Tweak: “What is that?”
Me: “It’s an oxtail.”
I am standing at the kitchen sink slitting open a package of meat.
Tweak: “What’s an oxtail?”
Me: “A tail from an ox? Or maybe a Lady Gaga costume.”
Inside the package are six latitudinal one-inch slices of… something. Bone surrounded by meat, surrounded by entitlement.
Tweak: “Are you going to cook it?”
Me: “Are you going to try comedy?”
I remove one of the raw slices and throw it out the back door. Bowie-dog dashes out from her very important job of holding down the living room rug. She hunts the oxtail all the way to the patio.
Tweak: “There are kids in Ethiopia who just starved in front of their computers.”
Me: “I will be gone for a long time today. This gives the dog something to do.”
Tweak: “You never give me something to do.”
Me: “Why would I give you something to do? So you could sleep on it?”
Tweak: “You have no idea what I do while you’re gone.”
Me: “Tweak, I have left for work at 8:00 in the morning, come home at 8:00 at night, and you’ve been in the exact same position except for somehow having armed yourself with the breath of a thousand tunas.”
I drain the meat juice from the package into the sink.
Tweak: “You can tune a piano but you can’t tuna meat.”
Me: “’Tuna Meet’ sounds like a great name for an online service.”
Tweak: “You really need a date.”
Me: “You want an oxtail?”
Tweak: “That’s an even better name.”
Me: “’Tuna Meat or Oxtail.’ It’s all a matter of taste, isn’t it?”
Tweak: “Or desperation.”
I seal up the remaining oxtails in a Ziploc.
Me: “My meat is dolphin-safe.”
Tweak: “Lady Gaga called. She wants her innuendo back.”
I toss the bag into the freezer.
Tweak: “And your dog just threw up.”
21 August 2014, “Tolerating Tweak”