That's a rather saucy title, isn't it? Well before you decide not to read what follows based on an assumption of what I named this post, please pause. This post is about moving in with Boyfriend, or to be more accurate, Boyfriend moving in with me.
For those of you that want to warn him, tell him not to do it, moving in with a girlfriend is a big mistake, you're too late. This fella's been mantrapped. Unless you have a time machine you can't save him. But to ease your worries for Boyfriend, he's not entering domesticity quietly.
When I first moved here I got my own place. We're not as stupid as we may sometimes appear on paper... but for those of you that do take that freaky leap and go from a long-distance relationship to living together immediately, you've got some brass ones. Boyfriend and I both like what we like the way we like it. This is better achieved when one doesn't have to share living quarters, my couch will go here, the painting will go there, the bedding looks like something a bride from the eighties would have worn, the photos positioned just so, blahblahblah (or etcetera if you prefer). This is the joy of living alone, you don't need to compromise about anything. However, being in our amorous relationship, Boyfriend slept over at my place almost every night. There might have been three nights the year that we lived separate that he spent at his place. Eventually we come to the conclusion that he essentially lives at my place anyways, why not just move him on in? Okay, read this part slowly and ingrain it into your head: Sleepovers and living together are not the same thing by any stretch of the imagination. I becomes we, his stuff and my stuff become ours, and then we're left with a massive pile of stuff. All of it stuff that has to be: a)compromised about and b)moved somewhere. Le damn. Between the two of us, we've got double of almost everything: couches, televisions, beds, dressers, you get the idea (or etcetera if you prefer). We come to some conclusions of what stays and what goes, because we both know that for both of us to be happy we have to go out and buy stuff that we both like eventually.
It sounds pretty rational, yes? Well you didn't get a chance to read the unedited version. In that one things are purposely broken so they don't come into my apartment, a bulldozer ran over his couch, and somehow the cat's tail caught fire, and Boyfriend found the remains of a previous boyfriend in my closet. You're welcome for sparing you the evil side of things. I did, in all honesty, She-Hulk pretty badly when he put up some pictures without asking me my opinion of where they should go. I stand by what I said, but the rampage probably didn't help my case.
When it comes to getting rid of stuff, Boyfriend and I are at odds. If we don't need something, especially if it's something of mine, we get rid of it (the salvation army loves us). If it's broken or unusable, it's gone. If I break my hand, you may as well cut it off, it doesn't work anyways (please don't, I'm just illustrating a point, I'm a big fan of symmetry). I'm quick to sever ties to things I've had for long periods of time, because it's just stuff. Whatever. Boyfriend on the other hand (the one that hasn't been cut off) is more like a... I don't want to use the word hoarder... treasure hunter. He seems to have a multitude of things that can't be given away. So what do we do when I don't let it into the house? We get a storage locker, because we need to keep an extra bed, extra microwave stand and microwave, cupboard thing, and all the other random crap that we can't get rid of. We don't even like to go to the storage facility because our locker is so jammed full of stuff it's intimidating to even think about entering. We've probably bought something brand new that we've tucked away in that locker just to avoid having to go find it in the abyss.
My biggest problem with moving is this: I feel that Boyfriend thinks I'm a dude when we're moving things together. I may joke about father/son time with my dad, but I'm not good at carrying heavy things. It's just not in my DNA, the only thing built into my genetic coding is my like of a good pun. Seriously, ask your family doctor, this is a birth defect. But anyhow, moving stuff with Boyfriend, he's in good shape and he works out, plays hockey, yadda yadda yadda (or etcetera if you prefer). He's good at lifting things. I am, in technical terms, artsy fartsy. If I could move a giant-ass television by reading a book, we would have a mountain of big-screens in the apartment... except not, because if you read my last post this is NOT ALLOWED IN MY HOUSE... unless I get scammed during football season. The point of the lifting deal when it comes to moving is that I try. Boyfriend gives me a look, the one where he doesn't have to say how pitiful I am, though he does anyway. He doesn't understand that I lack the muscle capacity to do it. And somehow I always get pinched, or fingers squished, or scratched, or pull something. It is just not fun for me at all. Not that I think it's fun for Boyfriend, but rather than listening to me complain about moving stuff, why not get your boyfriends here to lug stuff around? There's enough beer for everyone! ...No? I may have brought this to a dark place, sorry Boyfriend. And I'm sorry I called them your boyfriends, I know you don't like that.
This post does have a happy ending though. Aside from where Mutt puked on the carpet, I like our little place now. We've replaced almost everything we wanted to and now we're both satisfied. There's no more nasty ol' lady dining room set by the kitchen. No more doll-size bed. No torn sectional that was beautiful in its heyday. And until we move somewhere bigger, we don't have to reposition or negotiate on any more stuff. It's perfect.
Well, time for tea,
K
Friday, October 28, 2011
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
I want to like football, but I can't
Oh Autumn, the best season of them all. Summer, I'm sorry, even though we usually have a good time, you'll always be my silver medal. I just like bundling up and sipping hot beverages from Starbucks better when the sidewalk is awash with successful suicide attempts by colourful leaves. Also, in autumn one needs to wear more clothes, so it's okay to finally let that gut you've been holding in all summer flop over top of your jeans. But Summer, we will always have frappuccinos, that's the one thing you have over Autumn. Plus you burn me, it's an abusive relationship.
I had to call Muse to find out how one spells frappuccino; we've all learned something today.
With all the delicious things about fall (Starbucks, scarves, cute sweaters and new boots), the thing that Boyfriend and I miss each other most on is football. He loves cute sweaters and new boots. I like him better if I think he does anyhow. Moving on. Now that NFL is on we've hit that season where the footing of our relationship gets a little tricky. Side note here, NFL is the point of contention because according to some people, CFL isn't a real sport (and yet he still watches it). I'm just the messenger, don't hold me in contempt if you like the team that wears the corn husk hats.
With football comes the annual... let's call it a debate over the living room situation: what to do about the television. Let me preface this by telling you about Boyfriend's love numero deux: Dudes in tight spandex throwing a pig skin, he loves it. Were they really made of pig skin back in the day? What kind of weirdo comes up with that? Honestly, guh-ross. Anyhow... Boyfriend and football have been together way, waaaaaaaaay longer than he and I have, so I have to learn to share. I can be a reasonable person... sometimes. Right, the television issue: Boyfriend gets the HD NFL dealy thing with all of the games every year, so Sunday is his day to take over the living room. No problem, I can relinquish the remote for one day. You with me so far? This is where it becomes a bit of a situation, one television isn't enough for Boyfriend. He needs two televisions in order to watch ALL the games because it only makes sense if we're paying for the NFL package dealy. He may or may not have used the word dealy. Sometimes he talks so much it's hard to listen so I just throw in my own words. This brings us to the annual argumen... debate where he tries to convince me that we need two tvs for football season and I say no, we're not a sports bar. It's a slippery slope, one day it's two tvs and a stocked liquor cabinet, and the next I'll be coming home to a bunch of neon signs that promote beer, and slutty waitresses in my living room. A-no a-thank a-you. I swear, Boyfriend, if you read this and get any ideas I will She-Hulk so fast you will lose your face. That's your warning. What can I say about our... debate... except that when Boyfriend wants something he will talk in his Eastern Canadian slang until I ungraciously concede before my ears want to burrow inside of my head to get away from it. For the last two years we have come to the agreement that he can have a second television, but it only comes into the living room on Sundays, and Sunday night it goes back into the closet. And idiot that I am, think that this will actually happen. Dear NFL, I hate you so much sometimes.
All in all, there are two main reasons that I can't like football:
1) Boyfriend will love me more if I do. You may think that this would be a good thing. You're wrong. If we spend more time together it will disrupt the delicate balance of our relationship and may lead to our undoing. You see, if I don't see much of him, Boyfriend appreciates our time together which makes him act like a better boyfriend. And less time together means there are less instances where I threaten to knock his front teeth out because he lies about keeping a second television in the living room four months out of the year. Win-win.
2) There are two flaws of football that can't be ignored: it is both stupid and boring.
That's all for today kids.
Time for tea,
K
I had to call Muse to find out how one spells frappuccino; we've all learned something today.
With all the delicious things about fall (Starbucks, scarves, cute sweaters and new boots), the thing that Boyfriend and I miss each other most on is football. He loves cute sweaters and new boots. I like him better if I think he does anyhow. Moving on. Now that NFL is on we've hit that season where the footing of our relationship gets a little tricky. Side note here, NFL is the point of contention because according to some people, CFL isn't a real sport (and yet he still watches it). I'm just the messenger, don't hold me in contempt if you like the team that wears the corn husk hats.
With football comes the annual... let's call it a debate over the living room situation: what to do about the television. Let me preface this by telling you about Boyfriend's love numero deux: Dudes in tight spandex throwing a pig skin, he loves it. Were they really made of pig skin back in the day? What kind of weirdo comes up with that? Honestly, guh-ross. Anyhow... Boyfriend and football have been together way, waaaaaaaaay longer than he and I have, so I have to learn to share. I can be a reasonable person... sometimes. Right, the television issue: Boyfriend gets the HD NFL dealy thing with all of the games every year, so Sunday is his day to take over the living room. No problem, I can relinquish the remote for one day. You with me so far? This is where it becomes a bit of a situation, one television isn't enough for Boyfriend. He needs two televisions in order to watch ALL the games because it only makes sense if we're paying for the NFL package dealy. He may or may not have used the word dealy. Sometimes he talks so much it's hard to listen so I just throw in my own words. This brings us to the annual argumen... debate where he tries to convince me that we need two tvs for football season and I say no, we're not a sports bar. It's a slippery slope, one day it's two tvs and a stocked liquor cabinet, and the next I'll be coming home to a bunch of neon signs that promote beer, and slutty waitresses in my living room. A-no a-thank a-you. I swear, Boyfriend, if you read this and get any ideas I will She-Hulk so fast you will lose your face. That's your warning. What can I say about our... debate... except that when Boyfriend wants something he will talk in his Eastern Canadian slang until I ungraciously concede before my ears want to burrow inside of my head to get away from it. For the last two years we have come to the agreement that he can have a second television, but it only comes into the living room on Sundays, and Sunday night it goes back into the closet. And idiot that I am, think that this will actually happen. Dear NFL, I hate you so much sometimes.
All in all, there are two main reasons that I can't like football:
1) Boyfriend will love me more if I do. You may think that this would be a good thing. You're wrong. If we spend more time together it will disrupt the delicate balance of our relationship and may lead to our undoing. You see, if I don't see much of him, Boyfriend appreciates our time together which makes him act like a better boyfriend. And less time together means there are less instances where I threaten to knock his front teeth out because he lies about keeping a second television in the living room four months out of the year. Win-win.
2) There are two flaws of football that can't be ignored: it is both stupid and boring.
That's all for today kids.
Time for tea,
K
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Why we will never get married
I've probably had to field the question, "When are you two going to get married?" like eighteen thousand times. This is no hyperbole. Family alone accounts for sixteen thousand and seventy six of these inquiries. Honestly, their questions may not always be as straightforward as the above version, but may come out as, "Now that you live together, what's the next step?" or "You went to Mexico and didn't come back married?" No. When we got back from Mexico we were still drunk, but not married. I think that's pretty responsible drinking on our part. Though, Boyfriend did buy me a ring while we were there. There was one that I liked in this silver store, I bartered with the salesman, put the ring on my finger and before walking out said, Boyfriend, pay the man.
We're in no rush. I don't think either of us really care to hurry into matrimony. Especially Boyfriend. I might have said something to screw myself out of a proposal. MIGHT HAVE. As I'm sure you know, women get these ideas into their minds to "test" their boyfriends as it were. We freak them out to see what happens. One of mine was quite typical of all members of my species: bring up the subject of nuptials and watch Boyfriend get super uncomfortable trying to handle the topic with grace... nope, not grace... Boyfriend isn't graceful... he was trying to deal with the conversation without throwing up I think. Maybe I shouldn't have followed him into the men's washroom at that restaurant to have this conversation. I'm kidding, but if it makes for better storytelling, we'll say that it actually happened.
What's the deal? You want to get married one day?
Maybe one day.
Yeah, me too. Whenever that happens I don't want to do that whole big wedding thing though. Not into that at all.
What would you want to do?
Run away and get married on a beach. You?
Run away and get married on a beach.
This is where boyfriend softens, probably thinking, yes, I picked the right girl. I feel like I'm being too easy on the guy. Time to bring out the big guns:
I think it's stupid to throw all that money away on a wedding when you can use it for something much better.
Absolutely.
I want a huge mother of an engagement ring. A BAM RING!
A Bam Ring? What does that mean?
I want it to be so enormous I need the strength of my right hand to lift my left. When I show it to people I want to heft my hand onto a table and have the ring be so heavy that my hand lands with a thud on the tabletop. BAM! When I punch people in the face I want it to leave a huge indent so they can brag to their friends about the gargantuan ring they were hit with. BAM! That's what I want.
That's all you want? Okay.
I know he's being sarcastic, but I also know Boyfriend is the king of finding loopholes. He just hears the words, big ring.
I also want it to be a flawless diamond... and I will be getting it appraised.
Yeah, you'll get your bam ring.
I think the part that he omits is that it will have to be from somebody else because what I want he will never buy. Too impractical. He could probably buy a new boat for the price of the ring I want to boast on my finger. To be fair though, if he did get me this ring, It'd ruin me. I'd probably wreck my back schlepping it around. When I mention this, I'm quite sure he smiled and put a mental check mark in the pro column for the Bam ring.
Three years and no ring, go figure. Boyfriend, you realize if you get me this ring I will call you an idiot. And then hit you with it. BAM! Between statements like this, and the threat of getting the engagement ring appraised, Boyfriend will never come to me on bended knee. Take a lesson ladies.
Time for tea,
K
We're in no rush. I don't think either of us really care to hurry into matrimony. Especially Boyfriend. I might have said something to screw myself out of a proposal. MIGHT HAVE. As I'm sure you know, women get these ideas into their minds to "test" their boyfriends as it were. We freak them out to see what happens. One of mine was quite typical of all members of my species: bring up the subject of nuptials and watch Boyfriend get super uncomfortable trying to handle the topic with grace... nope, not grace... Boyfriend isn't graceful... he was trying to deal with the conversation without throwing up I think. Maybe I shouldn't have followed him into the men's washroom at that restaurant to have this conversation. I'm kidding, but if it makes for better storytelling, we'll say that it actually happened.
What's the deal? You want to get married one day?
Maybe one day.
Yeah, me too. Whenever that happens I don't want to do that whole big wedding thing though. Not into that at all.
What would you want to do?
Run away and get married on a beach. You?
Run away and get married on a beach.
This is where boyfriend softens, probably thinking, yes, I picked the right girl. I feel like I'm being too easy on the guy. Time to bring out the big guns:
I think it's stupid to throw all that money away on a wedding when you can use it for something much better.
Absolutely.
I want a huge mother of an engagement ring. A BAM RING!
A Bam Ring? What does that mean?
I want it to be so enormous I need the strength of my right hand to lift my left. When I show it to people I want to heft my hand onto a table and have the ring be so heavy that my hand lands with a thud on the tabletop. BAM! When I punch people in the face I want it to leave a huge indent so they can brag to their friends about the gargantuan ring they were hit with. BAM! That's what I want.
That's all you want? Okay.
I know he's being sarcastic, but I also know Boyfriend is the king of finding loopholes. He just hears the words, big ring.
I also want it to be a flawless diamond... and I will be getting it appraised.
Yeah, you'll get your bam ring.
I think the part that he omits is that it will have to be from somebody else because what I want he will never buy. Too impractical. He could probably buy a new boat for the price of the ring I want to boast on my finger. To be fair though, if he did get me this ring, It'd ruin me. I'd probably wreck my back schlepping it around. When I mention this, I'm quite sure he smiled and put a mental check mark in the pro column for the Bam ring.
Three years and no ring, go figure. Boyfriend, you realize if you get me this ring I will call you an idiot. And then hit you with it. BAM! Between statements like this, and the threat of getting the engagement ring appraised, Boyfriend will never come to me on bended knee. Take a lesson ladies.
Time for tea,
K
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Shorts are to Boyfriend as ________ is to me
I'm just going to come right out and say it: I miss being wooed. And for all those that ventured a guess, we would have accepted almost any "s" word for the blank in the title: shoes, shopping, stalking... but the absolute right answer here is Starbucks. The similarity is that both shorts and Starbucks are paramount to our individual lifestyles and both tie into the relationship of the woo-er and the woo-ee (who, for those of you who can surprisingly follow my train of thought here, are the caterpillars Boyfriend and I used to be before we evolved into the brilliant butterflies we are now). I'm quite sure Boyfriend will resent being likened in any way to a butterfly, so we'll say he's evolved into... I dunno... something masculine... a cement truck. A caterpillar to a cement truck. I'm aware that the logic is flawed. Moving on from this car crash of a paragraph.
Back to being wooed. I miss it, and I'm sure that all the attached folks out there do too. So much effort gets put out there, and things that drive you crazy about a person now you thought were adorable way back when. Ah, the ignorance. There is nothing like the rush of trying to hide certain aspects about yourself because you think somebody will like you better for it. Don't judge us, you've all done it too... the getting up through the night to brush your teeth so you wake up with fresh breath, stealing insightful opinions from experts on current events in order to sound smart during conversation in spite of not knowing what you're saying, we've all done something to this effect. Don't shake your head no, you're only lying to yourself. I like to think of this as part of Project Mantrap. It involves any sneaky behaviour a girl employs to get her man. I finally caught one I haven't wanted to throw back yet.
I'm not sure if I've mentioned, but Boyfriend and I began dating while we still lived in different cities. This made it easier to hide our vices: Boyfriend lives in shorts year-round and I have a palate for pricey coffees... daily. No big deal. I only hide it in the beginning because Boyfriend is a huge Tim Horton's fan -- it's his place of worship if a sports bar is closed. Tim's coffee is a close second to beer for him... that's a collosal compliment to their product. Therein lies the problem though, with our very seperate coffee preferences it's like West Side Story and a rumble could erupt between us broadway-style. Boyfriend doesn't sing or dance so this outccome would be worse than some kind of ancient torture device. I have to be on his side here (the initial stages of Project Mantrap), so when I fly in to visit him, we go to Tim Horton's all the freaking time to get our caffeine fix. Cool (you can't hear it or read it, but insert sarcastic tone here). All I'm saying is that it's alright, but seriously, very few hot drinks can trump a cinnamon dolce latte. Yuh huh, it's a proven fact.
While I hide my Starbucks appreciation, Boyfriend hides his legs inside pants for my first visits out to see him. It's a non-issue in the warmer months, but November/December/January? Really? It is later I find out that this is a preventative measure he has taken against my mocking because he knows the judgement I would lay on him if I arrived in winter to see him in shorts (this by no means is the same as Project Mantrap, he was simply trying to spare his ego). His reasoning? He's an east-coast boy that grew up with freezing winters with snow so deep it'd cover your house. I've never been that far east, but who am I to call him a liar? All I'm saying is that winter has a dress code. Put some damn pants on. Side note: You know the wooing stage is over when you use the phrase "Put some damn pants on". Le damn.
One day when I'm visiting him, he and I walk by the Starbucks near his house. I suppose I didn't do a very good job hiding my interest when my face glued to their window and I pressed my palms on the cool glass to stare at the baristas inside making delicious drinks.
You want a coffee?
Uh, sure. We're going to walk by the Tim Horton's anyways, right?
Maybe we should get a drink here. Boyfriend motions to the window we've stopped in front of.
OKAY!
Yelling this in his face didn't do much for the ambivalence I was trying to project, but who cares? The man is in the trap. He's coming around to what I like.
Have you ever seen the face of somebody that's never been to a Starbucks before? They look at the beverage board on the wall and realize, "oh crap I don't know what any of this says." Wish I had my camera, Boyfriend was so overwhelmed. You would think he was trying to read Swahili. He's charming. I think he just goes to Tim Horton's because he hasn't learned the Starbucks language. In one of my college classes we talked about how if you don't like something, it's because you don't understand it. Boyfriend understood nothing here, ipso facto, his distaste was quite obvious. I go to the counter and order my cinnamon dolce latte.
Boyfriend panics, then utters, I'll have the same.
Answer me this, why don't boys like to ask questions? He could've gotten something that he would have liked that way. The girl rings in our order and it comes to $9 plus change.
Ten dollars? Mass confusion which prompts Boyfriend to look at the girl and earnestly ask, Is there Baileys in that coffee?
She gets uncomfortable, says no, and gives him a free cookie to smooth things over. It seems to appease him. We get our drinks and resume our walk.
You want this? Boyfriend extends the paper bag with the cookie inside.
Ginger? Not at all.
Me either.
He tosses the bag into the next garbage bin we pass. It wasn't about the cookie, Boyfriend just wanted to get something other than two drinks for his ten dollars. He's like a little old man when it comes to the value of a dollar. It drives me insane, but now that we live together the man has gotten us some great deals.
The moral here is this: After Project Mantrap is successful and he becomes yours through your intricate system of lies, feel free to drop the pretense. Boyfriend pretends that I don't "waste" money on expensive coffee drinks, and I don't berate him for wearing shorts in February. This entry wasn't about Boyfriend's shorts by the way, I just feel that if I admit things about myself, I should drag him in with me. Fair trade. You just have to gradually ease into being yourself, and before he realizes that you aren't the person he started dating three years ago, he's already locked in. Mantrapped!
Time for tea,
K
Back to being wooed. I miss it, and I'm sure that all the attached folks out there do too. So much effort gets put out there, and things that drive you crazy about a person now you thought were adorable way back when. Ah, the ignorance. There is nothing like the rush of trying to hide certain aspects about yourself because you think somebody will like you better for it. Don't judge us, you've all done it too... the getting up through the night to brush your teeth so you wake up with fresh breath, stealing insightful opinions from experts on current events in order to sound smart during conversation in spite of not knowing what you're saying, we've all done something to this effect. Don't shake your head no, you're only lying to yourself. I like to think of this as part of Project Mantrap. It involves any sneaky behaviour a girl employs to get her man. I finally caught one I haven't wanted to throw back yet.
I'm not sure if I've mentioned, but Boyfriend and I began dating while we still lived in different cities. This made it easier to hide our vices: Boyfriend lives in shorts year-round and I have a palate for pricey coffees... daily. No big deal. I only hide it in the beginning because Boyfriend is a huge Tim Horton's fan -- it's his place of worship if a sports bar is closed. Tim's coffee is a close second to beer for him... that's a collosal compliment to their product. Therein lies the problem though, with our very seperate coffee preferences it's like West Side Story and a rumble could erupt between us broadway-style. Boyfriend doesn't sing or dance so this outccome would be worse than some kind of ancient torture device. I have to be on his side here (the initial stages of Project Mantrap), so when I fly in to visit him, we go to Tim Horton's all the freaking time to get our caffeine fix. Cool (you can't hear it or read it, but insert sarcastic tone here). All I'm saying is that it's alright, but seriously, very few hot drinks can trump a cinnamon dolce latte. Yuh huh, it's a proven fact.
While I hide my Starbucks appreciation, Boyfriend hides his legs inside pants for my first visits out to see him. It's a non-issue in the warmer months, but November/December/January? Really? It is later I find out that this is a preventative measure he has taken against my mocking because he knows the judgement I would lay on him if I arrived in winter to see him in shorts (this by no means is the same as Project Mantrap, he was simply trying to spare his ego). His reasoning? He's an east-coast boy that grew up with freezing winters with snow so deep it'd cover your house. I've never been that far east, but who am I to call him a liar? All I'm saying is that winter has a dress code. Put some damn pants on. Side note: You know the wooing stage is over when you use the phrase "Put some damn pants on". Le damn.
One day when I'm visiting him, he and I walk by the Starbucks near his house. I suppose I didn't do a very good job hiding my interest when my face glued to their window and I pressed my palms on the cool glass to stare at the baristas inside making delicious drinks.
You want a coffee?
Uh, sure. We're going to walk by the Tim Horton's anyways, right?
Maybe we should get a drink here. Boyfriend motions to the window we've stopped in front of.
OKAY!
Yelling this in his face didn't do much for the ambivalence I was trying to project, but who cares? The man is in the trap. He's coming around to what I like.
Have you ever seen the face of somebody that's never been to a Starbucks before? They look at the beverage board on the wall and realize, "oh crap I don't know what any of this says." Wish I had my camera, Boyfriend was so overwhelmed. You would think he was trying to read Swahili. He's charming. I think he just goes to Tim Horton's because he hasn't learned the Starbucks language. In one of my college classes we talked about how if you don't like something, it's because you don't understand it. Boyfriend understood nothing here, ipso facto, his distaste was quite obvious. I go to the counter and order my cinnamon dolce latte.
Boyfriend panics, then utters, I'll have the same.
Answer me this, why don't boys like to ask questions? He could've gotten something that he would have liked that way. The girl rings in our order and it comes to $9 plus change.
Ten dollars? Mass confusion which prompts Boyfriend to look at the girl and earnestly ask, Is there Baileys in that coffee?
She gets uncomfortable, says no, and gives him a free cookie to smooth things over. It seems to appease him. We get our drinks and resume our walk.
You want this? Boyfriend extends the paper bag with the cookie inside.
Ginger? Not at all.
Me either.
He tosses the bag into the next garbage bin we pass. It wasn't about the cookie, Boyfriend just wanted to get something other than two drinks for his ten dollars. He's like a little old man when it comes to the value of a dollar. It drives me insane, but now that we live together the man has gotten us some great deals.
The moral here is this: After Project Mantrap is successful and he becomes yours through your intricate system of lies, feel free to drop the pretense. Boyfriend pretends that I don't "waste" money on expensive coffee drinks, and I don't berate him for wearing shorts in February. This entry wasn't about Boyfriend's shorts by the way, I just feel that if I admit things about myself, I should drag him in with me. Fair trade. You just have to gradually ease into being yourself, and before he realizes that you aren't the person he started dating three years ago, he's already locked in. Mantrapped!
Time for tea,
K
Monday, October 17, 2011
How it becomes his fault
I'm sure this may be one of several posts with the same or similar titles. I'm bestowing a gift to the fellas that muster the courage to read this entry. Yes, a fantastic tale that will tell you exactly how anything can become the man's evil-doing, despite his lack of involvement. Here is a tiny glimpse into the workings of the female mind:
The crime: Boyfriend broke my books. I knew it once I entered the crime scene. If I know it's not my fault, it has to be his. I just have to figure out how it's his fault and I'm free to act like a jerk about the situation. It didn't help his case that I knew his distaste of reading for pleasure. Didn't need to take fingerprints to say this case was closed.
Let me explain how I solved this heinous attack on literature. A year ago, Boyfriend and I decided that the bare knuckle boxing that we did in our sleep had reached its limit. We needed a bigger bed before one of us required medical attention, so we splurged on a delicious new bed (of the king sized variety, though I prefer to call it an engorged queen) and matching bedroom set. It's big and beautiful and both of us avoid the inevitable slaps that occur in order to move the other out of our personal sleeping space. The bedroom set is heaven... but frankly, heaven wasn't meant for a tiny one-bedroom apartment. There was much rearranging needed to fit all of this fantastic furniture into our Tupperware container of a home. Boyfriend suggested that I sacrifice my book shelf. Please, take the time to gasp here, perhaps take a defibrillator to your chest if necessary. I wept, tears poured down my cheeks like thunderous rain and...let me stop you here, this part didn't happen. A terrible moment, yes, but crying might be a bit extreme. We'll say I dabbed gently at the corner of my eyes with a lace handkerchief as my books were boxed up and put into the closet until a better place could be found for them. That was many months ago, and the rain came down that day just for me (and the fact that it was November in Vancouver...).
While I neglected my books for the ones at the library, I noticed my dog-like cat kept disappearing. She usually comes when called and it's not like there are many hiding places in our little apartment. She found herself locked in cupboards because she snuck inside when we weren't around and we shut her in accidently. Other times, she slithered under the couch. Colour me impressed for this act because she rather resembles a hippo. A few times I found her sleeping soundly under the wine rack. The nosy rotund thing wedges herself into impossible places. But when I called Fat, she's lost her real name and just goes by Fat now, she would lazily meow or casually jaunt over to me.
One day, I come home from work and I look for my spherical fur-ball. Can't find her anywhere. I call, and I hear her, and I follow the sound. It takes me to the heaven-filled bedroom, and I hear her muffled, drunk-off-catnip meow again. I call, she answers. I call, she answers. I'm playing Marco Polo with a feline and for some reason I feel there's nothing wrong with it. I'm cool with being a crazy cat lady one day, somebody's got to do it, otherwise, who do the young kids make fun of? Exactly. You're welcome.
Here's where the story takes a turn. Fat jumps out of the closet, gets a quick pet and wanders away from me. You know that feeling you get when you know something's wrong? That nasty, bile-in-your-throat nervous feeling? I didn't have it, I'm just asking. I was curious though as to why Fat came out of the closet. I was horrified when I saw what happened. At some point during my books' prison sentence, Fat burrowed into one of the boxes and made herself a little nest out of my favourite authors. Covers were bent, pages ripped, grey fur everywhere. Chuck Palahniuk had become a fort. Not cool. I took crime scene photos, made chalk outlines of the deceased, and roped the area off with yellow tape. The other books needed time to mourn.
We all know that last part didn't happen. I did what any good woman would. I She-Hulked. I knew it was Boyfriend's fault instantly, I just had to put the pieces together in order for my case to hold up in court. Let's review the evidence: He pushed me to get rid of the bookshelf saying we didn't have the space. He brought home the flimsy boxes that I lovingly packed my books into. He likes to get the cat stoned off cat nip. Totally his fault. If he hadn't made me get rid of it, my babies would still be standing tall and beautiful on that ol' shelf. Case closed.
And this boys, is how a woman can make you the villain, even if you're not. What I'm saying is you don't stand a chance. I don't know how Boyfriend does it, he must be grateful he's now out of the range of my right hook in that engorged queen size bed. Lucky bastard, but I still hold him in contempt.
Time for tea,
K
The crime: Boyfriend broke my books. I knew it once I entered the crime scene. If I know it's not my fault, it has to be his. I just have to figure out how it's his fault and I'm free to act like a jerk about the situation. It didn't help his case that I knew his distaste of reading for pleasure. Didn't need to take fingerprints to say this case was closed.
Let me explain how I solved this heinous attack on literature. A year ago, Boyfriend and I decided that the bare knuckle boxing that we did in our sleep had reached its limit. We needed a bigger bed before one of us required medical attention, so we splurged on a delicious new bed (of the king sized variety, though I prefer to call it an engorged queen) and matching bedroom set. It's big and beautiful and both of us avoid the inevitable slaps that occur in order to move the other out of our personal sleeping space. The bedroom set is heaven... but frankly, heaven wasn't meant for a tiny one-bedroom apartment. There was much rearranging needed to fit all of this fantastic furniture into our Tupperware container of a home. Boyfriend suggested that I sacrifice my book shelf. Please, take the time to gasp here, perhaps take a defibrillator to your chest if necessary. I wept, tears poured down my cheeks like thunderous rain and...let me stop you here, this part didn't happen. A terrible moment, yes, but crying might be a bit extreme. We'll say I dabbed gently at the corner of my eyes with a lace handkerchief as my books were boxed up and put into the closet until a better place could be found for them. That was many months ago, and the rain came down that day just for me (and the fact that it was November in Vancouver...).
While I neglected my books for the ones at the library, I noticed my dog-like cat kept disappearing. She usually comes when called and it's not like there are many hiding places in our little apartment. She found herself locked in cupboards because she snuck inside when we weren't around and we shut her in accidently. Other times, she slithered under the couch. Colour me impressed for this act because she rather resembles a hippo. A few times I found her sleeping soundly under the wine rack. The nosy rotund thing wedges herself into impossible places. But when I called Fat, she's lost her real name and just goes by Fat now, she would lazily meow or casually jaunt over to me.
One day, I come home from work and I look for my spherical fur-ball. Can't find her anywhere. I call, and I hear her, and I follow the sound. It takes me to the heaven-filled bedroom, and I hear her muffled, drunk-off-catnip meow again. I call, she answers. I call, she answers. I'm playing Marco Polo with a feline and for some reason I feel there's nothing wrong with it. I'm cool with being a crazy cat lady one day, somebody's got to do it, otherwise, who do the young kids make fun of? Exactly. You're welcome.
Here's where the story takes a turn. Fat jumps out of the closet, gets a quick pet and wanders away from me. You know that feeling you get when you know something's wrong? That nasty, bile-in-your-throat nervous feeling? I didn't have it, I'm just asking. I was curious though as to why Fat came out of the closet. I was horrified when I saw what happened. At some point during my books' prison sentence, Fat burrowed into one of the boxes and made herself a little nest out of my favourite authors. Covers were bent, pages ripped, grey fur everywhere. Chuck Palahniuk had become a fort. Not cool. I took crime scene photos, made chalk outlines of the deceased, and roped the area off with yellow tape. The other books needed time to mourn.
We all know that last part didn't happen. I did what any good woman would. I She-Hulked. I knew it was Boyfriend's fault instantly, I just had to put the pieces together in order for my case to hold up in court. Let's review the evidence: He pushed me to get rid of the bookshelf saying we didn't have the space. He brought home the flimsy boxes that I lovingly packed my books into. He likes to get the cat stoned off cat nip. Totally his fault. If he hadn't made me get rid of it, my babies would still be standing tall and beautiful on that ol' shelf. Case closed.
And this boys, is how a woman can make you the villain, even if you're not. What I'm saying is you don't stand a chance. I don't know how Boyfriend does it, he must be grateful he's now out of the range of my right hook in that engorged queen size bed. Lucky bastard, but I still hold him in contempt.
Time for tea,
K
Friday, October 14, 2011
The three rules of road tripping with a girl
We've all been there -- the road trip is a huge test of relationships. There's nothing like being locked in a car for hours wondering when the polite time to nap is. This nap window gets larger the longer you're together, it's a reward for time served. When Boyfriend and I went on our first road trip, I didn't nap at all. However, he learned road trip rule number one: Always stop for food. Always. No matter how short the trip.
Everybody is familiar with this rule, you leave the house, you stock up on junk food and drinks to tide you over. SIMPLEST RULE EVER! Maybe this is a western Canadian thing, but wake up eastern Canada (especially Boyfriend's hometown), a girl has got to eat. Maybe that's just me. I'm the kind of girl other girls hate because I fill my body with junk, don't exercise and still remain skinny. My sincerest apologies, but I agree, by all rights I should be fat. Moving on, back to where I intended to start: our first road trip. Boyfriend and I packed up the car and the dog (for those wondering the breed, he's half chihuahua, half ugly, but he's so gross he's adorable...to clarify, I'm talking about the dog, not Boyfriend) and started on our way. As we're leaving town we pass the Tim Hortons, gas stations, convenience stores...they all go in and out of my line of vision and we stop at NONE of them. Was this something that needed to be discussed before we left the apartment? Doesn't everyone know proper road trip etiquette? The answer is no. Perhaps it's because he doesn't eat as often as I do, he's more of a small meal around lunch, gigantic dinner at night kind of guy. Me, I'm a nibbler. I eat often. I have to say something.
Aren't we going to stop and grab coffee or something?
You didn't have anything before we left the house?
No, I figured we would eat in the car.
I was hoping to just drive though.
Of course you were, because four hours in the car without anything to eat is no problem at all...for you.
And then ladies, comes the part that I'm not proud of, the part built into my DNA. That passive aggressive solution to everything that goes wrong in a relationship, the part that demands that he's punished for something that he doesn't recognize is a problem. Yes, I employ the silent treatment. It's not pretty. I know it's wrong and I know it's better to talk like adults about this very minor issue, but I don't believe in taking the high road. My technique is to accompany the silent treatment with scowls and looks of derision, and if there's opportunity to break the mutism, I spit out a snarky comment that I hope makes him feel bad. This isn't even when I'm pmsing, that's probably four thousand times worse. How does he put up with me? He lasts about forty minutes, which I think is pretty impressive but at the same time I'm angry that he doesn't just cave in. Any longer and the She-Hulk would have been in control. If you don't feed me I get angry (which on a side note he has learned, and now his love language is to buy me treats to stop the anger before it erupts... good Boyfriend), and from what I hear from those that have been on the receiving end, it can be pretty intolerable. Finally, he concedes and pulls into the parking lot of a Subway. Thank freaking god. In hindsight, I think he might of stopped just to keep me occupied while I ate instead of trying to slay him with murderous stares. Lesson learned, and rule number one has been employed ever since in our road trips. If I haven't said it, sorry Boyfriend.
Road trip rule number two: Take turns with picking the music.
I've been brainwashed and have gradually come around to a limited selection of Kenny Chesney songs. It took awhile, but I will put up with listening to it, but I can't take any more Neil Young. How many CDs does that guy have? Not saying he's not good, but so many hours of Crazy Horse, so many. On the other hand, Boyfriend probably doesn't appreciate the Red Hot Chili Peppers as much as I do. In spite of the unspoken rule that the driver gets to choose the music, I resist it. It's not fair to me if I'm conscious. I want a turn to choose the music damn it. Punishment: SILENT TREATMENT.
Road trip rule number three: When a woman has to pee, you find a freaking bathroom.
This rule was recently added to the list over the last couple months based on a single incident, though stopping to pee is generally a good rule of thumb. Although Muse (the bestie) gets a nervous pee feeling sometimes and I still don't know if it's good or bad to have it, until proven otherwise we'll say it's a good thing so try to withstand voiding your bladder to prolong it. This might be bad advice.
How the new rule came into play: we had stopped for beverages and snacks (Good Boyfriend) and I fell asleep in the car maybe ten minutes after we left the store. The napping window has increased to accommodate us both. I get to sleep the trip away and he and Neil Young get to bond. I woke up about an hour later and on the outskirts of another town. As I rouse from sleep I make the declaration:
I simply must pee (it probably didn't come out so eloquently, but for the sake of the story this is what I said).
I was hoping to get a little further before we stopped.
Well I have made the declaration, so we're stopping for a couple minutes at the Visitor's Centre coming up so the rest of the drive will be pleasant...for you.
That in itself is the best reason to stop, so he pulls into the turning lane a couple minutes later to make a left into the parking lot from the highway. Of course, it has to be Sunday and after six, and as Boyfriend starts to turn I see the sign that says WASHROOMS CLOSED. I point and scream the two words that make a mockery of my full bladder, and Boyfriend swerves right, back onto the highway before we make the full turn. No matter, we'll just take a few more minutes going into town... only, why aren't we getting off the highway? The town is back there. Washrooms closed does not make the fact that I have to pee go away. I'm no doctor, but I know for certain that the female body does not work like that.
There's a truck stop just up the road here, we'll stop there.
WHAT? You've got to be kidding me, we could have stopped right there in town!
I feel the She-Hulk building inside of me.
How far up the road?
Not far.
No Boyfriend, how far in minutes, give me a time frame.
Ten?
Okay, I guess I can last for ten. I think. The more I think about it, the more I feel like I'm not going to make it. I'm going to pee my pants in the car you borrowed from a friend. He won't like me anymore.
Boyfriend feels the tension building, I know he does.
We can stop and you can go on the side of the road.
I'm not peeing on the side of the road, just drive fast, and in the meantime, SILENT TREATMENT.
I scowl as I do, cross my arms to let the body language tell him that I'm pissed (in an angry way, not in the urination way... yet) and I watch the digital numbers on the clock. I watch the little numbers change ten times and then burst out.
Well??? Where is this rest stop?
I'm sorry, I thought it was around here. It'll be down here somewhere.
Though he's genuine with his apology it is disregarded, the anger doesn't care and she spits out her response:
That will just have to do, won't it?
I stare out the window, fuming. I don't know when the music stopped. I don't know if I heard it at all since I woke up, but the silence weighs heavy on both of us. More minutes tick by, and Boyfriend, for lack of anything better to do to remedy the situation reaches for the CD case and pulls out a random burnt CD that I don't think I've seen before. This CD will be forever known as the CD that diffuses an angry girlfriend. He puts the CD in, and of all things to start playing, the bloody Beach Boys belt out their happy harmonies. Christ, there is NO WAY on this green earth to be full of rage and listen to the Beach Boys. I think it's scientifically proven. I feel my shoulders loosen, and now I'm trying really hard to hold onto my anger, but the urge to sing along is overpowering. It's not fair. I mean really, why do they have to be so delightful? Now I stare even harder out the window so he doesn't see that my madness has evaporated. I'm just pretending to be angry to make a point. I'm such a woman. I almost forget that I have to pee, until we turn off to follow signs to the rest stop. I think the Beach Boys saved our relationship that day. The problem is, now he knows, he's found the cryptonite that will stop the she beast from attacking him. Crap.
There you have it. The three golden rules of road tripping with a woman. Fellas, don't forget to pack the Beach Boys in your survival kit, they could save your life one day.
Time for tea,
K
Everybody is familiar with this rule, you leave the house, you stock up on junk food and drinks to tide you over. SIMPLEST RULE EVER! Maybe this is a western Canadian thing, but wake up eastern Canada (especially Boyfriend's hometown), a girl has got to eat. Maybe that's just me. I'm the kind of girl other girls hate because I fill my body with junk, don't exercise and still remain skinny. My sincerest apologies, but I agree, by all rights I should be fat. Moving on, back to where I intended to start: our first road trip. Boyfriend and I packed up the car and the dog (for those wondering the breed, he's half chihuahua, half ugly, but he's so gross he's adorable...to clarify, I'm talking about the dog, not Boyfriend) and started on our way. As we're leaving town we pass the Tim Hortons, gas stations, convenience stores...they all go in and out of my line of vision and we stop at NONE of them. Was this something that needed to be discussed before we left the apartment? Doesn't everyone know proper road trip etiquette? The answer is no. Perhaps it's because he doesn't eat as often as I do, he's more of a small meal around lunch, gigantic dinner at night kind of guy. Me, I'm a nibbler. I eat often. I have to say something.
Aren't we going to stop and grab coffee or something?
You didn't have anything before we left the house?
No, I figured we would eat in the car.
I was hoping to just drive though.
Of course you were, because four hours in the car without anything to eat is no problem at all...for you.
And then ladies, comes the part that I'm not proud of, the part built into my DNA. That passive aggressive solution to everything that goes wrong in a relationship, the part that demands that he's punished for something that he doesn't recognize is a problem. Yes, I employ the silent treatment. It's not pretty. I know it's wrong and I know it's better to talk like adults about this very minor issue, but I don't believe in taking the high road. My technique is to accompany the silent treatment with scowls and looks of derision, and if there's opportunity to break the mutism, I spit out a snarky comment that I hope makes him feel bad. This isn't even when I'm pmsing, that's probably four thousand times worse. How does he put up with me? He lasts about forty minutes, which I think is pretty impressive but at the same time I'm angry that he doesn't just cave in. Any longer and the She-Hulk would have been in control. If you don't feed me I get angry (which on a side note he has learned, and now his love language is to buy me treats to stop the anger before it erupts... good Boyfriend), and from what I hear from those that have been on the receiving end, it can be pretty intolerable. Finally, he concedes and pulls into the parking lot of a Subway. Thank freaking god. In hindsight, I think he might of stopped just to keep me occupied while I ate instead of trying to slay him with murderous stares. Lesson learned, and rule number one has been employed ever since in our road trips. If I haven't said it, sorry Boyfriend.
Road trip rule number two: Take turns with picking the music.
I've been brainwashed and have gradually come around to a limited selection of Kenny Chesney songs. It took awhile, but I will put up with listening to it, but I can't take any more Neil Young. How many CDs does that guy have? Not saying he's not good, but so many hours of Crazy Horse, so many. On the other hand, Boyfriend probably doesn't appreciate the Red Hot Chili Peppers as much as I do. In spite of the unspoken rule that the driver gets to choose the music, I resist it. It's not fair to me if I'm conscious. I want a turn to choose the music damn it. Punishment: SILENT TREATMENT.
Road trip rule number three: When a woman has to pee, you find a freaking bathroom.
This rule was recently added to the list over the last couple months based on a single incident, though stopping to pee is generally a good rule of thumb. Although Muse (the bestie) gets a nervous pee feeling sometimes and I still don't know if it's good or bad to have it, until proven otherwise we'll say it's a good thing so try to withstand voiding your bladder to prolong it. This might be bad advice.
How the new rule came into play: we had stopped for beverages and snacks (Good Boyfriend) and I fell asleep in the car maybe ten minutes after we left the store. The napping window has increased to accommodate us both. I get to sleep the trip away and he and Neil Young get to bond. I woke up about an hour later and on the outskirts of another town. As I rouse from sleep I make the declaration:
I simply must pee (it probably didn't come out so eloquently, but for the sake of the story this is what I said).
I was hoping to get a little further before we stopped.
Well I have made the declaration, so we're stopping for a couple minutes at the Visitor's Centre coming up so the rest of the drive will be pleasant...for you.
That in itself is the best reason to stop, so he pulls into the turning lane a couple minutes later to make a left into the parking lot from the highway. Of course, it has to be Sunday and after six, and as Boyfriend starts to turn I see the sign that says WASHROOMS CLOSED. I point and scream the two words that make a mockery of my full bladder, and Boyfriend swerves right, back onto the highway before we make the full turn. No matter, we'll just take a few more minutes going into town... only, why aren't we getting off the highway? The town is back there. Washrooms closed does not make the fact that I have to pee go away. I'm no doctor, but I know for certain that the female body does not work like that.
There's a truck stop just up the road here, we'll stop there.
WHAT? You've got to be kidding me, we could have stopped right there in town!
I feel the She-Hulk building inside of me.
How far up the road?
Not far.
No Boyfriend, how far in minutes, give me a time frame.
Ten?
Okay, I guess I can last for ten. I think. The more I think about it, the more I feel like I'm not going to make it. I'm going to pee my pants in the car you borrowed from a friend. He won't like me anymore.
Boyfriend feels the tension building, I know he does.
We can stop and you can go on the side of the road.
I'm not peeing on the side of the road, just drive fast, and in the meantime, SILENT TREATMENT.
I scowl as I do, cross my arms to let the body language tell him that I'm pissed (in an angry way, not in the urination way... yet) and I watch the digital numbers on the clock. I watch the little numbers change ten times and then burst out.
Well??? Where is this rest stop?
I'm sorry, I thought it was around here. It'll be down here somewhere.
Though he's genuine with his apology it is disregarded, the anger doesn't care and she spits out her response:
That will just have to do, won't it?
I stare out the window, fuming. I don't know when the music stopped. I don't know if I heard it at all since I woke up, but the silence weighs heavy on both of us. More minutes tick by, and Boyfriend, for lack of anything better to do to remedy the situation reaches for the CD case and pulls out a random burnt CD that I don't think I've seen before. This CD will be forever known as the CD that diffuses an angry girlfriend. He puts the CD in, and of all things to start playing, the bloody Beach Boys belt out their happy harmonies. Christ, there is NO WAY on this green earth to be full of rage and listen to the Beach Boys. I think it's scientifically proven. I feel my shoulders loosen, and now I'm trying really hard to hold onto my anger, but the urge to sing along is overpowering. It's not fair. I mean really, why do they have to be so delightful? Now I stare even harder out the window so he doesn't see that my madness has evaporated. I'm just pretending to be angry to make a point. I'm such a woman. I almost forget that I have to pee, until we turn off to follow signs to the rest stop. I think the Beach Boys saved our relationship that day. The problem is, now he knows, he's found the cryptonite that will stop the she beast from attacking him. Crap.
There you have it. The three golden rules of road tripping with a woman. Fellas, don't forget to pack the Beach Boys in your survival kit, they could save your life one day.
Time for tea,
K
Monday, October 3, 2011
You've changed
Well, it's Vancouver outside; I don't know why I think I can still get away without having an umbrella. The power is restored, and the silence broken with the hum of the refrigerator and that ticking sound (what do I own that ticks?...Looked into it, it's the water cooler, hope the ticking is normal). I figured now is a good time to blog and double the number of posts I've written. You know, now that I've survived the power outage and life is able to go on. How in the hell did cave people manage?
I believe I promised to dedicate this blog to the first time Boyfriend and I met. It was about five years ago and I was working in a Kelowna restaurant as a server. The place I worked was attached to a hotel, and the average age of our clients was probably around seventy. Yes, liver and onions were on the menu. No, I've never tried it, never will, and frankly (my apologies to this restaurant) every plate that came out of that kitchen looked nasty. Not that this meant I never ate there... the grilled cheese was good. But I digress. Generally, our "dinner" rush was over by five-thirty and the rest of the night was generally spent gossiping with the other hens and counting down the seconds until close. I don't know why we stayed open until midnight, the hours weren't worth the twenty dollars I was left with when my shift ended.
A fellow came in to the restaurant by himself one evening and asked me where I was from. I said, Canada, would you like me to teach you to french? And then we made out. That is how our relationship started; it was a damn fairy tale. Just kidding. I'm kind of an unreliable narrator.
What actually happened:
One night at work I had a table of four men that came over from the hotel. I went over to say hi and offer bevvies (assuming the old guys -- sorry boys -- would order tea or hot water with lemon as most customers do). Not so much the types to do that. Boyfriend was at the table, and I disliked him right away. The three silver-haired dudes and one thirty-something guy (this is Boyfriend, he still has dark hair so that means he's still young) were all super loud and obnoxious and I wanted to get rid of them, especially the young guy. They came in demanding caesars to drink. Sorry dudes, no caesars here. We have bottles of beer and two kinds of Mike's Lemonade, but that's all I can offer. There's a pub right around the corner there... (It too, was attached to the hotel, it would take literally fifteen seconds to get there, that's like the length of a sneeze.) I'm not sure why I thought this would work, I'm too charming, they couldn't leave if they wanted too. Or they just saw opportunity to drive me insane. Whichever.
At this point, Boyfriend pipes up and demands I go to said pub and fetch them some caesars.
What are you, drunk?
Somewhat.
Fantastic (sarcasm, clearly).
We'll take the beers.
They just got to town for a hockey tournament and enjoyed a bounty of refreshments on the four-hour ride. Lucky me. And lucky them because for the rest of their meal, I think Boyfriend ordered steak and eggs of all things (I beg your pardon, this is irrelevant to the story), they got to put up with my attitude. For some reason, servers pay attention here, dudes love to be verbally abused when you serve them. They find it delightful and will tip you more for it. I don't know the science behind it, but they think you're hilarious. On a side note, once I kicked a customer, I made lots of dollars (no sarcasm) and fyi, he accidentally kicked me first. Just sayin'.
Throughout their breakfast-at-dinnertime meal, Boyfriend keeps asking the whereabouts of his caesar.
I told you, dumbass, next door.
Well hop to it, I'm thirsty.
Not happening, man. Go get it yourself and don't come back.
You've changed.
For the record, I certainly have not, and I resent that you keep saying that I have.
And the man keeps challenging me. We engage in a battle of wits, his amigos jump from his side to mine and back again. Thanks for the support boys. The meal ends, I'm thinking he has to make an exit soon, yes? Yes. They're off to the pub. Seeya suckers! And then it happens...
When do you get off work?
You're kidding, yes?
No, come to the pub when you're done.
Uh... now I talk a good game, but for some reason I can't tell him to fuck off like the losers of my past. I don't know why. To this day I have no idea. Voodoo methinks.
I go to the pub when work ends. I figured I'd stick around for a drink then bolt -- Boyfriend you know I always need an escape plan, you could've been a psycho -- except we actually talked. One drink turned into a few and he was actually cool when he wasn't being an arrogant prick.
You've changed dude.
No I haven't, I'm still drinking beer (at which point he holds up the bottle as proof).
That's not what I meant idiot.
I swear, it's a good thing he's cute. That's how we met. I later found out from Boyfriend and one of his elderly hockey friends that after they left that trip he told them we would end up together. I hate when he's right. We didn't actually start dating until like two years later. But more on that with each blog entry.
Time for tea,
K
I believe I promised to dedicate this blog to the first time Boyfriend and I met. It was about five years ago and I was working in a Kelowna restaurant as a server. The place I worked was attached to a hotel, and the average age of our clients was probably around seventy. Yes, liver and onions were on the menu. No, I've never tried it, never will, and frankly (my apologies to this restaurant) every plate that came out of that kitchen looked nasty. Not that this meant I never ate there... the grilled cheese was good. But I digress. Generally, our "dinner" rush was over by five-thirty and the rest of the night was generally spent gossiping with the other hens and counting down the seconds until close. I don't know why we stayed open until midnight, the hours weren't worth the twenty dollars I was left with when my shift ended.
A fellow came in to the restaurant by himself one evening and asked me where I was from. I said, Canada, would you like me to teach you to french? And then we made out. That is how our relationship started; it was a damn fairy tale. Just kidding. I'm kind of an unreliable narrator.
What actually happened:
One night at work I had a table of four men that came over from the hotel. I went over to say hi and offer bevvies (assuming the old guys -- sorry boys -- would order tea or hot water with lemon as most customers do). Not so much the types to do that. Boyfriend was at the table, and I disliked him right away. The three silver-haired dudes and one thirty-something guy (this is Boyfriend, he still has dark hair so that means he's still young) were all super loud and obnoxious and I wanted to get rid of them, especially the young guy. They came in demanding caesars to drink. Sorry dudes, no caesars here. We have bottles of beer and two kinds of Mike's Lemonade, but that's all I can offer. There's a pub right around the corner there... (It too, was attached to the hotel, it would take literally fifteen seconds to get there, that's like the length of a sneeze.) I'm not sure why I thought this would work, I'm too charming, they couldn't leave if they wanted too. Or they just saw opportunity to drive me insane. Whichever.
At this point, Boyfriend pipes up and demands I go to said pub and fetch them some caesars.
What are you, drunk?
Somewhat.
Fantastic (sarcasm, clearly).
We'll take the beers.
They just got to town for a hockey tournament and enjoyed a bounty of refreshments on the four-hour ride. Lucky me. And lucky them because for the rest of their meal, I think Boyfriend ordered steak and eggs of all things (I beg your pardon, this is irrelevant to the story), they got to put up with my attitude. For some reason, servers pay attention here, dudes love to be verbally abused when you serve them. They find it delightful and will tip you more for it. I don't know the science behind it, but they think you're hilarious. On a side note, once I kicked a customer, I made lots of dollars (no sarcasm) and fyi, he accidentally kicked me first. Just sayin'.
Throughout their breakfast-at-dinnertime meal, Boyfriend keeps asking the whereabouts of his caesar.
I told you, dumbass, next door.
Well hop to it, I'm thirsty.
Not happening, man. Go get it yourself and don't come back.
You've changed.
For the record, I certainly have not, and I resent that you keep saying that I have.
And the man keeps challenging me. We engage in a battle of wits, his amigos jump from his side to mine and back again. Thanks for the support boys. The meal ends, I'm thinking he has to make an exit soon, yes? Yes. They're off to the pub. Seeya suckers! And then it happens...
When do you get off work?
You're kidding, yes?
No, come to the pub when you're done.
Uh... now I talk a good game, but for some reason I can't tell him to fuck off like the losers of my past. I don't know why. To this day I have no idea. Voodoo methinks.
I go to the pub when work ends. I figured I'd stick around for a drink then bolt -- Boyfriend you know I always need an escape plan, you could've been a psycho -- except we actually talked. One drink turned into a few and he was actually cool when he wasn't being an arrogant prick.
You've changed dude.
No I haven't, I'm still drinking beer (at which point he holds up the bottle as proof).
That's not what I meant idiot.
I swear, it's a good thing he's cute. That's how we met. I later found out from Boyfriend and one of his elderly hockey friends that after they left that trip he told them we would end up together. I hate when he's right. We didn't actually start dating until like two years later. But more on that with each blog entry.
Time for tea,
K
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