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
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