Death Star Composter

So 2012 is apparently the year of Emily Not Posting Very often. First it was January, which, ya know, is fucking January. Then the spring semester, which was WOAH LIKE WOAH. Then there’s now, which has been taken over by some excitingly dull domestic stuff (details later). Sorry about that.

One example of this domestic excitement was my delight in discovering a composter that looks like the Death Star:

I emailed the death star compactor to the romantic euphemism, explaining that every time I took kitchen scraps out I could sing the Imperial March. In fact, what I said was:

dum dum dum dump dadum dump dadum!
DUUUMMM dum daDUUMM dum bedadaDUMP dadum, dum
bedadaDUM dumdum dum dadum dum dadum.

And then he suggested getting a doodad that played the march whenever the lid of the death star composter was opened.

At which point I collapsed in a gooey puddle of giggling girl.

I can’t tell whether or not it’s an objectively funny idea, but it fills my insides with bubbles – and not gross bubble-tea bubbles, which aren’t bubbles at all but wet globs of refined carbohydrate, no, the good, fun kind of bubbles in tonic water or ginger ale, that get up your nose and tickle you. You wouldn’t want bubble-tea bubbles up your nose, but you definitely WOULD want THIS kind of bubbles up your nose. Definitely. Want.

Ya’ll know one of my standard bits of advice is that sometimes the sexiest thing you can do is the dishes, and that advice only works if you don’t resent doing those dishes. And you also know that I’m firmly convinced that humor is both extremely sexy and necessary in resolving conflict.

Look, the thing is, here’s just about the best relationship advice I can think of:

If you can’t have fun while buying a composter (or doing any similar small, low-risk household task), then what will hold you to that person when you’re doing the stuff that’s actually HARD? Arguing about how to save for your kids’ college, what to do if one of you wants to relocate for a job, or what to do about feeling sexually attracted to someone else will be AGONY if you can’t crack each other up sometimes, too.

I get that this is weird advice for a lot of people; it was for me. A long time ago, my dissertation chair described his romantic relationship to me. He said, “We cook dinner together, we sing songs and make up jokes and tell each other stories.”

And at the time I was in the middle of a moderately nightmarish break-up (I think that’s why he was telling me), so it all sounded sort of banal and mild and… easy. I was used to feeling that what held me to my partner was pain of anticipated, dreaded loss, the need to avoid the sense of personal failure that comes with a relationship’s end, and the deadly certain knowledge that if I lost this person, I’d be alone forever.

Could love be something so cheerful? So playful?


I won’t go so far as to say that anything without such playfulness isn’t love, but I will say that love without play is not fully developed. How’s this for a paradox: as love matures, it gets sillier, not seriouser.

It’s beyond rare for such a dynamic to show up in a romance novel or other mainstream representation of relationships; after all, stories are constructed on conflict, and the point of all this is that conflict is diminished and made manageable when you find joy and laughter with the other person.

So this is part of my counter-attack against mainstream representations of sex and love.

Get yourselves a death star composter, my friends, and giggle over it every day with your SO.