is used as a foot stool for Chris' seat. I have suspicions this was planned all along.

Now, with banishment from the sacred throne and no seat of my own, I find great pleasure in attempting to steal Chris' chair just before he decided to sit down. At least I can irritate him before he gets comfortable.

The Smirk

Some people smile, Chris smirks.
He considers smiling and then remembers that he is a smirker, not a smiler.

Everyone is especially good at one thing. For me, I am extraordinarily proficient at being a push-over. Others are great at being assholes. For Chris, he is the master of sticking it to the man. I can only assume this is how his smirk developed.
Rather than humor the cameraman with a friendly smile, he bears his all-knowing expression as if to say, "smiling is for chumps."

Smirking: the proverbial middle finger.

Things I find

I found this picture..
If I could own one picture of Christopher, it would be this one.

How to fall in love with a Norwegian

Step 1: avoid all eye contact, conversations and physical contact until desperation forces him to politely ask for your phone number to "study" for a guaranteed A exam.
Step 2: agree for a second round of "studying". Bring a snickerdoodle.
Step 3: when studying proves to be unproductive, take a walk in the snow. Engage in conversation until the snow soaks his shoes and socks.
Step 4: kick snow on him with large eskimo boots.
Step 5: wait in the snow until his pizza-delivering friend agrees to pick him up.
Step 6: hug him for calling you beautiful.
Step 7: decide to see him everyday following the night you fell in love while walking in the snow.