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
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