Booze. That's why. No wait. That's when they DO actually carry bags. When they've got a gallon of the good stuff in their systems. My fella is not a bag man, there are very few exceptions in our history together when he actually broke this rule. Let me tell you about it, and yes, liquor is the key ingredient in both stories.
I'm going to start with my favourite bag story with Boyfriend. In this one, I don't mean a bag as in a purse, I refer instead to a bad of produce. This was way back when...I'm a touch foggy if it was when we were moved in together already or...no, we weren't living together because we were at the grocery store near his old apartment. Right. I was in town for a visit and we went somewhere...though I'm not sure where to be frank with you...anyhow, wherever this magical, mystery place was, Boyfriend and I did our share of elbow lifts. That makes sense how we made it to the grocery store. It was walking distance, because dang if we had enough sobriety between the two of us to make it there any other way. Cab drivers on duty that night: you're welcome for not calling for a ride. Boyfriend made some sort of comment about it being stumbling distance, as Boyfriend will always helpfully point out when one has sipped beyond one's capacity. Righto. We stumbled into the small grocery store and ambled around the produce section. I can't remember what else we bought, but I do remember the clear plastic bag that we loaded up with those little golden nugget potatoes. That's what they're called, right? Golden nugget potatoes? It sounds right to me. You know, the wee ones that are yellowy-lookin'. Somehow we managed to get enough wits about us to split up and search out different items and reconvene at the checkout. Or something like that. We separated for some reason. Those elbow lifts will impair your memory every time. I grabbed something that we needed, as did he, and I saw him walking to the checkout line and I was several feet behind him. The joy of inebriated Boyfriend is how free he lets himself become. He swung that bag of potatoes to and fro while he skipped along and hummed "Singin' in the Rain" to himself. Well, two parts of that sentence aren't true. Based on what happens next, I'm sure you'll figure out which of the three did happen. If anything else, you've got a 33.3333333333andsoforth% chance of guessing right. Suspense over now, I'll tell you what happened. Well, wouldn't you know, as he made it to the line-up at the cashier, he swung forth, with gusto, a sack of golden nugget potatoes that collided with the rump of an elderly asian woman. Bad time to be bending over to sort through your basket dear lady...well bad time for you. I thought it was a hoot. She did not. She was, and I'm guessing here, at a loss of words of what to say to the strange man whose potatoes collided with great inertia into her back door. For the record, that is not a nasty euphemism. Get your mind out of the gutter. She just turned around stunned while Boyfriend managed a giggly apology and looked rather surprised himself. Boyfriends do not carry bags, he didn't know what he was doing.
Boyfriend with a bag story numero deux:
This one is about a purse. Sort of. Well, yeah, it is. It has a purse in it anyways. It's the story about the first and only time Boyfriend has ever held my purse in public. Yes. It's definitely about a purse. That's settled, onward we go. I should preface this with a very important fact: Dudes do not like carrying a woman's purse. Boyfriend doesn't even go near mine when we're at home. Even if I tell him to grab something from it, at best he will snatch it and hurriedly toss it at me in a matter of milliseconds so I can retrieve whatever I said he could grab. Seems to me like he thinks coming in contact with it gives him a dose of estrogen that seeps in through his fingertips. Don't worry Boyfriend, it's not catching. I think you have to pay extra for the purses that give you that extra feminine boost on contact, they spray it with testosterone eliminator I'm pretty sure. Makes your voice go up a few octaves and your breasts become enhanced with prolonged exposure. Everybody knows it's a scientific fact. The main point I'm driving home here is: if it looks like a purse and it feels like a purse, it's meant only for a woman in spite of it being called an Indiana Jones exploration satchel. No dudes allowed. So the story. It was the eve of my twenty-fifth birthday. Some may say that's young, but to those people I say you're all liars. Everyone knows you pass your prime at twenty-two. For those of you that haven't reached twenty-two, go away. I don't need you kids around making me feel like a geezer, have the courtesy to bring a fake I.D. that says you're at least twenty-seven and you can hang out with us grandparents. Seriously. Go away. Many thanks. Well, when one reaches the quarter-century milestone, rather than stay home and cry over wasted youth, one goes out and...indulges...in tequila-based drinks and shooters. Don't judge! It was one's birthday and she was having a hard time with it. Let one placate oneself however she likes. Anyways, many, many, many margaritas later this girl and Boyfriend had been dropped off at the bus loop near their house because you never ever EVER drink and drive. That's what losers do. As much as one looks like a loser after many, many, many margaritas you know she is not a true loser because she and her amigos get home safe every time. Seriously, don't be a loser because I'll find you and give you a couple raccoon eyes as a warning. It's for your own good. I don't like hitting people...without a few practice swings first. Concern for safety is now over, let's resume. Boyfriend and I, rather than wait for a connecting bus that will take us one block from our infant-sized apartment decide to walk the six blocks home. C'mon, it's stumbling distance as a certain somebody likely reminded me at the time, not that memory serves me best that eve. Yes, it seems like a reasonable idea, but after many, many, many margaritas things in the stomach region aren't a-so a-happy. The optimistic way of saying this is: I got to revisit my dinner, though it wasn't as delicious as the reverse of how it ended up in my belly. You know what I'm sayin', I left the drunkard's version of a Hansel and Gretel trail from the bus loop to my apartment. I'm sorry to all of you people and your yards. For the record I was dealing with becoming officially old. And also for the record, one doesn't bounce back at twenty-five the way one does at twenty-four. The good news was, Boyfriend carried my purse for like two of those blocks...he wasn't walking anywhere near me and it was like two or three a.m., but the point is he carried my purse. Good Boyfriend. All it takes is some adult bevvies and Boyfriend holds that thing like a pro. In hindsight he may have referred to it as his Indiana Jones exploration satchel. If Indiana Jones likes purple.
This, dear sirs and madams, is why Boyfriend doesn't usually carry bags. He's not usually that drunk.
Time for tea,
K
Monday, November 28, 2011
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Duping
This is another post of something I'm not proud of. Well, no. That's a lie. When I succeed, I'm actually quite tickled with myself, it's another one of those relationship victories. When you step on that podium to get your gold medal and the crowd cheers, there's nothing like it. You know what I'm talking about, the duping of the other half. Nothing beats the feeling of when you do your damnedest to pull the wool over their eyes. I can get Boyfriend to do my bidding because I: A) am too lazy to go outside, B) am not too keen on getting rained on, C) have better things to do, D) like to exercise my muscle in getting Boyfriend to do things for me, or E) all of the above.
One of my constant go-tos for duping is the milestone quiz. Ladies, you know what's up here. You ask your fella the date of something important, such as your birthday or your anniversary. Every chica out there knows that dudes are bad with any dates that aren't the superbowl or some other super sports match extravaganza main event thing. It's a given. I'm delighted when Boyfriend even guesses the right month. The thing I like to do is not to get upset when he doesn't know important dates, but to make him think that yes, somewhere in the dusty archives of his brain, he knows days that are important. Yay Boyfriend. I like to go with it, remind him of days that he's declared are my birthday or some day that involves me getting presents. Then he gets me presents for the wrong day, and will have to compensate by getting me presents for my real birthday that say three things: 1) Happy Birthday, I love you, 2) I got you a really good gift for being stupid and way incorrect in thinking your birthday was two months ago, and 3) I cost myself lots of money when I don't remember dates properly. With any luck, he'll forget again the next year and Boyfriend will get duped again by getting me more presents. After all, it's his fault for forgetting your birthday, no shame in milking presents for it. This duping scheme is foolproof.
A long time favourite of the casual duping is the out-of-the-house pick-up responsibility. When I'm home and I get a craving or remember I need something but find myself disinterested in leaving the warm apartment to venture out into the rain it bums me out. Then, those times when I'm lucky, Boyfriend is out and about somewhere making friends over beer or flipping off bad drivers in traffic. The point is that he is out of the house with a vehicle. There is a certain magic here with an unwritten, unspoken rule. If you're out, you have to bring home items requested to you by text message, phone call or telepathy. We're still working on the last one. Sometimes Boyfriend hedges his bets and brings me home a pineapple because he's guessing that it's something I desire. I only She-Hulk when he guesses wrong to promote learning through negative reinforcement. He'll get it eventually. Or die trying. I do like that he has to pass a tremendous number of stores in order to get home. If whatever I desire is on route, he has to pick it up or suffer the consequences. Whatever frivolous want I have needs to be attended to, it's the polite thing to do, and Boyfriend is a gentleman. Well, he will be. Or die trying.
I happened upon an interesting turn of events this morning, and in hindsight, I feel that Boyfriend is learning about duping. This does not work well for me. As always, Boyfriend wakes me when he leaves for work. I guess it's payback for when I get home late and wake him up, or kick him off the couch, or throw the cat on him with her hindquarters toward his face. Immature, yes, but he's the one that says something is the cat's ass and means it to be complimentary. No matter. As it's my day off, who really cares? I've got a ton of things I want to get done today, take the mutt for a long walk, grab a coffee, do some laundry, find a university in which to get a degree in being a samurai, read, go buy some dog food and cart it home like a pack mule, work on my book, dig a tunnel to China, make the bed, shower, practice some voodoo and maybe make plans to go to a movie later. Not a bad day that I've laid out in my head. Boyfriend shakes me awake, like he did the other day when he interrupted my dreams about eating chicken wings, and says his see ya later. I only catch parts of his sentences for three reasons: 1)I've been rudely taken from slumber, 2) I can't listen and wake up at the same time and 3) If I'm not going to remember what he say anyways, why put in the effort? Multitasking is hard. I wake up when Boyfriend shoots a deal my way:
If you do laundry today, I'll go buy some more dog food.
In my head, I'm thinking, Sucker. I was going to do laundry anyway. And I was going to get dog food at some point during the day too.
Sure thing Boyfriend, that sounds like a fair trade to me.
He leaves, and this ol' lady flops back into bed for a few more hours of winner's sleep.
When I wake up, I am pleased. I duped Boyfriend into doing one of the jobs that I wasn't looking forward to. As I smile with victory I stop and slowly realize that maybe Boyfriend isn't so easily duped. I mean, yeah, my plan was to walk to the pet store in the rain and get the mutt some food. Now that I think about it... that's not a job that I usually do on account of having to walk to the store and carry the food home. This is a job that Boyfriend does because he has a vehicle and he loves Mutt. It gives him great pleasure when he picks out food our little picky bastard will actually eat. If he was never introduced to gourmet food prepared by a red seal chef, we wouldn't have a problem. I done been duped! Boyfriend probably thought I was the sucker because all along his plan was to get the dog food anyways. That's like eight different kinds of not cool. I can't believe we tried to trick each other into doing chores that we were going to do anyways. We're both dumb. That, or we're both conniving, malicious, attractive geniuses. Whichever.
It seems there is a trend with Boyfriend's duping. He woke me recently to tell me something.
You owe me forty dollars.
Okay. Wait. Why?
Alright, you don't owe me forty dollars, but you can't blame me for trying. Love you.
Can't believe I almost fell for that one. Again.
How do I She-Hulk about this without admitting the duping that I too am guilty of? Something for me to think about. Or die trying.
Time for tea,
K
One of my constant go-tos for duping is the milestone quiz. Ladies, you know what's up here. You ask your fella the date of something important, such as your birthday or your anniversary. Every chica out there knows that dudes are bad with any dates that aren't the superbowl or some other super sports match extravaganza main event thing. It's a given. I'm delighted when Boyfriend even guesses the right month. The thing I like to do is not to get upset when he doesn't know important dates, but to make him think that yes, somewhere in the dusty archives of his brain, he knows days that are important. Yay Boyfriend. I like to go with it, remind him of days that he's declared are my birthday or some day that involves me getting presents. Then he gets me presents for the wrong day, and will have to compensate by getting me presents for my real birthday that say three things: 1) Happy Birthday, I love you, 2) I got you a really good gift for being stupid and way incorrect in thinking your birthday was two months ago, and 3) I cost myself lots of money when I don't remember dates properly. With any luck, he'll forget again the next year and Boyfriend will get duped again by getting me more presents. After all, it's his fault for forgetting your birthday, no shame in milking presents for it. This duping scheme is foolproof.
A long time favourite of the casual duping is the out-of-the-house pick-up responsibility. When I'm home and I get a craving or remember I need something but find myself disinterested in leaving the warm apartment to venture out into the rain it bums me out. Then, those times when I'm lucky, Boyfriend is out and about somewhere making friends over beer or flipping off bad drivers in traffic. The point is that he is out of the house with a vehicle. There is a certain magic here with an unwritten, unspoken rule. If you're out, you have to bring home items requested to you by text message, phone call or telepathy. We're still working on the last one. Sometimes Boyfriend hedges his bets and brings me home a pineapple because he's guessing that it's something I desire. I only She-Hulk when he guesses wrong to promote learning through negative reinforcement. He'll get it eventually. Or die trying. I do like that he has to pass a tremendous number of stores in order to get home. If whatever I desire is on route, he has to pick it up or suffer the consequences. Whatever frivolous want I have needs to be attended to, it's the polite thing to do, and Boyfriend is a gentleman. Well, he will be. Or die trying.
I happened upon an interesting turn of events this morning, and in hindsight, I feel that Boyfriend is learning about duping. This does not work well for me. As always, Boyfriend wakes me when he leaves for work. I guess it's payback for when I get home late and wake him up, or kick him off the couch, or throw the cat on him with her hindquarters toward his face. Immature, yes, but he's the one that says something is the cat's ass and means it to be complimentary. No matter. As it's my day off, who really cares? I've got a ton of things I want to get done today, take the mutt for a long walk, grab a coffee, do some laundry, find a university in which to get a degree in being a samurai, read, go buy some dog food and cart it home like a pack mule, work on my book, dig a tunnel to China, make the bed, shower, practice some voodoo and maybe make plans to go to a movie later. Not a bad day that I've laid out in my head. Boyfriend shakes me awake, like he did the other day when he interrupted my dreams about eating chicken wings, and says his see ya later. I only catch parts of his sentences for three reasons: 1)I've been rudely taken from slumber, 2) I can't listen and wake up at the same time and 3) If I'm not going to remember what he say anyways, why put in the effort? Multitasking is hard. I wake up when Boyfriend shoots a deal my way:
If you do laundry today, I'll go buy some more dog food.
In my head, I'm thinking, Sucker. I was going to do laundry anyway. And I was going to get dog food at some point during the day too.
Sure thing Boyfriend, that sounds like a fair trade to me.
He leaves, and this ol' lady flops back into bed for a few more hours of winner's sleep.
When I wake up, I am pleased. I duped Boyfriend into doing one of the jobs that I wasn't looking forward to. As I smile with victory I stop and slowly realize that maybe Boyfriend isn't so easily duped. I mean, yeah, my plan was to walk to the pet store in the rain and get the mutt some food. Now that I think about it... that's not a job that I usually do on account of having to walk to the store and carry the food home. This is a job that Boyfriend does because he has a vehicle and he loves Mutt. It gives him great pleasure when he picks out food our little picky bastard will actually eat. If he was never introduced to gourmet food prepared by a red seal chef, we wouldn't have a problem. I done been duped! Boyfriend probably thought I was the sucker because all along his plan was to get the dog food anyways. That's like eight different kinds of not cool. I can't believe we tried to trick each other into doing chores that we were going to do anyways. We're both dumb. That, or we're both conniving, malicious, attractive geniuses. Whichever.
It seems there is a trend with Boyfriend's duping. He woke me recently to tell me something.
You owe me forty dollars.
Okay. Wait. Why?
Alright, you don't owe me forty dollars, but you can't blame me for trying. Love you.
Can't believe I almost fell for that one. Again.
How do I She-Hulk about this without admitting the duping that I too am guilty of? Something for me to think about. Or die trying.
Time for tea,
K
Friday, November 18, 2011
The boyfriend grocery list
Let's be real, I'm no expert on grocery lists when one goes to purchase food. This posting is about the grocery list of items or qualities that your ideal mate has. You know, back before the ball and chain, when you feel like you have the luxury to sculpt your own personal statue of David, complete with attributes and impressive... salary. I was thinking about what I used to have on that list way back when, and where Boyfriend falls on that list of things I was sure I wanted in a dude. Ah youth. Was I ever that young? Well here is the list, the edited version because the original had way too many things on it:
1) Must be able to cook
We're all aware of my shortcomings in the kitchen. Boyfriend gets a big check mark with this one. I have my own personal chef, I'll never go hungry again. Unless I do end up killing him as I threaten to do every now and again when he acts out of turn. I'll have to think that one through before I take him out with a blunt object to the back of the head.
2)Has tattoos
Boyfriend gets a participant ribbon for this one. He does have a fear of needles, so even considering getting one counts for something. One time we were going to get him a tattoo, but he got sunburned really bad, like florescent lobster red. Can't exactly tattoo his epidermis when that's going on. Now that I think about it, there's nothing hindering him from getting a tattoo now...
3)Has piercings
If a fella can rock a nose ring, I'm all over it. I also like a dude with pierced ears. Needless to say, Boyfriend does not have them. He's of the generation where if a fella has his ears pierced, it means he likes seamen. My sincerest apologies, as I'm Canadian my people have a tendency to put ehs into sentences where they don't belong. You know what I mean. I think it means that a guy has a thing for pirates.
4)Wears a suit for his job, and on the weekend chills out man-style in sweats to watch the game.
Okay, half marks for Boyfriend on this one. I also didn't know what it meant to date a guy that loves sports. There is now a reason I avoid the apartment on football Sunday... and Monday night football... and the football on Thursday... and any night NHL is playing... or CFL... baseball... whenever that boat race around the world thing is playing.
5)Has curly dark hair
This is the chart topper. Since I was a wee lass I've been into the dark, curly hair. I don't know why, but I think it's the cutest... scratch that... most rugged, testosterone-laden, attractive physical quality in a man. Seriously, ask around, that's been the one constant on my list. No blonds, thanks.
6)He's tall
Okay, Boyfriend is taller than me. Not by a lot, but he is, so check.
7)He challenges me
Ladies, there is a difference between winning and victory. I don't like to just be handed a trophy, I like to earn it. I know I'm not always right, but the reward is so much richer if I'm victorious over something I'm being an asshole about. I do not care however, for those times where we enter the ring and I get K.O.'d. Not cool Boyfriend.
8)He reads
Ha. Boyfriend doesn't read.
9)He knows when to leave me alone and doesn't get emotional
This kind of overlaps with the sports thing. His sport time is my me time. No clingy, tell me about your feelings kind of stuff here. Extra points to Boyfriend for never being a wussy, crying makes me uncomfortable. If we have something to discuss we duke it out MMA style like any respectable couple would.
10)Likes the theatre
Boyfriend does. I know now that Boyfriend does not like the ballet. You learn quickly how he feels when you ask if he wants to go to the Nutcracker and he immediately protects his junk. Dance is a no-no, but theatre is a big yes-yes. Especially if it's that little theatre near our apartment: you get to bring your wine, beer, shooters or what have you that you purchase in the lobby into the theatre with you and it's stumbling distance home. Also, if any people from said theatre are reading, you might want to post clear signs that say you can bring your beverage inside with you. Our first visit there we were pounding back drinks during intermission because we didn't know. Ah Rent, good show.
11)He's funny
Half points because he bombed at the weekly open-mic night in our living room last week. Practice your material and come back next week Boyfriend. I only heckle to make you try harder next time. And lose the plaid blazer, it undermines your credibility as a comic. I've just given myself a terrible idea, WE SHOULD ACTUALLY START DOING THIS! Oh wait, we'd have to schedule around sports and work. I guess we don't need to sleep every night.
12)He buys me presents just because
Boyfriend definitely gets points here. He has bought me so many pineapples! ...That was a lackluster reaction from you, I guess I should've prefaced it for my love of pineapples, in spite of when I overindulge and they make my tongue swell, they're freaking delicious. And he's bought me a hammock, a candle holder, various treats, he's even talking about getting me a muzzle, but says I'll have to share with the dog. Oh wait, that's not awesome at all. He bought me flowers once, only once probably because my reaction was to look at him with scrutiny and ask, What did you do?
13)He likes pets
He better like the pets, I've seen him and Mutt napping together. I think things are getting serious between them.
14)Drives a cool car/motorcycle
Well... one of the first vehicles of Boyfriend's I rode in was his work van. You're probably thinking, okay, so? Well his work van is the kind of van you're warned about as children, an unmarked white van with no windows along the sides. It didn't help that when he picked me up from the airport he said there were puppies and pineapples inside. For the record, there were neither puppies nor pineapples back there. And now he drives a big ol' redneck truck. Emphasis on big ol' redneck.
15)Likes to travel
The fact that he's hoping to retire so I can cover the cost of his tour of the world should speak for itself here. I neglected to specify on my list that I would like to travel with him. Faux pas me.
16)Doesn't wear pink
I have nothing against men in pink, but I do not find it attractive. Plus, I look good in pink, it's my cross to bear and I don't want any competition. I also wouldn't want Boyfriend finding more boyfriends on airplanes during his tour of the world because of wearing pink. But I think the spiciest colour Boyfriend wears is forest green, so we're okay in this department. Oh, my bad, that's Packer green, Packer green. I repeated it for emphasis.
All in all, I think Boyfriend scores pretty good on the list. I mean, it's definitely a pass. I'm not really sure how to mark it, so we'll call it a B+. That's respectable, right? I'll bump it up to an A if I come home to margaritas tonight. Okay, you have until tomorrow Boyfriend.
Time for tea,
K
1) Must be able to cook
We're all aware of my shortcomings in the kitchen. Boyfriend gets a big check mark with this one. I have my own personal chef, I'll never go hungry again. Unless I do end up killing him as I threaten to do every now and again when he acts out of turn. I'll have to think that one through before I take him out with a blunt object to the back of the head.
2)Has tattoos
Boyfriend gets a participant ribbon for this one. He does have a fear of needles, so even considering getting one counts for something. One time we were going to get him a tattoo, but he got sunburned really bad, like florescent lobster red. Can't exactly tattoo his epidermis when that's going on. Now that I think about it, there's nothing hindering him from getting a tattoo now...
3)Has piercings
If a fella can rock a nose ring, I'm all over it. I also like a dude with pierced ears. Needless to say, Boyfriend does not have them. He's of the generation where if a fella has his ears pierced, it means he likes seamen. My sincerest apologies, as I'm Canadian my people have a tendency to put ehs into sentences where they don't belong. You know what I mean. I think it means that a guy has a thing for pirates.
4)Wears a suit for his job, and on the weekend chills out man-style in sweats to watch the game.
Okay, half marks for Boyfriend on this one. I also didn't know what it meant to date a guy that loves sports. There is now a reason I avoid the apartment on football Sunday... and Monday night football... and the football on Thursday... and any night NHL is playing... or CFL... baseball... whenever that boat race around the world thing is playing.
5)Has curly dark hair
This is the chart topper. Since I was a wee lass I've been into the dark, curly hair. I don't know why, but I think it's the cutest... scratch that... most rugged, testosterone-laden, attractive physical quality in a man. Seriously, ask around, that's been the one constant on my list. No blonds, thanks.
6)He's tall
Okay, Boyfriend is taller than me. Not by a lot, but he is, so check.
7)He challenges me
Ladies, there is a difference between winning and victory. I don't like to just be handed a trophy, I like to earn it. I know I'm not always right, but the reward is so much richer if I'm victorious over something I'm being an asshole about. I do not care however, for those times where we enter the ring and I get K.O.'d. Not cool Boyfriend.
8)He reads
Ha. Boyfriend doesn't read.
9)He knows when to leave me alone and doesn't get emotional
This kind of overlaps with the sports thing. His sport time is my me time. No clingy, tell me about your feelings kind of stuff here. Extra points to Boyfriend for never being a wussy, crying makes me uncomfortable. If we have something to discuss we duke it out MMA style like any respectable couple would.
10)Likes the theatre
Boyfriend does. I know now that Boyfriend does not like the ballet. You learn quickly how he feels when you ask if he wants to go to the Nutcracker and he immediately protects his junk. Dance is a no-no, but theatre is a big yes-yes. Especially if it's that little theatre near our apartment: you get to bring your wine, beer, shooters or what have you that you purchase in the lobby into the theatre with you and it's stumbling distance home. Also, if any people from said theatre are reading, you might want to post clear signs that say you can bring your beverage inside with you. Our first visit there we were pounding back drinks during intermission because we didn't know. Ah Rent, good show.
11)He's funny
Half points because he bombed at the weekly open-mic night in our living room last week. Practice your material and come back next week Boyfriend. I only heckle to make you try harder next time. And lose the plaid blazer, it undermines your credibility as a comic. I've just given myself a terrible idea, WE SHOULD ACTUALLY START DOING THIS! Oh wait, we'd have to schedule around sports and work. I guess we don't need to sleep every night.
12)He buys me presents just because
Boyfriend definitely gets points here. He has bought me so many pineapples! ...That was a lackluster reaction from you, I guess I should've prefaced it for my love of pineapples, in spite of when I overindulge and they make my tongue swell, they're freaking delicious. And he's bought me a hammock, a candle holder, various treats, he's even talking about getting me a muzzle, but says I'll have to share with the dog. Oh wait, that's not awesome at all. He bought me flowers once, only once probably because my reaction was to look at him with scrutiny and ask, What did you do?
13)He likes pets
He better like the pets, I've seen him and Mutt napping together. I think things are getting serious between them.
14)Drives a cool car/motorcycle
Well... one of the first vehicles of Boyfriend's I rode in was his work van. You're probably thinking, okay, so? Well his work van is the kind of van you're warned about as children, an unmarked white van with no windows along the sides. It didn't help that when he picked me up from the airport he said there were puppies and pineapples inside. For the record, there were neither puppies nor pineapples back there. And now he drives a big ol' redneck truck. Emphasis on big ol' redneck.
15)Likes to travel
The fact that he's hoping to retire so I can cover the cost of his tour of the world should speak for itself here. I neglected to specify on my list that I would like to travel with him. Faux pas me.
16)Doesn't wear pink
I have nothing against men in pink, but I do not find it attractive. Plus, I look good in pink, it's my cross to bear and I don't want any competition. I also wouldn't want Boyfriend finding more boyfriends on airplanes during his tour of the world because of wearing pink. But I think the spiciest colour Boyfriend wears is forest green, so we're okay in this department. Oh, my bad, that's Packer green, Packer green. I repeated it for emphasis.
All in all, I think Boyfriend scores pretty good on the list. I mean, it's definitely a pass. I'm not really sure how to mark it, so we'll call it a B+. That's respectable, right? I'll bump it up to an A if I come home to margaritas tonight. Okay, you have until tomorrow Boyfriend.
Time for tea,
K
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Sick days
Well. It's November. Not sunny, lovely autumn November either. It's rainy, miserable Vancouver November. I'm fearful for my pretty boots that aren't waterproof. Thanks a lot rain. Though I admire you for keeping things green, I feel that you and I have spent enough time together in the last couple decades. I jumped in a multitude of puddles in the past and ruined plenty of shoes consciously. Though it was fun, please help a sister out and don't wreck my other shoes. I sacrificed footwear for the rain gods, there's photographic evidence. Please, rain, go away.
This post is not about shoes, but I do have beef with the weather. Not beef as in cow, you know what I mean. For some reason, disease thrives in miserable weather and it found me. Came into my house it did. And, as it works out, disease found Boyfriend too. I would like at this point to stand on my soap box and declare that I did not make him sick. We had different kinds of sick, isn't that right Boyfriend? If you want to keep blaming me you'll have to regurgitate your stomach contents unwillingly. When that happens I may apologize, but your cough and cold symptoms have me skeptical that I passed disease onto you. I'm just stating facts.
It's interesting though, how very differently we handle illness. When I was sick, Boyfriend couldn't get far enough away from me. I think he was very close to purchasing me a plastic bubble to contain both myself and my germs. Oh no, that might be me accidentally giving him ideas again. For the record, I will donkey-kick you if it even crosses your mind to get me one of those Boyfriend. He would call through the apartment to ask how things were going. When I first got nastily sick, he hollered from the living room, Are you sick?
Really? Is this question actually coming from your mouth? Our walls are thin, buddy, you and the neighbours both know exactly what's going on, lots and lots of verbing.
I'm really trying quite hard not to be too graphic for your sake here, reader, instead of the word vomiting we shall use verbing. You're welcome. Whenever he braved getting close enough to me, the sweetest move he made was a quick bro-hug and a european air kiss a foot away from my cheek. This does not make a lady feel loved fellas. Makes me feel that I've had radical surgery to my face and Boyfriend doesn't know how to be with me any more, like I've mutated or something. Not romantic in the least. Not that viruses are romantic, but honestly, I wouldn't even mind wearing a face mask if it meant we could be in the same room together. No wonder he hardly gets sick.
Then, when Boyfriend is sick I can't run away from him. Not to say that I would want to run away from him, I would want to fly away from him on a jet plane. Running doesn't get you far enough away. In actuality, I'm very kind when he's not feeling well. I went to the store to get him some juice and neo citron (which he says puts him to sleep, so he only drinks it before bed), I cared to ask if he had any last wishes if he were unfortunate enough not to make it through the night, I got him some of my special tea (the kind I've been rationing because I can't find it anywhere anymore! Sadness!) and, most importantly (get your hands ready to catch your jaw when it drops) I watched a hockey game with him tonight. The whole thing. I got bamboozled by his pitiful feverish face. I even know who was playing. Vancouver and...le crap...Chicago. Chicago? Yes. Took me a second but I remembered. Okay, I may have slept through the first period (be proud I understand that it's not innings or quarters, I know things) and woke up with lock jaw, and second period I was busy playing on my phone, and third period I was doing something I'm quite sure, maybe staring off into space. Possibly solving the mysteries of the universe, le damn if I can recall though. The point is I was there, I heard all of the mumbles of nice goal and such from the bundled up Boyfriend, who, I should also announce was wearing fleece pants. If you're just tuning into my blog you might want to go back a few posts to read about Boyfriend's relationship with shorts, fyi I don't date freaks that spend all their time in their underoos. Anymore. We all make mistakes. What I mean to say is that I care enough to be with Boyfriend when he needs me, even if his needs are just a buddy to watch the hockey match with. I can be a good girlfriend, I'm not all She-Hulk and memory loss all the time.
My cat is making love to a box of office supplies... not sexy love, she's just rubbing up against it. Not rubbing up against the box in a sexy way, but it's making her both happy and satisfied. Not happy and satisfied in the "I need a cigarette, that was great" kind of way. I feel like there's no winning with what I mean to say here.
After the game, Boyfriend asks for some tea. I hear, it's time for neo citron so I can go to sleep. I'm entirely wrong, but who can blame me for what I think I hear? I watched a hockey game, I need some time away from TSN and whatever other sports stuff is on tv. Boyfriend gets his neo citron, and this lady gets her couch back. Everybody wins!
Time for tea,
K
This post is not about shoes, but I do have beef with the weather. Not beef as in cow, you know what I mean. For some reason, disease thrives in miserable weather and it found me. Came into my house it did. And, as it works out, disease found Boyfriend too. I would like at this point to stand on my soap box and declare that I did not make him sick. We had different kinds of sick, isn't that right Boyfriend? If you want to keep blaming me you'll have to regurgitate your stomach contents unwillingly. When that happens I may apologize, but your cough and cold symptoms have me skeptical that I passed disease onto you. I'm just stating facts.
It's interesting though, how very differently we handle illness. When I was sick, Boyfriend couldn't get far enough away from me. I think he was very close to purchasing me a plastic bubble to contain both myself and my germs. Oh no, that might be me accidentally giving him ideas again. For the record, I will donkey-kick you if it even crosses your mind to get me one of those Boyfriend. He would call through the apartment to ask how things were going. When I first got nastily sick, he hollered from the living room, Are you sick?
Really? Is this question actually coming from your mouth? Our walls are thin, buddy, you and the neighbours both know exactly what's going on, lots and lots of verbing.
I'm really trying quite hard not to be too graphic for your sake here, reader, instead of the word vomiting we shall use verbing. You're welcome. Whenever he braved getting close enough to me, the sweetest move he made was a quick bro-hug and a european air kiss a foot away from my cheek. This does not make a lady feel loved fellas. Makes me feel that I've had radical surgery to my face and Boyfriend doesn't know how to be with me any more, like I've mutated or something. Not romantic in the least. Not that viruses are romantic, but honestly, I wouldn't even mind wearing a face mask if it meant we could be in the same room together. No wonder he hardly gets sick.
Then, when Boyfriend is sick I can't run away from him. Not to say that I would want to run away from him, I would want to fly away from him on a jet plane. Running doesn't get you far enough away. In actuality, I'm very kind when he's not feeling well. I went to the store to get him some juice and neo citron (which he says puts him to sleep, so he only drinks it before bed), I cared to ask if he had any last wishes if he were unfortunate enough not to make it through the night, I got him some of my special tea (the kind I've been rationing because I can't find it anywhere anymore! Sadness!) and, most importantly (get your hands ready to catch your jaw when it drops) I watched a hockey game with him tonight. The whole thing. I got bamboozled by his pitiful feverish face. I even know who was playing. Vancouver and...le crap...Chicago. Chicago? Yes. Took me a second but I remembered. Okay, I may have slept through the first period (be proud I understand that it's not innings or quarters, I know things) and woke up with lock jaw, and second period I was busy playing on my phone, and third period I was doing something I'm quite sure, maybe staring off into space. Possibly solving the mysteries of the universe, le damn if I can recall though. The point is I was there, I heard all of the mumbles of nice goal and such from the bundled up Boyfriend, who, I should also announce was wearing fleece pants. If you're just tuning into my blog you might want to go back a few posts to read about Boyfriend's relationship with shorts, fyi I don't date freaks that spend all their time in their underoos. Anymore. We all make mistakes. What I mean to say is that I care enough to be with Boyfriend when he needs me, even if his needs are just a buddy to watch the hockey match with. I can be a good girlfriend, I'm not all She-Hulk and memory loss all the time.
My cat is making love to a box of office supplies... not sexy love, she's just rubbing up against it. Not rubbing up against the box in a sexy way, but it's making her both happy and satisfied. Not happy and satisfied in the "I need a cigarette, that was great" kind of way. I feel like there's no winning with what I mean to say here.
After the game, Boyfriend asks for some tea. I hear, it's time for neo citron so I can go to sleep. I'm entirely wrong, but who can blame me for what I think I hear? I watched a hockey game, I need some time away from TSN and whatever other sports stuff is on tv. Boyfriend gets his neo citron, and this lady gets her couch back. Everybody wins!
Time for tea,
K
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Vacation Friends
One thing I like about Boyfriend is that he's a people person through and through (Please note: this is one thing I like about boyfriend, I assure you there are others, but this is the only one relevant to this post). He's very giving of himself to people, especially family, and it's something that I certainly appreciate. He's a go-the-extra-mile kind of guy, and though there are times that I want to lynch him, this redeeming quality always leaves me allowing his life to continue, at least until he really crosses me.
I understand people have needs, one of Boyfriend's needs is a vacation friend, ideally one that can talk sports or boats (preferably both for my sake). This generally suits one of my needs too, that need to be alone. Not that I'm a wretched old lady or something, I just spend a lot of time inside of my head... that might not be a good thing, but even for you skeptics, there's a lot going on in there that keeps me busy. However, Boyfriend needs that good ol' chum he finds out on the beach or in a pub when I leave him alone for awhile when we go away. I imagine him as that oddball child that actually talks to strangers when we all know from childhood this is a terrible idea. Why is it a terrible idea? Please don't answer, it's a rhetorical question. Allow me to tell you why we are taught as children that we should never, under any circumstance, talk to strangers.
The vacation best friends are those people you forge a friendship with when you're away at a tropical hot spot. It sounds sweet in theory. One thing I have learned from my travels through the years: Vacation friends do not work out as everyday friends, they probably become facebook friends at best. Trust me. I'm not going to lie, part of the reason I go away is to flee from people (screaming See ya suckers as I adjust my rear view mirror). Between friends, Boyfriend, work and the other voices in my head, I like the quiet time one can only find on vacation. Don't get me wrong, I like to go for drinks and dinner with people we meet when we go away, but let the record show that I do not like to spend my whole vacation with people that I will forget about two weeks after returning home. Boyfriend picks vacation friends one of two ways: 1) Out of selfishness, and 2) Poorly. Both of these don't work out. Let me explain.
When he chooses vacation friends out of selfishness:
Our last vacation, Boyfriend went missing. I done lost him, it might have been on purpose, and I might have known to find him at the sports bar in our hotel, but for purposes of this story he was lost. I searched high and low around the hotel, shouted his name and listened as my call echoed down the beach. I attempted a call to 911 to report him missing, but as I don't speak spanish the call did me no good. Or was it the front desk I dialled? Maybe I didn't make that call. No wait. I did none of these things. I was probably sleeping off a margarita or five when Boyfriend made his getaway... No wait. This came after we met his friend at the bar. That makes sense that I needed a nap. Right-o. We're on the trolley again. We were at the sports bar together and Boyfriend starts talking sports to all those that are present in the bar and riddled with testosterone. That's what did me in. I had nothing relevant to say so I left, stumbled back to the room and made the executive decision to nap. We'll say it was an executive decision, I'm not really sure how it all happened. While I'm... napping and poorly hydrated, Boyfriend bonds with one of the sports enthusiasts, his soon-to-be vacation boyfriend. I don't remember his name, nice enough fella, he had a moustache I think. He definitely had glasses... I'm pretty sure. Nonetheless, he and Boyfriend bonded. It just so happens that Boyfriend's boyfriend has a wifey with him as well...kind of a devil of a woman. She was somewhat alright, definitely overbearing, I guess if she were a plant she would be one of those ones with teeth that eat flies... what are those called? Yes, Dionaea muscipula. (Did you even think for a second I was going to go there? I looked it up to sound sciencey for you, this is aka the Venus fly trap. And fyi sciencey isn't a word, please don't use it in real life. And you're welcome for teaching you something new.) She was definitely a huntress too. If Boyfriend and his boyfriend were at the sports bar together, Venus Fly Trap could hunt me out like nothing. Giant flippin' hotel and nowhere to hide. Plus, the margaritas slow you down so you can't run as well as you'd like to, and yes, tripping and falling on your face is an option. She was very particular, very bossy, and had kind of a trucker mouth that she'd use to reference people she doesn't like back in Canada. I use "kind of" to sound less harsh, even though in truth, there was nothing "kind of" about her. I mean she was nice to me, probably because she didn't give me time to interrupt all of her talking. So many freaking words and they didn't stop barking out of her mouth. Here's a clue: when you get the glossy-eyed deadpan stare and your listener is gulping back tequila like she needs it to live you are not as interesting as you think you are. I feel like she and I are in different leagues (if I may take the liberty to guess, I would think this is a baseball metaphor, yes?). You can interpret that however you would like. Thanks to Boyfriend, we were bound to this couple for our whole vacation. I'm pretty sure by the end of our stay we were disliked by everyone else at the hotel because of our association with her. Ladies and gentlemen, let's give a big hand to Boyfriend for picking well for himself and leaving me with Venus Fly Trap. Stop clapping, the tone of that last sentence was sarcastic.
When he chooses friends poorly:
On our first getaway together, Boyfriend started his boyfriend search early. He befriended the dude that sat beside us on the plane...this relationship didn't last too long as airplane boyfriend was looking for boyfriends in the more literal sense and I was like, sorry friend, but this here fella is mine. I mantrapped him so step away, yes, I'm aware he's man-pretty. Please stop ogling him, it makes Boyfriend self-conscious. I would've hung out with this fella if he didn't want a piece of mine. A girl always needs a good man as a girlfriend. I could've helped him pick up other dudes. I'm a great wing-woman. My gay-dar's not so good, but I make up for it in wing-womaning. So unfortunately, airplane boyfriend was more of a peripheral friend at the resort. During our second day there, Boyfriend found a new friend. If there's one thing I can say about Boyfriend's vacation boyfriend search, he does look for couples. Not that I'm a fan of being set up on play dates with wives, I have a thorough screening process for friends at home, but once I'm won over, it's a friends for life situation...unless you cross me. This new vacation boyfriend has a lady too. She's alright, possibly a friend I might try out in real life, but her fella has some...unusual rhythms. I mean, friendly dude, he just says things that are...out there. I chalk it up to the beverage benefits of an all-inclusive. We have a good enough time. They're pretty understanding at giving us our own space, we chill out, rent a boat, every thing's pretty okay when we're together. We find out they live in the same area, and Boyfriend even gives his boyfriend his real phone number to call him when we all go back home. Marvellous. It just so happens that this guy calls Boyfriend, and Boyfriend invites him over to his boat to hang with him. Neat, yes? This vacation friends story ends much like it begins in the airplane. It turns out that Boyfriend's vacation boyfriend may be interested in more than just Boyfriend's boat. To this, I laugh. That is why if one makes vacation friends that is all they should be. If you like them on vacation, chances are in real life they aren't the same. I'm sure there are exceptions to the rule, they're just not the residents of our shoebox apartment.
To all those likable vacation friends in the future, thanks for the laughs. To all those selfishly chosen vacation friends that I will interact with, keep the drinks coming, it's the only way we'll both survive.
Time for tea,
K
I understand people have needs, one of Boyfriend's needs is a vacation friend, ideally one that can talk sports or boats (preferably both for my sake). This generally suits one of my needs too, that need to be alone. Not that I'm a wretched old lady or something, I just spend a lot of time inside of my head... that might not be a good thing, but even for you skeptics, there's a lot going on in there that keeps me busy. However, Boyfriend needs that good ol' chum he finds out on the beach or in a pub when I leave him alone for awhile when we go away. I imagine him as that oddball child that actually talks to strangers when we all know from childhood this is a terrible idea. Why is it a terrible idea? Please don't answer, it's a rhetorical question. Allow me to tell you why we are taught as children that we should never, under any circumstance, talk to strangers.
The vacation best friends are those people you forge a friendship with when you're away at a tropical hot spot. It sounds sweet in theory. One thing I have learned from my travels through the years: Vacation friends do not work out as everyday friends, they probably become facebook friends at best. Trust me. I'm not going to lie, part of the reason I go away is to flee from people (screaming See ya suckers as I adjust my rear view mirror). Between friends, Boyfriend, work and the other voices in my head, I like the quiet time one can only find on vacation. Don't get me wrong, I like to go for drinks and dinner with people we meet when we go away, but let the record show that I do not like to spend my whole vacation with people that I will forget about two weeks after returning home. Boyfriend picks vacation friends one of two ways: 1) Out of selfishness, and 2) Poorly. Both of these don't work out. Let me explain.
When he chooses vacation friends out of selfishness:
Our last vacation, Boyfriend went missing. I done lost him, it might have been on purpose, and I might have known to find him at the sports bar in our hotel, but for purposes of this story he was lost. I searched high and low around the hotel, shouted his name and listened as my call echoed down the beach. I attempted a call to 911 to report him missing, but as I don't speak spanish the call did me no good. Or was it the front desk I dialled? Maybe I didn't make that call. No wait. I did none of these things. I was probably sleeping off a margarita or five when Boyfriend made his getaway... No wait. This came after we met his friend at the bar. That makes sense that I needed a nap. Right-o. We're on the trolley again. We were at the sports bar together and Boyfriend starts talking sports to all those that are present in the bar and riddled with testosterone. That's what did me in. I had nothing relevant to say so I left, stumbled back to the room and made the executive decision to nap. We'll say it was an executive decision, I'm not really sure how it all happened. While I'm... napping and poorly hydrated, Boyfriend bonds with one of the sports enthusiasts, his soon-to-be vacation boyfriend. I don't remember his name, nice enough fella, he had a moustache I think. He definitely had glasses... I'm pretty sure. Nonetheless, he and Boyfriend bonded. It just so happens that Boyfriend's boyfriend has a wifey with him as well...kind of a devil of a woman. She was somewhat alright, definitely overbearing, I guess if she were a plant she would be one of those ones with teeth that eat flies... what are those called? Yes, Dionaea muscipula. (Did you even think for a second I was going to go there? I looked it up to sound sciencey for you, this is aka the Venus fly trap. And fyi sciencey isn't a word, please don't use it in real life. And you're welcome for teaching you something new.) She was definitely a huntress too. If Boyfriend and his boyfriend were at the sports bar together, Venus Fly Trap could hunt me out like nothing. Giant flippin' hotel and nowhere to hide. Plus, the margaritas slow you down so you can't run as well as you'd like to, and yes, tripping and falling on your face is an option. She was very particular, very bossy, and had kind of a trucker mouth that she'd use to reference people she doesn't like back in Canada. I use "kind of" to sound less harsh, even though in truth, there was nothing "kind of" about her. I mean she was nice to me, probably because she didn't give me time to interrupt all of her talking. So many freaking words and they didn't stop barking out of her mouth. Here's a clue: when you get the glossy-eyed deadpan stare and your listener is gulping back tequila like she needs it to live you are not as interesting as you think you are. I feel like she and I are in different leagues (if I may take the liberty to guess, I would think this is a baseball metaphor, yes?). You can interpret that however you would like. Thanks to Boyfriend, we were bound to this couple for our whole vacation. I'm pretty sure by the end of our stay we were disliked by everyone else at the hotel because of our association with her. Ladies and gentlemen, let's give a big hand to Boyfriend for picking well for himself and leaving me with Venus Fly Trap. Stop clapping, the tone of that last sentence was sarcastic.
When he chooses friends poorly:
On our first getaway together, Boyfriend started his boyfriend search early. He befriended the dude that sat beside us on the plane...this relationship didn't last too long as airplane boyfriend was looking for boyfriends in the more literal sense and I was like, sorry friend, but this here fella is mine. I mantrapped him so step away, yes, I'm aware he's man-pretty. Please stop ogling him, it makes Boyfriend self-conscious. I would've hung out with this fella if he didn't want a piece of mine. A girl always needs a good man as a girlfriend. I could've helped him pick up other dudes. I'm a great wing-woman. My gay-dar's not so good, but I make up for it in wing-womaning. So unfortunately, airplane boyfriend was more of a peripheral friend at the resort. During our second day there, Boyfriend found a new friend. If there's one thing I can say about Boyfriend's vacation boyfriend search, he does look for couples. Not that I'm a fan of being set up on play dates with wives, I have a thorough screening process for friends at home, but once I'm won over, it's a friends for life situation...unless you cross me. This new vacation boyfriend has a lady too. She's alright, possibly a friend I might try out in real life, but her fella has some...unusual rhythms. I mean, friendly dude, he just says things that are...out there. I chalk it up to the beverage benefits of an all-inclusive. We have a good enough time. They're pretty understanding at giving us our own space, we chill out, rent a boat, every thing's pretty okay when we're together. We find out they live in the same area, and Boyfriend even gives his boyfriend his real phone number to call him when we all go back home. Marvellous. It just so happens that this guy calls Boyfriend, and Boyfriend invites him over to his boat to hang with him. Neat, yes? This vacation friends story ends much like it begins in the airplane. It turns out that Boyfriend's vacation boyfriend may be interested in more than just Boyfriend's boat. To this, I laugh. That is why if one makes vacation friends that is all they should be. If you like them on vacation, chances are in real life they aren't the same. I'm sure there are exceptions to the rule, they're just not the residents of our shoebox apartment.
To all those likable vacation friends in the future, thanks for the laughs. To all those selfishly chosen vacation friends that I will interact with, keep the drinks coming, it's the only way we'll both survive.
Time for tea,
K
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Fish face
I was putting some dishes away yesterday and it reminded me of a time about a year ago that Boyfriend crossed the line in a horrendous way. In hindsight, I'm pretty sure I could have sued Boyfriend for what he did. Oh you'll read it and you'll agree. And this one is one thousand percent his fault entirely, not just me figuring out how it was his fault. Be warned. It's heinous.
Where to start? Boyfriend gave me fish face. Well that wasn't much of a reaction from you. Maybe you don't understand what I mean. He cut off a fish's face, gift wrapped it, and gave it to me as a girlfriend of the year present. With a bow. I should've known something was up because this man doesn't wrap anything. Ever. We had to go nine rounds in a boxing ring in order for him to wrap my Christmas presents last year. Trust me when I say that reconstructive surgery on my jaw was worth it. Okay, this whole paragraph is wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
Except the fish face part. That was real. But I don't mean it in the way I said above. Let me start over. This is the story of how Boyfriend gave me fish face. Last summer, Boyfriend bought enough salmon to start his own farm. He filleted (I'm pretty sure this is the right word, but my bad if this proves to be incorrect) and vac-sealed them into their own nice little plastic packages. The dude is like a one-man assembly line. I'm surprised Santa hasn't abducted him to work as an elf in one of his sweat shops. Santa would probably have to tell people he has a pituitary gland problem to explain the height, but such is life. Boyfriend does good work. Yeah, the filleting. One more side note, I know this is pronounced fill-ay, but I keep getting flashbacks of Ma at a gas station saying fill it up. Fill it. Fill it. Back to my kitchen that I'm not allowed to go in: Boyfriend gives a ton of this fish away and we still have enough to fill [it (Oh my god, I'm a loser and I don't mean in the sense of my last post. One more time for the kids in the back: fill it. It's like a nervous tick resounding in my head, I swear.)] our freezer. And by freezer I don't mean the one that's part of the fridge. That's where my ice cream goes. I mean a freezer freezer. Fills it to the brim with fish. I think, cool, I like salmon. We're going to eat like queens! ...King and a queen. We're going to eat like a king and queen. No plural on the feminine noun there. My bad.
The thing about salmon is that salmon have those little tiny bones. They don't make for fun eating if you chomp down on one of those suckers. Plus, it's kind of a downer for omnivores and carnivores alike because bones make you remember that what you're eating used to be an animal. Or celebrity. Anyways, Boyfriend, being the skilled master of the kitchen he is, magically does away with these bones. Seriously, he does an amazing job. Not sure why this didn't raise any questions before I walked into the kitchen that awful day.
As per our usual routine, I'm as far away from the kitchen as possible while he's slaving away. I feel like this particular time I was in the bedroom, not that it's important, but I feel that it's necessary to illustrate that I needed to enter the kitchen to see what was up. We'll say I was admiring my shoe collection, because likely that is what I was doing, when Boyfriend yells, Your tweezers work great. I get a visual in my head of Boyfriend in the bathroom mirror plucking some unsightly hairs from his face. I say face even though for a split second I envisioned another area of his body being introduced to my tweezers. I stop what I'm doing and start toward the bathroom when I catch sight of him in the kitchen. Obviously I didn't hear him right.
What did you just say?
I said your tweezers work great.
Confuse me? I enter the kitchen and see him hunched over a salmon fill it (you know what I mean), with my tweezers in hand, gently coaxing a small bone out of the fish. This is more horrifying than getting a gift wrapped fish head.
What are you doing?
How do you think I get the bones out?
Dude. I use those on my eyebrows. Those touch my face.
You never complained that I used them for this before.
If I knew you used them before I would have She-Hulked long ago. I am going to annihilate you. You gave me fish face. How did this become a good idea? What the...you can't be serious... Boyfriend... run. Get away from me before I lunge at you and take you outside and beat you in front of the neighbours (I didn't this time).
I always wash them before I put them back.
Boys, special attention here please: DO NOT EVER DO THIS. Nowhere is this okay. In no instance ever is this acceptable behaviour. You know what this is? The triple B. BBB. Bad Boyfriend Behaviour. And the punishment is a good ol' fashioned beat down from the frenzied fists of your beloved. Even writing this and remembering how angry I was I kind of want to go into the bedroom and smother you in your sleep right now Boyfriend. Be thankful I'm a sucker for your pretty face... your chiseled, manly face. If you're awake to read this tomorrow I would appreciate a thank-you for letting you live another day. You gave me fish face, c'mon. And just because I had two pairs does not mean that one is reserved for your fish friends. Unless they have a unibrow there will be no sharing tweezers. That would be like me using your brush on the cat... wait... I did that to somebody before. I know I was busted doing it, but just for good measure and a clean conscience, whoever's hairbrush I used to groom my cat, I'm ever so sorry, but karma gave me fish face, so...
This concludes the story of how Boyfriend acquired his kitchen tweezers. Wait, that wasn't what the story was called, but it is the ending. Now whenever I see them I cringe. And, I suppose this would be the happily-ever-after or life lesson part of the post: We now have a rule in our house. We ask before we use each other's bathroom stuff, don't we Boyfriend? Please don't ever let me catch you using my tampons.
Time for tea,
K
Where to start? Boyfriend gave me fish face. Well that wasn't much of a reaction from you. Maybe you don't understand what I mean. He cut off a fish's face, gift wrapped it, and gave it to me as a girlfriend of the year present. With a bow. I should've known something was up because this man doesn't wrap anything. Ever. We had to go nine rounds in a boxing ring in order for him to wrap my Christmas presents last year. Trust me when I say that reconstructive surgery on my jaw was worth it. Okay, this whole paragraph is wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
Except the fish face part. That was real. But I don't mean it in the way I said above. Let me start over. This is the story of how Boyfriend gave me fish face. Last summer, Boyfriend bought enough salmon to start his own farm. He filleted (I'm pretty sure this is the right word, but my bad if this proves to be incorrect) and vac-sealed them into their own nice little plastic packages. The dude is like a one-man assembly line. I'm surprised Santa hasn't abducted him to work as an elf in one of his sweat shops. Santa would probably have to tell people he has a pituitary gland problem to explain the height, but such is life. Boyfriend does good work. Yeah, the filleting. One more side note, I know this is pronounced fill-ay, but I keep getting flashbacks of Ma at a gas station saying fill it up. Fill it. Fill it. Back to my kitchen that I'm not allowed to go in: Boyfriend gives a ton of this fish away and we still have enough to fill [it (Oh my god, I'm a loser and I don't mean in the sense of my last post. One more time for the kids in the back: fill it. It's like a nervous tick resounding in my head, I swear.)] our freezer. And by freezer I don't mean the one that's part of the fridge. That's where my ice cream goes. I mean a freezer freezer. Fills it to the brim with fish. I think, cool, I like salmon. We're going to eat like queens! ...King and a queen. We're going to eat like a king and queen. No plural on the feminine noun there. My bad.
The thing about salmon is that salmon have those little tiny bones. They don't make for fun eating if you chomp down on one of those suckers. Plus, it's kind of a downer for omnivores and carnivores alike because bones make you remember that what you're eating used to be an animal. Or celebrity. Anyways, Boyfriend, being the skilled master of the kitchen he is, magically does away with these bones. Seriously, he does an amazing job. Not sure why this didn't raise any questions before I walked into the kitchen that awful day.
As per our usual routine, I'm as far away from the kitchen as possible while he's slaving away. I feel like this particular time I was in the bedroom, not that it's important, but I feel that it's necessary to illustrate that I needed to enter the kitchen to see what was up. We'll say I was admiring my shoe collection, because likely that is what I was doing, when Boyfriend yells, Your tweezers work great. I get a visual in my head of Boyfriend in the bathroom mirror plucking some unsightly hairs from his face. I say face even though for a split second I envisioned another area of his body being introduced to my tweezers. I stop what I'm doing and start toward the bathroom when I catch sight of him in the kitchen. Obviously I didn't hear him right.
What did you just say?
I said your tweezers work great.
Confuse me? I enter the kitchen and see him hunched over a salmon fill it (you know what I mean), with my tweezers in hand, gently coaxing a small bone out of the fish. This is more horrifying than getting a gift wrapped fish head.
What are you doing?
How do you think I get the bones out?
Dude. I use those on my eyebrows. Those touch my face.
You never complained that I used them for this before.
If I knew you used them before I would have She-Hulked long ago. I am going to annihilate you. You gave me fish face. How did this become a good idea? What the...you can't be serious... Boyfriend... run. Get away from me before I lunge at you and take you outside and beat you in front of the neighbours (I didn't this time).
I always wash them before I put them back.
Boys, special attention here please: DO NOT EVER DO THIS. Nowhere is this okay. In no instance ever is this acceptable behaviour. You know what this is? The triple B. BBB. Bad Boyfriend Behaviour. And the punishment is a good ol' fashioned beat down from the frenzied fists of your beloved. Even writing this and remembering how angry I was I kind of want to go into the bedroom and smother you in your sleep right now Boyfriend. Be thankful I'm a sucker for your pretty face... your chiseled, manly face. If you're awake to read this tomorrow I would appreciate a thank-you for letting you live another day. You gave me fish face, c'mon. And just because I had two pairs does not mean that one is reserved for your fish friends. Unless they have a unibrow there will be no sharing tweezers. That would be like me using your brush on the cat... wait... I did that to somebody before. I know I was busted doing it, but just for good measure and a clean conscience, whoever's hairbrush I used to groom my cat, I'm ever so sorry, but karma gave me fish face, so...
This concludes the story of how Boyfriend acquired his kitchen tweezers. Wait, that wasn't what the story was called, but it is the ending. Now whenever I see them I cringe. And, I suppose this would be the happily-ever-after or life lesson part of the post: We now have a rule in our house. We ask before we use each other's bathroom stuff, don't we Boyfriend? Please don't ever let me catch you using my tampons.
Time for tea,
K
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
I'm a loser
It's true. I am. Big time. I am a big loser. It's out there now and whoever you are reading this, you finally know the truth. I lose everything, including sports, but that's not the kind of loser I'm talking about today. I suffer from severe misplacement. It's generally the usual subjects that go missing: keys, phone, USB sticks and purse. Other times it's other things like the cat, a sweater that I donated a million years ago and finally decided I want to wear, and my mind with all of the wonderful ideas inside (sometimes these ideas are lost too, and lame, juvenile ones are left in their places. I'm a magician of sorts!).
My go-to move when things go missing is obviously to call Boyfriend and point the finger at him verbally. We all know if I know it's not my fault, it's his. If something is missing, he moved it. This became the go-to move a long time ago when I started finding weird things in my closet. Boyfriend is one tidy man, and if I leave something out of place with my sloppiness, he puts it in my closet so it's out of the way. Fondue pots stacked on top of lap tops on top of purses on top of coats on top of the cat on top of a book I'm reading on top of who knows what else. In theory, my go-to should be to check the closet first, but I'm set in my ways, so this is generally the phone call that is made:
Hi. What's going on?
I've lost my _______. Where did you put it?
Where did you have it last?
I don't know. Where did you put it?
Maybe you should have put it where it's supposed to go and you could find it now when you need it.
Is it in my closet?
I don't know.
Like actually don't know, or don't care to tell me?
I don't know. You'll find it.
This is the part where I angrily sigh, tell him I gotta go, then proceed to rip the apartment apart to find what I'm looking for. This doesn't help me for two reasons: 1) Now the apartment is a mess 2) If I leave it a mess, I'm sure to find all of it jammed into my closet later. How will I get to my coats with couch cushions and a coffee table in my way? Le crap. In my defense, I saw a story on the news awhile back about so-called messy people. Like Hoarders messy. They were asked to find something in their heaps of stuff and they could do it in seconds. It might have been a super mess, but it was an organized super mess. Or wait. Was it the news or was it a funky dream? Either way, we shall state it as fact.
The usual missing objects are usually on hand but I don't realize it. It's the pockets in everything. They confuse me and I forget where I stash my keys or phone. Pockets, though practical, are bad. Another time I found a USB stick stuck behind a drawer in my jewelry box. (Yes I have a jewelry box. It's from my Granny! The fact that it only has junk jewelry is a non-issue.) I don't know how it ended up there, but if we were playing hide-and-seek, it would have won like a year ago. And when the cat's missing, she'll just bellow until we find her.
The thing is, it drives me crazy to lose stuff, and yet I can't stop it from happening. I think it's getting worse actually. So what does one do to make oneself feel better about oneself? That's right. Level the playing field. Sometimes I "misplace" Boyfriend's things just to let him know what it's like to be on the other end. It sucks to be the loser. Though, sometimes I forget where I hide things, so it's kind of a dangerous game. See Boyfriend, there's always a logical reason for everything I do. This explains my affinity for hiding things. I swear, sometimes you think I'm right out of my tree.
I wonder though, how much worse this problem will get as I age. I already know crazy's comin' for me at some point. It looks like the happy kind of crazy so I'm cool with that...but what happens when I misplace my medication? Not the boring ones like the stuff that keeps you regular or puts you to sleep, but the important ones that at least level you off so you can kind of stay on your rocker. Best you can hope for Boyfriend is to either die first or get put in a different home. A secret one, because I'm sure future ol' lady, crazy me will find you and haunt you asking you to find things for her...wait. Is that much different than we are right now? Dang, forgot I was making oatmeal. One second please.
The question remains though: How does one stop being a loser? I think it's impossible. I'm also in that club of people that has to stop talking on their cell phone so they can find their missing cell phone. Maybe there's no hope. Maybe crazy will catch me sooner rather than later and I can give up the right to have to care about this trivial stuff because somebody will take care of it for me. Yes. That's the plan. I'm Boyfriend's problem now, but those of you going into the mental health profession, this is your warning.
Now that I'm full of oatmeal, time for tea,
K
My go-to move when things go missing is obviously to call Boyfriend and point the finger at him verbally. We all know if I know it's not my fault, it's his. If something is missing, he moved it. This became the go-to move a long time ago when I started finding weird things in my closet. Boyfriend is one tidy man, and if I leave something out of place with my sloppiness, he puts it in my closet so it's out of the way. Fondue pots stacked on top of lap tops on top of purses on top of coats on top of the cat on top of a book I'm reading on top of who knows what else. In theory, my go-to should be to check the closet first, but I'm set in my ways, so this is generally the phone call that is made:
Hi. What's going on?
I've lost my _______. Where did you put it?
Where did you have it last?
I don't know. Where did you put it?
Maybe you should have put it where it's supposed to go and you could find it now when you need it.
Is it in my closet?
I don't know.
Like actually don't know, or don't care to tell me?
I don't know. You'll find it.
This is the part where I angrily sigh, tell him I gotta go, then proceed to rip the apartment apart to find what I'm looking for. This doesn't help me for two reasons: 1) Now the apartment is a mess 2) If I leave it a mess, I'm sure to find all of it jammed into my closet later. How will I get to my coats with couch cushions and a coffee table in my way? Le crap. In my defense, I saw a story on the news awhile back about so-called messy people. Like Hoarders messy. They were asked to find something in their heaps of stuff and they could do it in seconds. It might have been a super mess, but it was an organized super mess. Or wait. Was it the news or was it a funky dream? Either way, we shall state it as fact.
The usual missing objects are usually on hand but I don't realize it. It's the pockets in everything. They confuse me and I forget where I stash my keys or phone. Pockets, though practical, are bad. Another time I found a USB stick stuck behind a drawer in my jewelry box. (Yes I have a jewelry box. It's from my Granny! The fact that it only has junk jewelry is a non-issue.) I don't know how it ended up there, but if we were playing hide-and-seek, it would have won like a year ago. And when the cat's missing, she'll just bellow until we find her.
The thing is, it drives me crazy to lose stuff, and yet I can't stop it from happening. I think it's getting worse actually. So what does one do to make oneself feel better about oneself? That's right. Level the playing field. Sometimes I "misplace" Boyfriend's things just to let him know what it's like to be on the other end. It sucks to be the loser. Though, sometimes I forget where I hide things, so it's kind of a dangerous game. See Boyfriend, there's always a logical reason for everything I do. This explains my affinity for hiding things. I swear, sometimes you think I'm right out of my tree.
I wonder though, how much worse this problem will get as I age. I already know crazy's comin' for me at some point. It looks like the happy kind of crazy so I'm cool with that...but what happens when I misplace my medication? Not the boring ones like the stuff that keeps you regular or puts you to sleep, but the important ones that at least level you off so you can kind of stay on your rocker. Best you can hope for Boyfriend is to either die first or get put in a different home. A secret one, because I'm sure future ol' lady, crazy me will find you and haunt you asking you to find things for her...wait. Is that much different than we are right now? Dang, forgot I was making oatmeal. One second please.
The question remains though: How does one stop being a loser? I think it's impossible. I'm also in that club of people that has to stop talking on their cell phone so they can find their missing cell phone. Maybe there's no hope. Maybe crazy will catch me sooner rather than later and I can give up the right to have to care about this trivial stuff because somebody will take care of it for me. Yes. That's the plan. I'm Boyfriend's problem now, but those of you going into the mental health profession, this is your warning.
Now that I'm full of oatmeal, time for tea,
K
An ode to my first follower, Erin
I haven't even started the post and you've already been lied to. Yes, this one here is dedicated to Erin, this is no lie. But this isn't going to be a lyric poem. That's what an ode is. If you didn't know that, I've just made you smarter. This is an educational place sometimes. If you would like to make this more of an ode in your head, pretend that it's being sung to you by a cartoon pig dressed like Shakespeare while he gently strums a mandolin. Everybody wins. Okay, it doesn't have to be a pig, but trust me, envisioning this pig will make this a heck of a lot more entertaining for everyone. Hey. I don't call your ideas stupid.
Even before I commence writing I know this will be a short post. But sometimes such is what happens. Not every story can be a harrowing tale of my life being shacked up with my dude (eloquent, yes?). I almost used the word epic instead of harrowing, but I feel epic has been overdone. Epic is finished kids, time to move on to something else. Seriously, keep it up and I'm starting an End Epic campaign, you'll see. Well you probably won't see, it'll likely end up just being me alone mumbling about its overuse while I'm all alone in my apartment. At least that woman in the mirror will support me. Okay, let's end this ramble, I've wasted enough space.
As we all know, I'm a dreamer in two ways: One, I like things that are whimsical and two, I dream about fanciful things every night without fail. And, is law in a live-in relationship, one is required to disclose any and all dreams to their significant other no matter how irrelevant or boring (the dreams, not the significant other). On one of the rare mornings where we both get to sleep in together I catch him within moments of waking to tell him about my dream. I went to a cupcake shop and bought six Tiffany's blue cupcakes with round black sprinkles for $110. Now you're probably thinking that dream me is a sucker for this, but if I won the eating contest and could fit a whole cupcake in my mouth I would have won $5000. Analyze that. My dream is somewhat irrelevant here, this post has to do with Boyfriend's dream.
After I share my nightly visions, Boyfriend shares his. It's not much of a story, more of a sentence.
I had a dream that you cheated on me with somebody you work with.
Huh.
Internally I'm saying, 'that's interesting, you don't know anyone I work with'. We all know that Huh is neither a confirmation or denial, but it takes me a little while to figure out that the right answer was something more like, 'Oh Boyfriend, we all know that's never going to happen'. The point is I eventually realized that he probably needed some kind of reassurance that no others are in the picture. I mean, if his subconscious is coming up with this, maybe on some level there's doubt. Yes, after my shower I will bolster confidence that he is my one and only.
Post-shower, I flop on our couch beside him.
Oh Boyfriend, about your dream. If it makes you feel better, the only person I would cheat on you with at work is Erin.
His brow creases, wondering where the hell this is going. Also Boyfriend's probably thinking I said Aaron, not Erin. It's hard to clarify this verbally, and for some reason I just keep talking.
But she's too young for me. Seriously, she is one lovely lady. If she were cloned in miniature size and sold in stores, she would put Barbie out of business because Erin's a better role model and she's also dynamite with a laser beam (Queen, anyone? Guaranteed to blow your mind? Yes? No? Yes?).
Eventually, Boyfriend gets that I'm kidding, not without making some sort of comment about she and I being lesbians. Well, what Boyfriend doesn't know is that I am sweet on Erin, but in a totally platonic way. Hope I'm not putting myself out there with that last sentence. I'm going to put my topic sentence here near the end: Ladies, clarify when you are talking to your fella. They're not always apt to pick up the difference between Erin and Aaron. They will also credit you with being "in like" with a girl once they figure out which Erin/Aaron you mean. Once your boyfriend calls you a lesbian, even in jest, it steers your relationship into a weird place.
Not sure how your imaginary Shakespearean pig with his mandolin fared with making this into an ode, but a tip of the cap to those of you that tried to make it work. Also, Boyfriend says this reads like I want a piece of Erin. Can't a girl be complimentary to another girl without the accusation? Sheesh...
Time for tea,
K
Even before I commence writing I know this will be a short post. But sometimes such is what happens. Not every story can be a harrowing tale of my life being shacked up with my dude (eloquent, yes?). I almost used the word epic instead of harrowing, but I feel epic has been overdone. Epic is finished kids, time to move on to something else. Seriously, keep it up and I'm starting an End Epic campaign, you'll see. Well you probably won't see, it'll likely end up just being me alone mumbling about its overuse while I'm all alone in my apartment. At least that woman in the mirror will support me. Okay, let's end this ramble, I've wasted enough space.
As we all know, I'm a dreamer in two ways: One, I like things that are whimsical and two, I dream about fanciful things every night without fail. And, is law in a live-in relationship, one is required to disclose any and all dreams to their significant other no matter how irrelevant or boring (the dreams, not the significant other). On one of the rare mornings where we both get to sleep in together I catch him within moments of waking to tell him about my dream. I went to a cupcake shop and bought six Tiffany's blue cupcakes with round black sprinkles for $110. Now you're probably thinking that dream me is a sucker for this, but if I won the eating contest and could fit a whole cupcake in my mouth I would have won $5000. Analyze that. My dream is somewhat irrelevant here, this post has to do with Boyfriend's dream.
After I share my nightly visions, Boyfriend shares his. It's not much of a story, more of a sentence.
I had a dream that you cheated on me with somebody you work with.
Huh.
Internally I'm saying, 'that's interesting, you don't know anyone I work with'. We all know that Huh is neither a confirmation or denial, but it takes me a little while to figure out that the right answer was something more like, 'Oh Boyfriend, we all know that's never going to happen'. The point is I eventually realized that he probably needed some kind of reassurance that no others are in the picture. I mean, if his subconscious is coming up with this, maybe on some level there's doubt. Yes, after my shower I will bolster confidence that he is my one and only.
Post-shower, I flop on our couch beside him.
Oh Boyfriend, about your dream. If it makes you feel better, the only person I would cheat on you with at work is Erin.
His brow creases, wondering where the hell this is going. Also Boyfriend's probably thinking I said Aaron, not Erin. It's hard to clarify this verbally, and for some reason I just keep talking.
But she's too young for me. Seriously, she is one lovely lady. If she were cloned in miniature size and sold in stores, she would put Barbie out of business because Erin's a better role model and she's also dynamite with a laser beam (Queen, anyone? Guaranteed to blow your mind? Yes? No? Yes?).
Eventually, Boyfriend gets that I'm kidding, not without making some sort of comment about she and I being lesbians. Well, what Boyfriend doesn't know is that I am sweet on Erin, but in a totally platonic way. Hope I'm not putting myself out there with that last sentence. I'm going to put my topic sentence here near the end: Ladies, clarify when you are talking to your fella. They're not always apt to pick up the difference between Erin and Aaron. They will also credit you with being "in like" with a girl once they figure out which Erin/Aaron you mean. Once your boyfriend calls you a lesbian, even in jest, it steers your relationship into a weird place.
Not sure how your imaginary Shakespearean pig with his mandolin fared with making this into an ode, but a tip of the cap to those of you that tried to make it work. Also, Boyfriend says this reads like I want a piece of Erin. Can't a girl be complimentary to another girl without the accusation? Sheesh...
Time for tea,
K
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Home cookin'
For the record, someone in my house forgot to take out the recycling. Not cool. Get back here and do it. The paper and plastic are piling up and we can't afford the extra space. Okay, we all know that I'm the perpetrator here, but if anybody else would like to empty the blue bins under the sink I won't tell them no. Hello? Honestly, how is there an echo out here in cyber space?
If our hole of an apartment wasn't small enough already, we have a room that I try to avoid, minimizing my living quarters even more. That blasted kitchen. I don't, I can't and I won't cook. I'm one of those people that can't make anything to save her life, but I can do one of two things: make a dinner reservation, or make a call for delivery. This post is prompted by Boyfriend slaving away in the kitchen, making several delicious things. There is something to be said about having one's own personal red seal chef at home. Dinner tonight: shrimp-stuffed mushroom caps, lobster and prawns, asparagus and rice. Eat your hearts out ladies. I mantrapped me a good'un. My only job, while he slaves away in the room I know nothing of, is to stay out of the way. Done and done. I didn't exactly do nothing to get kicked out of the kitchen though. There have been a few instances that led to my banishment...
The first and foremost incident would be during our courtship. Yes, we're calling it our courtship. It was that time in the beginning of our relationship that he was suing me for harassment. Don't worry, after the settlement we made it work in spite of everything. Anyhow, where was I...? Right, back during the initial phases of mantrapping. I decided to be sugary sweet and domestic to prove that yes, one day, I had the capacity to make a good live-in ______ (I'll let you fill in the blank here with any noun you like, it's like a game show you can play at home). I decided to make breakfast for Boyfriend, thinking breakfast was something that one cannot screw up. Prepare for a great surprise, I did not pour him a bowl of cereal. I had eggs, bacon, sausage, hashbrowns and toast on the go. Have I mentioned that I have no business in the kitchen? If I recall correctly, the only thing that came out right was the toast. The rest of the slop was overdone, underdone, and in the case of the sausages both overdone and underdone. I'm not domestic, this is no surprise. I came with a warning label telling Boyfriend that I was a defective _______ (You can use the same noun as before, or fill in another one. It's fun for the whole family! Well, maybe not. I might be overselling it.) In a moment of poetic sincerity after Boyfriend has managed a few bites, he puts his plate down, pulls me into a hug and says, This will be my job. He may or may not have eyed his partially-eaten plate of breakfast slop with contempt.
Boyfriend insists that he doesn't remember this, but without sounding too cruel this is my explanation thanks to one Mr. Billy Joel: Only the good die young. If Boyfriend is still here and not a zombie that means he is neither good nor young. The mind deteriorates as one ages. Point me. Sorry Boyfriend. Blame Billy Joel, he's my copilot on this one.
The second kitchen incident involved me being left alone for a week once when Boyfriend flew to the other side of the country to visit his kinfolk. This was the point in our relationship when he knew how helpless I was in the kitchen, so before he left, he offered to make me some dinners to heat up in his absence. This is by no means an exaggeration. I said no because I'm a big girl that can feed myself (not big as in obese, as I've said before, rubenesque women aren't fond of me). But what we both didn't know is that I was lying. He left, and one night while he was away I thought, I'm going to go into that freaky room where we keep the fridge and rustle me up some grub... from a can. I found some soup in the cupboard and figured I couldn't mess that up. The good news is that I didn't mess it up. That may or may not have to do with my inability to figure out Boyfriend's can opener. It's Schrodinger's cat all over again, until we open the can and find out the result, I both have and don't have the ability to make the can of soup.
It just so happens that while I'm wrestling with this can opener, Boyfriend is at his sister's house talking about how I fare as a cook in comparison to Boyfriend.
There's no comparison. I do all the cooking.
Boyfriend's sister asks a skeptical question, something like, "Really?"
At this point, my frantic text comes in, and all Boyfriend has to do is turn his phone toward his sister and let her read my moronic words:
I can't figure out how to use your can opener.
Yes. I got so angry and annoyed with this everyday kitchen device I text Boyfriend asking for help. If I could've, there would be smoke signals puffing out S.O.S. in my great distress. Believe me, I tried everything to get that thing to work, this included using a knife as a hammer to try to beat my way into that can of vegetable noodle. Boyfriend's sister, if you're reading this, I'm not kitchen smart but I make up for it with street smarts. Okay, no that's a lie. My street smarts rival my kitchen smarts, but... I have to be smart in another way that I haven't figured out yet. The point is eventually I learned how to use that thing (and boy, was I waaaaaaay off), but that wasn't until long after the chinese take-out arrived. And might I say thank god I live in a world where I don't have to hunt and gather my own food. Darwinism would've overtaken me much sooner.
The moral of this post is this: Ladies, for all of your shortcomings, there is a man out there who will make sure all of your basic needs are met. Mantrap him as soon as you possibly can and lock him down. If it weren't for Boyfriend I would be emaciated and/or dead. For this, Boyfriend, I thank you. For other things I curse you, but this isn't one of those postings. You're pretty. Man-pretty if that's a better compliment.
Time for tea,
K
If our hole of an apartment wasn't small enough already, we have a room that I try to avoid, minimizing my living quarters even more. That blasted kitchen. I don't, I can't and I won't cook. I'm one of those people that can't make anything to save her life, but I can do one of two things: make a dinner reservation, or make a call for delivery. This post is prompted by Boyfriend slaving away in the kitchen, making several delicious things. There is something to be said about having one's own personal red seal chef at home. Dinner tonight: shrimp-stuffed mushroom caps, lobster and prawns, asparagus and rice. Eat your hearts out ladies. I mantrapped me a good'un. My only job, while he slaves away in the room I know nothing of, is to stay out of the way. Done and done. I didn't exactly do nothing to get kicked out of the kitchen though. There have been a few instances that led to my banishment...
The first and foremost incident would be during our courtship. Yes, we're calling it our courtship. It was that time in the beginning of our relationship that he was suing me for harassment. Don't worry, after the settlement we made it work in spite of everything. Anyhow, where was I...? Right, back during the initial phases of mantrapping. I decided to be sugary sweet and domestic to prove that yes, one day, I had the capacity to make a good live-in ______ (I'll let you fill in the blank here with any noun you like, it's like a game show you can play at home). I decided to make breakfast for Boyfriend, thinking breakfast was something that one cannot screw up. Prepare for a great surprise, I did not pour him a bowl of cereal. I had eggs, bacon, sausage, hashbrowns and toast on the go. Have I mentioned that I have no business in the kitchen? If I recall correctly, the only thing that came out right was the toast. The rest of the slop was overdone, underdone, and in the case of the sausages both overdone and underdone. I'm not domestic, this is no surprise. I came with a warning label telling Boyfriend that I was a defective _______ (You can use the same noun as before, or fill in another one. It's fun for the whole family! Well, maybe not. I might be overselling it.) In a moment of poetic sincerity after Boyfriend has managed a few bites, he puts his plate down, pulls me into a hug and says, This will be my job. He may or may not have eyed his partially-eaten plate of breakfast slop with contempt.
Boyfriend insists that he doesn't remember this, but without sounding too cruel this is my explanation thanks to one Mr. Billy Joel: Only the good die young. If Boyfriend is still here and not a zombie that means he is neither good nor young. The mind deteriorates as one ages. Point me. Sorry Boyfriend. Blame Billy Joel, he's my copilot on this one.
The second kitchen incident involved me being left alone for a week once when Boyfriend flew to the other side of the country to visit his kinfolk. This was the point in our relationship when he knew how helpless I was in the kitchen, so before he left, he offered to make me some dinners to heat up in his absence. This is by no means an exaggeration. I said no because I'm a big girl that can feed myself (not big as in obese, as I've said before, rubenesque women aren't fond of me). But what we both didn't know is that I was lying. He left, and one night while he was away I thought, I'm going to go into that freaky room where we keep the fridge and rustle me up some grub... from a can. I found some soup in the cupboard and figured I couldn't mess that up. The good news is that I didn't mess it up. That may or may not have to do with my inability to figure out Boyfriend's can opener. It's Schrodinger's cat all over again, until we open the can and find out the result, I both have and don't have the ability to make the can of soup.
It just so happens that while I'm wrestling with this can opener, Boyfriend is at his sister's house talking about how I fare as a cook in comparison to Boyfriend.
There's no comparison. I do all the cooking.
Boyfriend's sister asks a skeptical question, something like, "Really?"
At this point, my frantic text comes in, and all Boyfriend has to do is turn his phone toward his sister and let her read my moronic words:
I can't figure out how to use your can opener.
Yes. I got so angry and annoyed with this everyday kitchen device I text Boyfriend asking for help. If I could've, there would be smoke signals puffing out S.O.S. in my great distress. Believe me, I tried everything to get that thing to work, this included using a knife as a hammer to try to beat my way into that can of vegetable noodle. Boyfriend's sister, if you're reading this, I'm not kitchen smart but I make up for it with street smarts. Okay, no that's a lie. My street smarts rival my kitchen smarts, but... I have to be smart in another way that I haven't figured out yet. The point is eventually I learned how to use that thing (and boy, was I waaaaaaay off), but that wasn't until long after the chinese take-out arrived. And might I say thank god I live in a world where I don't have to hunt and gather my own food. Darwinism would've overtaken me much sooner.
The moral of this post is this: Ladies, for all of your shortcomings, there is a man out there who will make sure all of your basic needs are met. Mantrap him as soon as you possibly can and lock him down. If it weren't for Boyfriend I would be emaciated and/or dead. For this, Boyfriend, I thank you. For other things I curse you, but this isn't one of those postings. You're pretty. Man-pretty if that's a better compliment.
Time for tea,
K
Saturday, November 5, 2011
How it becomes his fault: Second installment
Yes. I'm already at the second posting of how it becomes his fault. This time Boyfriend hit me in the face in the middle of the night. How rude can you get? You never hit a woman!
Let me back up a little bit.
Last night (oh yuh huh, this was most recent) Boyfriend hurt me. If he took the garbage out like he was supposed to, this whole thing could have been avoided. Just you wait until you hear this monstrous tale.
In our domestic relationship the chores are divided. He does this, I do that. He cooks, I do laundry. He takes out the garbage, I field the recycling area. (Which is not as fun as it sounds, there have been times where I have literally dug through the garbage to salvage recyclables. You're welcome, Mother Earth.) This is where the problem occurs. Somebody, not mentioning any names or affiliation to me, did not bring out the garbage from the bathroom. Generally this is not a big deal, but we have a little mutt that has been known to rifle through the garbage on occasion searching for treasure. Such an imagination he has. Which is what happened last night. On my way to bed I see a trail of tissue, old makeup, q-tips and whatever other debris from the bathroom garbage that leads across the dinky hallway to our bedroom. Now if it wasn't a mess by Mutt, Boyfriend has some serious sleep-walking issues. I clean it up and put it back in the garbage in the bathroom and clever me, I shut the door so Mutt can't make another mess while we sleep. I grab my water bottle and head to bed.
The thing about bringing a water bottle to bed though is this: at some point your bladder will nudge you awake and say, "Yo, I can make you a helluva lot more uncomfortable, how 'bout you make this easier on both of us and go pee?" I dream a lot, maybe my bladder didn't actually say this, but mostly asleep, I shuffle out of bed and to the bathroom like I do every night. But every night doesn't usually conclude with me being clever and shutting the bathroom door. In the dark and in my haste, I walk right into that wooden monster. I must've been walking with my face sticking way out because that is the only thing I recall getting hit. Ka-pow. Insert various sleepy expletives here. For those of you that knit your brows together on that last sentence, a sleepy expletive is a swear that doesn't exactly round the bases to becoming offensive. Generally it doesn't make sense, much like "ah, dingdong" or "bloody garbage". Because you're sleepy, your gentle curses don't always make sense. Mine at this point is the word "mother". I'd love to explain that one to you, but I can't. Maybe I have issues with my mommy. No, I don't call her mommy, I'm classier than that. I call her Ma. Nonetheless, after my outburst to myself about liquid I go back to bed. Somehow the knock to the face rendered me incapable of remembering to actually enter the washroom. I climb back in bed, roll onto my side and close my eyes. Le damn. I still have not emptied the tank. Now I'm upset for a few reasons: 1) My face hurts, 2) I still have to pee and there's nobody to do it for me, and 3) Boyfriend is sleeping soundly, unaware as to the physical pain and mental anguish he has caused me this eve. Bad Boyfriend.
I'm only left with one rational option here (I suppose rational may differ depending on who you talk to). I reach my hand out, swiftly whack Boyfriend on the thigh, and dive back down to my pillow to pretend to be asleep. I hear him stir, wake briefly, and eventually roll over, back into slumber. I know, don't look at the screen like that with judgement, but it did make me feel better. Sorry, Boyfriend. It wasn't the nicest thing to do. But it wasn't the meanest thing I could have done either. Think about that.
The good news here is that I learned that I have the capacity to take out the garbage. Even if it's not my job. And to be fair I suffered enough. I had to hold it for awhile before Boyfriend was sleeping soundly again and I could sneak out of bed without being discovered for swatting out of anger. Though, in hindsight, he reads this blog so I've outed myself for that malicious deed all on my own... Boyfriend, pretend you didn't read this... you're gorgeous by the way. If you only emptied the garbage the whole thing could've been avoided. Just sayin'.
Time for tea,
K
Let me back up a little bit.
Last night (oh yuh huh, this was most recent) Boyfriend hurt me. If he took the garbage out like he was supposed to, this whole thing could have been avoided. Just you wait until you hear this monstrous tale.
In our domestic relationship the chores are divided. He does this, I do that. He cooks, I do laundry. He takes out the garbage, I field the recycling area. (Which is not as fun as it sounds, there have been times where I have literally dug through the garbage to salvage recyclables. You're welcome, Mother Earth.) This is where the problem occurs. Somebody, not mentioning any names or affiliation to me, did not bring out the garbage from the bathroom. Generally this is not a big deal, but we have a little mutt that has been known to rifle through the garbage on occasion searching for treasure. Such an imagination he has. Which is what happened last night. On my way to bed I see a trail of tissue, old makeup, q-tips and whatever other debris from the bathroom garbage that leads across the dinky hallway to our bedroom. Now if it wasn't a mess by Mutt, Boyfriend has some serious sleep-walking issues. I clean it up and put it back in the garbage in the bathroom and clever me, I shut the door so Mutt can't make another mess while we sleep. I grab my water bottle and head to bed.
The thing about bringing a water bottle to bed though is this: at some point your bladder will nudge you awake and say, "Yo, I can make you a helluva lot more uncomfortable, how 'bout you make this easier on both of us and go pee?" I dream a lot, maybe my bladder didn't actually say this, but mostly asleep, I shuffle out of bed and to the bathroom like I do every night. But every night doesn't usually conclude with me being clever and shutting the bathroom door. In the dark and in my haste, I walk right into that wooden monster. I must've been walking with my face sticking way out because that is the only thing I recall getting hit. Ka-pow. Insert various sleepy expletives here. For those of you that knit your brows together on that last sentence, a sleepy expletive is a swear that doesn't exactly round the bases to becoming offensive. Generally it doesn't make sense, much like "ah, dingdong" or "bloody garbage". Because you're sleepy, your gentle curses don't always make sense. Mine at this point is the word "mother". I'd love to explain that one to you, but I can't. Maybe I have issues with my mommy. No, I don't call her mommy, I'm classier than that. I call her Ma. Nonetheless, after my outburst to myself about liquid I go back to bed. Somehow the knock to the face rendered me incapable of remembering to actually enter the washroom. I climb back in bed, roll onto my side and close my eyes. Le damn. I still have not emptied the tank. Now I'm upset for a few reasons: 1) My face hurts, 2) I still have to pee and there's nobody to do it for me, and 3) Boyfriend is sleeping soundly, unaware as to the physical pain and mental anguish he has caused me this eve. Bad Boyfriend.
I'm only left with one rational option here (I suppose rational may differ depending on who you talk to). I reach my hand out, swiftly whack Boyfriend on the thigh, and dive back down to my pillow to pretend to be asleep. I hear him stir, wake briefly, and eventually roll over, back into slumber. I know, don't look at the screen like that with judgement, but it did make me feel better. Sorry, Boyfriend. It wasn't the nicest thing to do. But it wasn't the meanest thing I could have done either. Think about that.
The good news here is that I learned that I have the capacity to take out the garbage. Even if it's not my job. And to be fair I suffered enough. I had to hold it for awhile before Boyfriend was sleeping soundly again and I could sneak out of bed without being discovered for swatting out of anger. Though, in hindsight, he reads this blog so I've outed myself for that malicious deed all on my own... Boyfriend, pretend you didn't read this... you're gorgeous by the way. If you only emptied the garbage the whole thing could've been avoided. Just sayin'.
Time for tea,
K
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
That's right, I am beautiful
I guess this post starts with a letter I got in the mail. Well, no, that's misleading. ICBC doesn't write you letters. A letter is something handwritten that contains well wishes and tales from foreign lands. ICBC sends you informative information that has dire circumstances if you don't comply with their wishes, mail that makes you shout expletives when the seniors in the building are right beside you also checking their mail. Sorry old neighbours. That might be rude, my sincerest of apologies to you wrinkly, but friendly, folks. Unlike when I get letters in the mail and squeal with delight, clap my hands and jump up and down with excitement, the mail in my hand makes darkness close in and mournful violins play in the background. Hold on that's not accurate, that's just my imagination. There's always that moment when you get mail from places like this and your brain races, you think, oh God, they found me. I am so busted. Le damn.
Upon opening the letter and not seeing any sign of a skull and crossbones on the paper...no wait, that means it's poisonous (of all the things I can say for ICBC they do send you very crisp notices which as of yet have proved not to be poisonous)...I actually read the words they have typed for me. Oh good, I have to get my licence renewed, they haven't caught me. Cool. Those beads of sweat on my brow appeared prematurely. Worst case scenario and I get busted I tell them I thought it would be a fun surprise. Surprises are never painted in a bad light.
Anywho, getting back to it, I tell Boyfriend the time has come. The beautiful photo of my current driver's licence is going a-bye-bye. I wait for his tears, but none come. Maybe he doesn't hear me. So I yell in his face:
I HAVE TO GET A NEW DRIVER'S LICENCE. THE OLD BEAUTIFUL PHOTO IS GOING AWAY FOREVER.
Signature deadpan Boyfriend face here. Nothing. The appropriate response is a response. If we're being honest the appropriate response is the response I want you to have, not necessarily the one you desire to emote. Remember, me before we. Nothing. Would it kill him to appease me? Is it possible I've used up his entire supply of appeasement? That doesn't fare well for our chances if that's the case. Some days, Boyfriend, digging your grave doesn't seem like it would be a chore. Am I wrong?
The day comes for me to renew my licence. For the record, the people that work there have no sense of humour. Does a frowning face make people take you more seriously? No. Because people like me get determined to make you smile, and that just made it awkward for both of us. You're welcome. Then the picture gets taken. I hate the new no smile rule. Everyone in BC now has a photo that makes them look like a POW in a picture that's used to provide proof of life. I should be holding today's newspaper up by my face and mouthing the words "send help".
Please, take another one.
She takes another one. I look at it on the screen.
Please, take another one.
I peer at the screen and wince.
Eeeee. Please, take another one?
It gets to the point where I'm pissing her off. There's no way to look good in a picture that you're not allowed to smile for. Not going to happen. Who do I write an angry letter to in order to change this? My teeth give me character! Why do you think they use dental records to identify bodies that have burned beyond recognition? Exactly! Let the people smile.
Yeah, I guess that photo is okay.
I didn't even really look at the last picture. I just saw the face of the ICBC woman that just said "we're done here". Even after all we shared. How rude.
ICBC sends me another piece of mail very quickly. I pluck it from the mailbox between my thumb and index finger like it's diseased and wonder which of the two evil things it could be. Of course, it's the new licence. Another thing I can say besides I like their crisp paper, they are prompt with getting new licences to the people. I thank you for this ICBC, but nothing else. Not unless you do me anymore favours. The picture isn't... so bad. I look as I imagine myself the moment before the She-Hulk takes over. I look less like a victim and more like a villain. I guess that's slightly better than a lateral move.
Why was I so stupid as to get Mutt that pig foot thing? Hoof. It's a hoof. He's gnawing on it right now and the smell is distracting. Nasty, nasty thing. The hoof, not Mutt. As I've told you he makes the circle. So ugly he's adorable.
I text Boyfriend about the new arrival via mail. I think... no, wait, I KNOW he's a little bitter he didn't get to the mailbox first so he could pay me back for what happened yesterday. The cliff notes of that episode: A package from the NFL store arrived yesterday that Boyfriend has been waiting three weeks for. I'm the only one home when it arrives so I do what any girl would do in my position: Use it for extortion. I hide it. Don't look at me like that, let me explain how this is rational. I was hoping that I could trade him his NFL thingmy for the spa day that I want for my upcoming birthday. It's logical. Except that things never go according to plan. I get called a jackass and I still don't have any confirmation of a spa day. He's impossible.
When Boyfriend gets home he looks at me with expectation.
Well, where is it?
What?
You showed me the old licence enough times I could draw it from memory. Where's the new one?
Somehow he has figured out the new one isn't quite the caliber I hoped, but, being a good girlfriend, I show him the licence that I had already hidden in my wallet.
He scrutinizes the black and white photo of me, turns the licence over in his hands and after his careful examination he says... wait for this one...
Huh. Except it's also kind of a Hmm. Huhmm.
The written expression can't do it justice. Fyi gentlemen, this is not a compliment. Nor is it an insult, you might say. That's wrong, it is an insult. If the words are not what a lady wants to hear it is definitely an insult, even if huhmm isn't a word.
Back to the conversation:
What does that mean?
I'm not shrill yet and I'm not She-Hulking. This is a proud moment for my people. This is the part where my voice becomes shrill:
What do we say when I show you things like that?
I gently take the licence from Boyfriend's hands. Gently take/snatch with intent to mutilate, potato, potato.
You're beautiful, honey.
Thank you. It's like pulling teeth sometimes.
He goes and starts taking the tags off a dark, long sleeved shirt.
Hey, is that a new shirt?
Yup.
He folds it up and puts it on the desk. This is opportunity for payback if I ever had one, so I imitate him best I can.
Huhmm.
He just walks away from me. I guess one of us has to be the grown up.
Time for tea,
K
Upon opening the letter and not seeing any sign of a skull and crossbones on the paper...no wait, that means it's poisonous (of all the things I can say for ICBC they do send you very crisp notices which as of yet have proved not to be poisonous)...I actually read the words they have typed for me. Oh good, I have to get my licence renewed, they haven't caught me. Cool. Those beads of sweat on my brow appeared prematurely. Worst case scenario and I get busted I tell them I thought it would be a fun surprise. Surprises are never painted in a bad light.
Anywho, getting back to it, I tell Boyfriend the time has come. The beautiful photo of my current driver's licence is going a-bye-bye. I wait for his tears, but none come. Maybe he doesn't hear me. So I yell in his face:
I HAVE TO GET A NEW DRIVER'S LICENCE. THE OLD BEAUTIFUL PHOTO IS GOING AWAY FOREVER.
Signature deadpan Boyfriend face here. Nothing. The appropriate response is a response. If we're being honest the appropriate response is the response I want you to have, not necessarily the one you desire to emote. Remember, me before we. Nothing. Would it kill him to appease me? Is it possible I've used up his entire supply of appeasement? That doesn't fare well for our chances if that's the case. Some days, Boyfriend, digging your grave doesn't seem like it would be a chore. Am I wrong?
The day comes for me to renew my licence. For the record, the people that work there have no sense of humour. Does a frowning face make people take you more seriously? No. Because people like me get determined to make you smile, and that just made it awkward for both of us. You're welcome. Then the picture gets taken. I hate the new no smile rule. Everyone in BC now has a photo that makes them look like a POW in a picture that's used to provide proof of life. I should be holding today's newspaper up by my face and mouthing the words "send help".
Please, take another one.
She takes another one. I look at it on the screen.
Please, take another one.
I peer at the screen and wince.
Eeeee. Please, take another one?
It gets to the point where I'm pissing her off. There's no way to look good in a picture that you're not allowed to smile for. Not going to happen. Who do I write an angry letter to in order to change this? My teeth give me character! Why do you think they use dental records to identify bodies that have burned beyond recognition? Exactly! Let the people smile.
Yeah, I guess that photo is okay.
I didn't even really look at the last picture. I just saw the face of the ICBC woman that just said "we're done here". Even after all we shared. How rude.
ICBC sends me another piece of mail very quickly. I pluck it from the mailbox between my thumb and index finger like it's diseased and wonder which of the two evil things it could be. Of course, it's the new licence. Another thing I can say besides I like their crisp paper, they are prompt with getting new licences to the people. I thank you for this ICBC, but nothing else. Not unless you do me anymore favours. The picture isn't... so bad. I look as I imagine myself the moment before the She-Hulk takes over. I look less like a victim and more like a villain. I guess that's slightly better than a lateral move.
Why was I so stupid as to get Mutt that pig foot thing? Hoof. It's a hoof. He's gnawing on it right now and the smell is distracting. Nasty, nasty thing. The hoof, not Mutt. As I've told you he makes the circle. So ugly he's adorable.
I text Boyfriend about the new arrival via mail. I think... no, wait, I KNOW he's a little bitter he didn't get to the mailbox first so he could pay me back for what happened yesterday. The cliff notes of that episode: A package from the NFL store arrived yesterday that Boyfriend has been waiting three weeks for. I'm the only one home when it arrives so I do what any girl would do in my position: Use it for extortion. I hide it. Don't look at me like that, let me explain how this is rational. I was hoping that I could trade him his NFL thingmy for the spa day that I want for my upcoming birthday. It's logical. Except that things never go according to plan. I get called a jackass and I still don't have any confirmation of a spa day. He's impossible.
When Boyfriend gets home he looks at me with expectation.
Well, where is it?
What?
You showed me the old licence enough times I could draw it from memory. Where's the new one?
Somehow he has figured out the new one isn't quite the caliber I hoped, but, being a good girlfriend, I show him the licence that I had already hidden in my wallet.
He scrutinizes the black and white photo of me, turns the licence over in his hands and after his careful examination he says... wait for this one...
Huh. Except it's also kind of a Hmm. Huhmm.
The written expression can't do it justice. Fyi gentlemen, this is not a compliment. Nor is it an insult, you might say. That's wrong, it is an insult. If the words are not what a lady wants to hear it is definitely an insult, even if huhmm isn't a word.
Back to the conversation:
What does that mean?
I'm not shrill yet and I'm not She-Hulking. This is a proud moment for my people. This is the part where my voice becomes shrill:
What do we say when I show you things like that?
I gently take the licence from Boyfriend's hands. Gently take/snatch with intent to mutilate, potato, potato.
You're beautiful, honey.
Thank you. It's like pulling teeth sometimes.
He goes and starts taking the tags off a dark, long sleeved shirt.
Hey, is that a new shirt?
Yup.
He folds it up and puts it on the desk. This is opportunity for payback if I ever had one, so I imitate him best I can.
Huhmm.
He just walks away from me. I guess one of us has to be the grown up.
Time for tea,
K
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