Do you suck the crawfishes’ heads? Or maybe you spit?


Over the weekend, we did a crawfish boil.

It was Saturday. Our friend’s Monte & Anne came over to play games, and they brought 3 lbs of crawfish they picked up from a friend of theirs who ordered too much for their dinner.

I’ve never done a crawfish boil, but if you look it up, it’s something you may have seen before on TV. There’s usually potatoes and corn in a big pot followed by a few minutes to cook the crawfish, and they — on tv — they throw out all the contents of the boil onto newspaper where people pick up their meals.

It’s weird.

To remove the meat, you turn the body from the torso and remove a tiny portion of meat from it’s lower legs area.

The actual meat from a crawfish is about the size of a small shrimp. And the shrimp isn’t all that clean looking.

Lots of people — according to Monte and ancient folklore — suck the shit out of the heads/chest. None of us were that bold.

Tina had two thumbs down and some toes. She didn’t really want to eat a goddamn crawfish in the first place, and then after looking at them, she’d rather suck on Zoe’s paws after just leaving her litter box.

I’m glad I can finally add crawfish to my list of “dids”. And the likelihood is I’ll probably never do it again … at least not on purpose.

Living vicariously through relationships today … 

Yesterday, we met Tina’s brother and partner for dinner at a Japanese restaurant near Broadway and Belmont. We chose the place, because we were hoping to have a bit of a faster meal, so that Michael could get to his DJ gig later that night at Smart Bar.

He runs a Sunday night mainstay called “Queen“. And if you’re ever in town looking for something to do on Sunday night, consider it.

Our table was right next to two young twenty something girls. They were neither here nor there looks wise. But I couldn’t help but overhear some of their conversation about guys their dating, guys they’re “fucking” and who they like better.

The girl adjacent to me was doing most of the talking. Let’s call her Jenny. Jenny has at least two paramours, and she was careful to point out that she doesn’t want a boyfriend right now. She’s too buys right now to have one.

But she talked about having strong feelings for two guys in particular (one Greg and one John). John is local, and therefore convenient. But Greg is the bees knees and there’s no one she’d love to have a better relationship than him.

She talked about late-night texts, which turned into something we used to call: bootycalls.

So are those: Bootytexts?

Or is booty too passé?

You’d think that I was completely absent from my dinner with family, but some of this information was repeated or at least felt like it. It wasn’t hard to hear a few things, and maybe feed a little between the lines here or there.

I tell the story simply because my view of dating growing up in the south was completely skewed by a level of religiosity that isn’t relevant in the “real” world. And it’s always interesting to me to hear real people talk about their real dating experiences.

Whatever the case, I landed on my feet eventually, and am grateful for how it all turned out. 

Below is a picture of my bento box from last night and then a couple pictures of our animals … our precious, precious animals.