A year and a half ago, Kyle and I set out on a journey together.  There was one goal ahead of us, far off in the distance.  We knew it would be a long and difficult journey, but it was one that we were ready to embark upon.  Together.

We possessed a growler.  A gallon jug that had at one time been filled with beer, but was now empty.  And we knew what it needed.  We don’t know how we knew; it’s one of those mysteries of life, like how beavers know to build dams or douchebags know to pop their collars.  But somehow we knew that this growler needed to be filled with beer bottle caps.  It would be beautiful, a testament to our love of beer.  Hundreds of bottle caps, cradled in one of nature’s most perfect containers for the sweet nectar.  A way to show the world, “Hey, guess what world!  We are a couple that fucking loves beer!”

And so the journey began.  We documented the occasion for future generations.

It was a long journey.  Much longer than we anticipated.  You see, unbeknown to us, the bottled beer has a natural enemy.  A fierce and relentless enemy.

This is the kegerator.

And this is the kegerator with scary eyes and fangs.

The kegerator was allowed out of its storage unit prison and into our kitchen when we moved into our current apartment.  Poor bottled beer never saw it coming.  But I mean, come on, who’s going to drink bottled beer when there’s delightfully delicious draught beer available.  (And quite often, more cheaply than bottled beer.)

But our home was not completely without bottled beer.  It came slowly and surprisingly.  A friend gave us a 12-pack because “she bought too much.”  (We were confused, too, but you never argue with free beer.)  My dad brought us a sampler pack from his town when my family came to visit for Thanksgiving.  And little by little, the debris from these moments of bubbly joy found their ways into their final home in the belly of our growler.  Time and time again, we added our bottle caps, shaking the growler to ensure that they were settled flat.

And finally, it was over.  The growler was completely full of bottle caps.  And it was beautiful.

The journey is over.

Will we embark again?  Probably not.  Bottled beer, and thus, bottle caps, take a much less prominent place in our home than they once did.

But we will forever remember our journey together.

At 6:20 pm last night, I received this text message from Kyle:

tomorrow is monsterawrs bday…you should do something…

Which struck me as amusing because the first thought that popped into my head was, “Do something?  Like what?  Have a party?  Bake my blog a cake?  Do I get it a present?  Maybe wake it up with a blow job?  The fuck do you do for a blog’s birthday?”

Truth is, I still don’t know.  Though I did decide that what I should have done was make cupcakes in the shape of my monster.  How fucking awesome would that have been?

But I suppose a less fattening and equally meaningful way to commemorate the even would be to share with y’all the story behind the name of this here little bloggy blog.  (Go ahead and take a peek up top if you’ve forgotten, it’s cool.)

It’s all Kyle’s fault, really.

Monster is Kyle’s pet name for me.  Stephanie Monster, in more formal occasions.  He started calling me that back in jr year of college when we first started dating/living together.  Not Monster as in raging Bitchzilla, Monster as in Sesame Street’s Cookie Monster or Avenue Q’s Kate Monster.  I like to think that it’s because my joyful energy and enthusiasm for life reminded him of those happy little muppets.  According to Kyle, however, it was from an incident in which he was trying to encourage me to do something I was afraid to do, so he told me to rawr at it, trying to instill courage in me.  (And it was in no way related to googley eyes.)

From the Monster evolved the Rawr.  When feeling cuddly and adorable, Kyle would ask me what a Monster says, much as a dad asks his little girl what a cow says.  To which I would respond, “Rawr rawr rawr!”  Over time, the ‘rawr’ took on a life if its own, becoming sort of a bubbly language without literal meaning.  It’s a sweet little way that we reconnect.  Kyle’s, “Rawr rawr rawr?” is a simple, sweet way to reach to me and say, “You’re still here?  You’re still on my team?  You still love me?” and my, “Raaaaawr rawrrawrrawrrawr,” is a sweet, simple way of saying, “I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.  I love you so much.”  It’s a private language we share without literal translation but with endless meaning.

The Monster has come to encapsulate the essence of me, and the Rawr has come to encapsulate the essence of our relationship.  So much so that engraved inside my wedding band is, “To my monster” and inside his, “Rawr rawr rawr.”  To those of  you who know us as a couple, this child-like cuteness may seem incredibly out of character, especially when you consider that some of our other pet names for each other include Bitch Face, Asshole, Jackass, Ass Face, Bloody Cunt Rag, and Wonder Cunt.  (I’ll let you guess which pet name belongs to which person.)  Even without knowing our slightly abusive tenancies, I’m confident that our “rawr language” is responsible for at least 25 new cases of diabetes.  Here’s the thing.  Because of the nature of our industry, we have to spend much of our work days being bad asses, hard asses, and general assholes.  Being cute and adorable is generally a great way to get your ass kicked, or at least walked all over.  So when we get home and relax and burrow into our cozy bed together, we don’t want to be hard asses.  We want to be gentle and soft.  This is where we get to let our walls down, and expose those sweet, vulnerable places in ourselves.  Places where it’s okay to rawr.

And so became MonsteRawr.  A persona and a word that represent the best and most wonderful parts of my life, of me.

I am a Monster, and I rawr.

Here’s to another two years of rawr’s out of this motherfucking Monster.

I’d like to formally introduce you all to my husband.

This is Kyle.

He is many things.  Wicked smart.  An excellent cook.  A lover of boobies.  And an amazing husband.

He is also batshit crazy.

Why do I say this?  (Besides the fact that he married me in the first place?)

We were driving home yesterday, talking about our schedule for today, and Kyle casually mentioned his plans for the day.  He got up at 7am and drove to a mountain a half-hour away for a couple hours of morning skiing.  THEN he will be going to his theatre, where he will be working for the afternoon and into the evening.  And THEN he will be going to my theatre, where he moonlights with me until probably midnight or so.  He will be going full-throttle from early in the morning until quite late at night, but he mentions these plans as casually as if he were planning to pick up some milk on the way home.

The thing is, as amazed as I am by Kyle’s relentless energy and willingness to work more than a human being should, it’s not totally unsurprising.  Kyle’s never been afraid of work.  Hard work.  Annoying work.  Tedious work.  Work that no one else wants to do, but really needs to be done.  (With the exception of folding laundry.)  Until his brother came to visit last weekend, he hadn’t taken a day completely off from one of his jobs in ages.  And this concept doesn’t bother him at all.  It’s just how he is.

Even the early morning skiing isn’t really surprising.  Okay, the early morning part is a little surprising.  We’re talking about the man who will sleep until noon without a problem.  And then get angry at me because I woke him up at noon.  So the fact that he’s decided to get up at 7am of his own free will is a little surprising.  But it also speaks volumes about how much he loves skiing.

So even though it means he will spend the rest of the day exhausted and likely smelling of wet wool, he got up early this morning to go skiing.  Before working two jobs.  Until very late tonight.

Which is absolutely crazy.

Which is why I love him.

(Also, because he has a really nice ass.)