Pythagoras and the milk moustache

My brilliant and talented agent, Michelle Wolfson, has dragged me from the realm of “creepy people who lurk on blogs and Twitter” into the realm of people who actually participate in such things. Apparently the thought of me hunkered in a dark corner breathing heavily and staring glassy-eyed at the crowd is not an image that will sell books.

So here I am!

My first order of business as a real blogging author is to discuss the complexities inherent in poststructuralist strategies toward the analysis of contemporary romance and the various unconstrained interpretation of oedipal patterns in such works.

Snort.

OK, really, my first order of business is to name my husband. Because despite the fact that I allowed him to keep his surname when we wed, I feel better giving him one more layer of privacy from this blog. After all, his profession isn’t one that operates on the same wavelength as an author with a fondness for penis jokes.

Helpful guy that he is, he kindly suggested “Long Dong Silver.” I suggested he keep thinking. He swiftly ruled out “Love Chicken” and “Guy Who Leaves the Toilet Seat Up,” which really left us with very few options.

Inspired by our trip to Greece last summer (or perhaps by the ouzo) we decided to consider ancient Greek names. Eventually, we both agreed that Pythagoras had a nice ring to it.

Let’s give it a try, shall we?

So Pythagoras called me the other day as he was leaving work.

“I’m glad you called, Pythagoras,” I told him. “Could you grab a two-pack of milk on your way home?”

Pythagoras assured me he would collect the requested two gallons of skim, and since I had plans that evening, I wasn’t home to see whether he completed the task. The next morning, I opened the fridge to discover it disconcertingly milkless. I huffed out and bought a two-pack of milk.

When Pythagoras returned from work, I was required by our marriage contract to point out his failure. “So Pythagoras, you didn’t get milk yesterday?”

Pythagoras frowned. “Yes I did,”

“I see. So where is it?”

Pythagoras thought about that for a moment. “It must be in the trunk.”

“Of course it is. In case you get thirsty on your way to work?”

Pythagoras ignored me and marched out to the garage. He returned moments later proudly bearing two gallons of milk. He lined them up on the counter next to the ones I bought and nodded thoughtfully at our four gallons of milk.

“What are all our friends doing tonight?” Pythagoras asked.

“I have no idea.”

Pythagoras smiled at me. “We should invite them all over for milk.”

Our friends proved useless in our quest to diminish our milk supply, so Pythagoras spent the next few days drinking milk at an alarming rate. Somehow, we made it to the final cup with several days to spare before the expiration date.

“See,” Pythagoras told me as he wiped his milk moustache. “We really did need four gallons of milk.”

Indeed.

So there you have it. We managed to consume a disturbing quantity of milk, test-drive my husband’s new pseudonym, and complete my first official blog entry as an author. At some point, I might even consider blogging about something related to writing.

Tomorrow: formalist strategies for analyzing the structure of the psychological themes in Oberiu Russian poetry in the context of the canonical dilemmas facing such works.

Or maybe I’ll tell some penis jokes.