Personal


Sesame Street has finally spoken out to answer the question of whether Bert and Ernie will ever get married:

Bert and Ernie are best friends.  They were created to teach preschoolers that people can be good friends with those who are very different from themselves. Even though they are identified as male characters and possess many human traits and characteristics (as most Sesame Street Muppets™ do), they remain puppets, and do not have a sexual orientation.

And I get it, I can understand why people think Bert and Ernie are in a relationship: they’ve lived together for ages; they seem to do everything together; half their humour is based on an odd-couple dynamic.

But I’ve never thought Bert and Ernie were gay. I just thought they were twins.

Growing up as a twin means you experience certain events a bit differently—often ones you don’t realise are different until you’re much older. For one thing, I never had that “oh god it’s the first day of school and I don’t know a soul” until I was seventeen and off at university. (The fact that I spent my childhood making friends as part of a set still means my time-honoured trick for making friends in a class, party, office, whatever is to instantly decide one person IS MY FRIEND and promptly start cracking jokes like we’re an accepted double act. It actually works pretty well; even if you don’t really know the other person acting like you’re already friends means you’re in a group, so people assume you must be fun.) And because there were always at least two of us playing make-believe at a time, we were particularly attracted to characters we interpreted as fitting into our twin mold. Chip and Dale are still beloved to my sister and I. Bert and Ernie were another. (Which brings me to another lengthy parenthetical: I was always Chip and Dara was always Dale, but weirdly, when it comes to Sesame Street she’s clearly Bert and I’m unquestionably Ernie. This may support my dad’s assertion that when we were babies we used to switch personalities.)

Two people who live together, spend tons of time together, and are incredibly different yet strangely matched? This was a paradigm I instantly recognised as a toddler, and I haven’t had reason to question it yet. Well, fine, I suppose that sentence could also describe my boyfriend and I. But while Luke does have a certain familial weakness for pigeons, I think I can confidently point out that Dara is definitely the twin with the unibrow. Snerf snerf.

After a brief break from running (knee troubles instantly. Clearly god wants my people to be the human equivalent of french bulldogs—we’re all torso and sudden movement causes bodily revolt), I’m back to my early morning jaunts round the park.

In my absence, there’s been a bit of a changeover in dog park regulars. Sadly, the wake-and-bake dog walker hasn’t been seen lately—either his dog has been toilet trained or he’s been busted. There’s a new guy who runs laps the opposite direction as I do, which is the saving grace of my pride, since he runs about three times as fast as I do. If we were running in the same direction I think he’d be lapping me every twenty seconds or so.

My new favourite, though, is Ambiguously Tai Chi Guy, an older gentleman who shows up in a sweatsuit and does…some form of meditative martial art? Whatever it is, this morning he spent about twenty-five minutes holding a Karate Kid pose while walking in tight circles around a tree. He motivated me to run faster so I could get round again and see if he was still twirling. So Karate OAP, you are my new best park guy.

Even if you do probably still run faster than I do.

We’re having a freezer delivered tomorrow. Let me back up: we’re having a freezer delivered tomorrow after NOT OWNING A FREEZER FOR A YEAR.

Perhaps this seems bearable to you. “Sure, it means you can’t have popsicles whenever you want, but it’s not like not owning a REFRIGERATOR,” you think. “How bad can it be?”

Bad. Oh, so bad, and in so many weird ways. For one thing: do you have any idea how much you will miss peas? Because for eleven months of the year, fresh peas do not exist. If you want peas, they are in the frozen aisle, and when you finally give in you will end up with approximately 5,000 grams of peas you need to use up in the two days you have before your thawed peas go moldy. In hot weather, you will buy a bag of ice and let it melt all over the counter as you and your boyfriend attempt to drink your body weight in iced tea as quickly as you can. You will not be able to cook many recipes, or you’ll have to divide all the quantities by four, because who’s going to make twelve bean burgers for a household of two (and let’s be honest, when it comes to bean burgers, a household of one) when you have nowhere to store the leftovers? YOU WILL NOT HAVE A GIMLET FOR A YEAR BECAUSE GIMLETS ARE CRAP WITHOUT ICE.

So we’ve caved, and a freezer is happening. God bless modernity. And Dixons. Now pass the gin.

Apologies for, once again, making this blog barf central, but it appears the stomach gods are not smiling on me as of late: I’ve been knocked out for the last week with a horrible case of stomach flu. I haven’t had it since I was a kid, and it’s been a brutal reminder of how much I hate hate hate being nauseous. I had salmonella when I was about eight (in my pre-vegetarian days—thanks, McDonald’s chicken nuggets!), and I would rather have that any day, because all I remember about it is that I just…threw up. All the time. Sounds gross, but when the alternative is to lay on the bathroom floor in abject misery for an hour and then throw up, bring on the unwashed spinach. Anyway, the less said about the actual mechanics of the last week the better, but it has given me two pieces of takeaway knowledge:

1. I don’t hate sports drinks nearly as much as I used to. When I had salmonella the doctor was really worried about how dehydrated I’d gotten, so he told my parents I needed to drink Gatorade/Powerade/etc for several days afterwards. I’d grown up in a house where all bread was brown, all cereal was muesli in disguise, and “soda” was a bit of fruit juice mixed with fizzy water, so Gatorade tasted like drinking melted plastic. I loathed it, and I’ve avoided it ever since. At a certain point this week, though, I went ahead and tried a bottle of Powerade and…well, it’s never going to be my beverage of choice, but I drank it. I guess this means years of artificially-sweetened sodas and assorted other crap have lowered my pristine tastebuds down to appreciating the subtle nuance of a flavour like “blue.”

2. I’ve been in this country for six years now, but there are still moments of cultural miscommunication that surprise me. So in the same grocery run that produced the Powerade, I asked my boyfriend to get me some applesauce. It’s mild, it’s soothing, it would be the first fruit and/or vegetable I’d eaten in about four days. He gave me a bit of side-eye and said “won’t that be a little…sugary?” I sniffed. Surely he’s used to some godawful sweetened applesauce (that he’d then put custard on, the philistine), not my delicious all-natural stuff! I told him where it might be, if the shop had it, and sent him off. And he came back with…Bramley apple sauce. As in, a sharp, SWEET sauce that I think you dump on roast meat or pancakes. Apparently, applesauce as I think of it doesn’t really exist in this country. No wonder he thought I was insane.

I’m feeling slightly more present in the world of the living, so I’m about to make my first foray outside in six days to hobble down to the corner shop for some groceries. Among my purchases will be some apples, so I can make my own damn applesauce. No Powerade, though—while I can drink it without wanting to die, I think it still requires either several miles of running or several days of puking to provide the craving for its delicious blue (or green! it comes in green too!) flavour…

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