Not IT it. I hate that the elusive "it" has morphed from something vague into something that happens behind closed doors. I don't mean do it in "the van's a-rockin'" sense, I mean do it as in "I know pronounce you woman and husband". At least that's how they'll announce us if we ever take the leap. Man and wife? Get real, I'm not wife-ish.
Last summer I read in some horoscope book that I found in a store that I would have an unorthodox but happy marriage. Stop right there. Don't walk me down the aisle yet. Do you see a Bam ring on my finger? Well, no, and not just because you don't see me at all. Even though I'm not the most reliable teller of tales, I can assure you that we haven't come to the Bam ring portion of this love story (maybe it's more a story based on tolerance). I can tell you though, about a Bam dress that I wore to Muse's wedding. Love that dress. I was the best lady in that circus. Before Muse started walking toward us the priest guy...no, I don't think he was a priest. Muse and Hubby don't follow the book of Jesus or any other holy man or woman. I don't know what he was, but the old guy that was ordained by somebody to perform their wedding...was he a magician? I don't know, but he leans over and whispers, "I understand you're wearing a Bam dress." I say, yeah, look at him sideways because unlike with everyone else at the wedding, I'm not about to yell, BAM! and strut my stuff for a magician-priest. More about Muse's wedding circus in another post. Another day. Where were we? Bam dress, check. Bam ring, absent. That's really all you need to take from this paragraph.
I believe I have mentioned in the past about Boyfriend's friendliness and his ability to attract some interesting characters. Or have I? I think I have, if not, I have now. Boyfriend is a weirdo magnet. About a year ago we ventured to a small pub. Sports bar obviously. I don't know that we've ever gone anywhere that doesn't have some sort of athletic paraphernalia somewhere. Yippee for me. I love me some sports action. If you aren't picking up the sarcasm of that last sentence, get out. Leave the blog space, I have no patience for you. I DO know, however, that Saturday is Hockey Night in Canada. Not Friday. I know some things. What on earth was I talking about? Recap: Bam ring a-no-no, Boyfriend + Weirdos = friendship, we go to a sports bar. Right. We sit down and order some bevvies, and chat with the owner/bartender. Lovely homunculus he was. And he pours them strong. He wasn't the weirdo in the story, he was just a tiny pygmy of a man. Perhaps the reason he was so nice and friendly was because he escaped from a Disney movie. Just speculating.
Moving on. A little while later, these two old men with white hair and super leather tans come in and sit at the bar with us. Americans, and also, friendly. Brothers, you can tell because they look almost like twins. Similar moustaches, same height, clearly not starving. I would've bet there was some kind of relation going on there. For some reason we felt it necessary to take some photos with our new Weirdos. Nice Weirdos, don't take weirdos to always have bad connotations. There's one with the four of us, Boyfriend, Weirdo #1, Me, Weirdo #2, and it almost looks like mine and Boyfriend's shadows have come to life. Or stripes on a zebra. Or keys on a piano. And another photo with me doing a shot of tequila with both of those Weirdos, and here's how that happened:
Weirdo #1 and #2 sit down with us, but it's like they've already decided to become our friends even before speaking to us. #2 takes a seat beside Boyfriend and #1 sits very close to me. Weirdo #1 has millions of questions. Where are you from? What do you do? Are you two married? You're not married? (At this point the other two listen in and I swear I see Weirdo #2 slap Boyfriend a high five for not getting tied down) How long have you been together? Where did you meet? Are you not married because of all the work it takes to plan a wedding? Well, Weirdo #1, I'm going to level with you. It's more of a Bam ring issue. I needs me a solid rock before we do the "I do" thing. This is where Weirdo #1 takes a solid interest in my case and gets pushy with Boyfriend about getting me a ring and getting wed. Weirdo #2, however, takes Boyfriend's side. Boyfriend doesn't need to defend himself, as #2 has got his back just as much as #1's got mine.
"He'll do it when he's ready."
"She's not going to wait around forever."
"You don't have to push him."
"She's not getting any younger."
"They're happy with how things are now, why change a good thing?"
"Has he told you they've been together for two years?"
Boyfriend and I sit back and just watch the back and forth like it's a tennis match. We sip our drinks and just let them do their thing. Eventually, Boyfriend excuses himself to find the bathroom and both the Weirdos look at me. What? I'm not reffing this thing, I'm just watching. But out of curiosity, #2, why are you on his side? You're obviously new, but just to let you know, even though I'm not pressuring him for this, I need to win every argument. I bet he doesn't even know your name. You should be on my side. "You probably don't know my name either". Of course I do, it's Weirdo #2. At the time I did remember his name, but as storytelling goes, you start attributing nicknames and then their real name is lost in they abyss. The point is I was right about his name. He's surprised. I bet you $50 that Boyfriend doesn't remember your name. "How about at drink?" Deal. I've mentioned how Boyfriend is a horse I can bet on and win every time, haven't I? This is how I got a free drink and shot of tequila. And we all lived happily ever after. Oh wait, you're supposed to say that at the end. It's not over yet.
A while later and a few bevvies in, Weirdo #2 finally admits something. "It's been a long time since we've been to a wedding." For the record, we were so far beyond that conversation at that time it took more than a moment to realize what he was talking about. As I recall, Weirdo #1 brightened like he'd just witnessed Boyfriend's proposal. "You should get married in April. April weddings are the best." Uhh, excuse me Weirdos, but you realize that this is up to us and not you? Just because Weirdo #2 has decided that a wedding is in the cards doesn't mean that we have. Back off. Marry off the pygmy bartender...who for some reason has covered his ears with a plastic cover that reads, Bullshit guard. When did he put that on? Things have gotten strange. Both Weirdos have started ganging up on us. "So, will you do it? Get married in April?" Uhh... "We'll be invited right?" Uhh... "This April though, next year is too far away." We did what any sensible couple would do. Finished our drinks, threw a handful of money at the little pygmy and RAN THE HELL AWAY FROM THAT FREAK SHOW!
Time for tea,
K
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Monday, December 12, 2011
Matadorable
For my birthday I received a gift, as is custom on one's birthday, from my younger sister. It's called the "Total Bitch Control Kit". I assumed it was for handling my She Hulk. She can get out of control when she's upset. When I open the kit though, it is not what I originally expect. This isn't a kit to control the She Hulk, it's a kit to help the She Hulk gain control. Makes me wonder why my sister wants to help the She Hulk along. Not that she needs any help with her rampagingness (not a real word, do not pester dictionary.com). So very not good, the She Hulk devoured the kit...not in the sense that she ate it, don't be foolish. There's a little book included with helpful phrases that egg the She Hulk on, especially at a time when she craves salty foods. There are quotes like, "battles are won before they are fought", and, "if you can't bite don't show your teeth". The She Hulk has adopted these new mantras and bears her teeth and claws the second she breaks free to start her rampage. Poor Boyfriend doesn't stand a chance. Also, why do the drawings of this total bitch in the book look like a nineteen fifties cougar? Boys, I just left a pie cooling on the windowsill, would you care to come in and have a warm slice? That's the drawing of the cougar talking. I don't make pies. Who in the hell is she talking to? There's nobody here except me. I wasn't expecting the crazy to arrive so soon. Put the "Total Bitch Control Kit" back in its box and throw it to the other side of the apartment. Good job.
Onward. Boyfriend and I have a mutt. Nope, scratch that. The mutt and I have a Boyfriend. The mutt was here first and we collectively decided to let the Boyfriend live with us. After two years of cohabitation with Boyfriend, none of it's mine or his anymore. It's mine and ours. See, I can share...his things...his nice things. He can have his hockey stuff and the football helmet and the kitchen whatsits. I don't even know what any of those things do (including the hockey stuff and football helmet). By all rights at this juncture in our jaunty journey (who doesn't love alliteration? Go away, you're uninvited to the blog) the mutt is equal parts mine and Boyfriend's responsibility. Does anyone disagree? Well all I hear is Fat (the cat for those of you that don't care to pay attention) lapping water out of her dish and nobody saying that I'm wrong, so there you have it. Right again. Don't rush me, I'm gradually getting to the point of this post. Potentially. We'll see if any coherent sentences tap out of my fingertips and onto the screen in front of me. So far so good.
Actually, I'm sleepy. Not that there will be any way to tell in this blog post, but I am going to bed. We'll revisit this post anon. If I remember to. Well I guess if it actually gets posted and there are words after this paragraph it means that I did remember to finish the thought I had here. In which case you're welcome. If I didn't remember, it's not like you'll be able to get upset with me because these words will never make it onto your computer screen. Sometimes I'm so clever I outsmart myself. Bedtime now.
It's only a couple days later. Took me a moment to recall what I meant to share in this post, but it's official: we're on the trolley again. Recently, my Muse and I decided to be clever and avoid all those hectic Christmas shoppers. If that man that barged into me in the mall the other day is reading this, you too are uninvited to my blog. Yes you apologized, but that was only after I rudely yelled something like, whoa, whoa, whoa! to your backside. Uninvited! Muse and I picked a day we were both free, made lists, and power shopped to finish our Christmas shopping. Well, mostly. Next year, everyone is getting a bottle of booze for Christmas, even the children. It makes my life easier. I took the mutt out for a long walk before we left, and Muse whisked me away to spend much too much of my hard-earned dollars. Fast forward to a few hours later. We were waiting for the last gift of the day to be ready (a personalized something, you know how long things like this can take, especially when the person doing it is a weirdo and also a doddler who is quite possibly dyslexic). We were a little later than I expected, so I text Boyfriend to ask him if he was near the apartment so he could take the mutt out to lift a leg. It was not in his plan as he, too, had things to do. As he can't leave his little mutt buddy to cross his legs and hold it for another hour before I get home, Boyfriend went to let him out. However, as I have put him out of his way, Boyfriend texts me to say that you can't leave a dog alone for so long. The She Hulk coated me instantly and rage coursed through my veins. I never, never, ever leave the mutt alone for so long. Especially on purpose, that little mutt has a life most people would dream of. I plan my day around him because I love that little beast. On the drive home, I obsess over this, thinking how dare he say something like that? Is he inferring that I am a bad pet owner? Because I would STRONGLY disagree. I felt a little bad for Muse, who had the pleasure of a front row seat as I worked the She Hulk up and egged her on with imagined thoughts of what Boyfriend was thinking.
I got home, arms full of packages and bags, dropping them in the bedroom as I took my loaded pistols from their holsters. Then I shot him four times in the chest. Bang! That's how you do it where I come from. Okay, no. Not really. The loaded pistols are the fiery words in my chest that will shoot out as soon as he says the wrong thing. I'm just waiting for the go-ahead. For the record, the wrong thing could have been anything from, The dog peed on the carpet to I just made dinner for us. Who am I kidding? If he sneezed I would've lit the cannons. The She Hulk was angry.
Instead, he says something that I'm not bracing myself for. He looks a little upset, and tells me about part of his day. At one point during his running around, he saw a mouse caught in a mouse trap (one of the snappy ones, not the humane ones that let you free them back into the wild after you catch them), but it managed to kind of escape before the trap could kill him, but instead trapped and broke the little thing's leg. So Boyfriend, heart breaking, thought the best thing to do instead of let it slowly die while caught in the trap, would be to kill it quickly so it didn't have to suffer anymore. Sweet, yes? It just turns out that he probably didn't pick the best way to "off it" as it were. Clearly, Boyfriend lacks the cold-hearted killer instinct, and figures the nicest way to send it off is by drowning it. I'm sure you can imagine how the story ended. The mouse did not "go gently into that good night" as easily as Boyfriend thought it would. It fought and struggled for breath, ripping into Boyfriend's fragile heart as long as it continued to live. Eventually though, it succumbed to death. Boyfriend hasn't been the same since. I think he's haunted by the ghost of that little mouse.
What kind of vicious beast would the She Hulk be if she tore him apart after this? I mean, his text did encourage her, but in the end, he was just too matadorable to charge at. That's why she waited a full twenty-four hours before she threw down the gauntlet. It's the polite thing to do when one is in mourning. I've got control of the She Hulk.
Time for tea,
K
Onward. Boyfriend and I have a mutt. Nope, scratch that. The mutt and I have a Boyfriend. The mutt was here first and we collectively decided to let the Boyfriend live with us. After two years of cohabitation with Boyfriend, none of it's mine or his anymore. It's mine and ours. See, I can share...his things...his nice things. He can have his hockey stuff and the football helmet and the kitchen whatsits. I don't even know what any of those things do (including the hockey stuff and football helmet). By all rights at this juncture in our jaunty journey (who doesn't love alliteration? Go away, you're uninvited to the blog) the mutt is equal parts mine and Boyfriend's responsibility. Does anyone disagree? Well all I hear is Fat (the cat for those of you that don't care to pay attention) lapping water out of her dish and nobody saying that I'm wrong, so there you have it. Right again. Don't rush me, I'm gradually getting to the point of this post. Potentially. We'll see if any coherent sentences tap out of my fingertips and onto the screen in front of me. So far so good.
Actually, I'm sleepy. Not that there will be any way to tell in this blog post, but I am going to bed. We'll revisit this post anon. If I remember to. Well I guess if it actually gets posted and there are words after this paragraph it means that I did remember to finish the thought I had here. In which case you're welcome. If I didn't remember, it's not like you'll be able to get upset with me because these words will never make it onto your computer screen. Sometimes I'm so clever I outsmart myself. Bedtime now.
It's only a couple days later. Took me a moment to recall what I meant to share in this post, but it's official: we're on the trolley again. Recently, my Muse and I decided to be clever and avoid all those hectic Christmas shoppers. If that man that barged into me in the mall the other day is reading this, you too are uninvited to my blog. Yes you apologized, but that was only after I rudely yelled something like, whoa, whoa, whoa! to your backside. Uninvited! Muse and I picked a day we were both free, made lists, and power shopped to finish our Christmas shopping. Well, mostly. Next year, everyone is getting a bottle of booze for Christmas, even the children. It makes my life easier. I took the mutt out for a long walk before we left, and Muse whisked me away to spend much too much of my hard-earned dollars. Fast forward to a few hours later. We were waiting for the last gift of the day to be ready (a personalized something, you know how long things like this can take, especially when the person doing it is a weirdo and also a doddler who is quite possibly dyslexic). We were a little later than I expected, so I text Boyfriend to ask him if he was near the apartment so he could take the mutt out to lift a leg. It was not in his plan as he, too, had things to do. As he can't leave his little mutt buddy to cross his legs and hold it for another hour before I get home, Boyfriend went to let him out. However, as I have put him out of his way, Boyfriend texts me to say that you can't leave a dog alone for so long. The She Hulk coated me instantly and rage coursed through my veins. I never, never, ever leave the mutt alone for so long. Especially on purpose, that little mutt has a life most people would dream of. I plan my day around him because I love that little beast. On the drive home, I obsess over this, thinking how dare he say something like that? Is he inferring that I am a bad pet owner? Because I would STRONGLY disagree. I felt a little bad for Muse, who had the pleasure of a front row seat as I worked the She Hulk up and egged her on with imagined thoughts of what Boyfriend was thinking.
I got home, arms full of packages and bags, dropping them in the bedroom as I took my loaded pistols from their holsters. Then I shot him four times in the chest. Bang! That's how you do it where I come from. Okay, no. Not really. The loaded pistols are the fiery words in my chest that will shoot out as soon as he says the wrong thing. I'm just waiting for the go-ahead. For the record, the wrong thing could have been anything from, The dog peed on the carpet to I just made dinner for us. Who am I kidding? If he sneezed I would've lit the cannons. The She Hulk was angry.
Instead, he says something that I'm not bracing myself for. He looks a little upset, and tells me about part of his day. At one point during his running around, he saw a mouse caught in a mouse trap (one of the snappy ones, not the humane ones that let you free them back into the wild after you catch them), but it managed to kind of escape before the trap could kill him, but instead trapped and broke the little thing's leg. So Boyfriend, heart breaking, thought the best thing to do instead of let it slowly die while caught in the trap, would be to kill it quickly so it didn't have to suffer anymore. Sweet, yes? It just turns out that he probably didn't pick the best way to "off it" as it were. Clearly, Boyfriend lacks the cold-hearted killer instinct, and figures the nicest way to send it off is by drowning it. I'm sure you can imagine how the story ended. The mouse did not "go gently into that good night" as easily as Boyfriend thought it would. It fought and struggled for breath, ripping into Boyfriend's fragile heart as long as it continued to live. Eventually though, it succumbed to death. Boyfriend hasn't been the same since. I think he's haunted by the ghost of that little mouse.
What kind of vicious beast would the She Hulk be if she tore him apart after this? I mean, his text did encourage her, but in the end, he was just too matadorable to charge at. That's why she waited a full twenty-four hours before she threw down the gauntlet. It's the polite thing to do when one is in mourning. I've got control of the She Hulk.
Time for tea,
K
Thursday, December 8, 2011
The mysterious lemon phenomenon
Sickness is gross. Illness makes me want to, let's keep it polite, spew. I don't have time or patience for it. The thing about the colder season is that it's cold season. Everybody gets all sniffly, sneezy, coughy, phlemy, diseasy, downright nasty. And for the record, when people blow their noses, it's worse than nails on a chalkboard. The sounds just skeeves me out, especially the people who make that honking sound. What IS that? Nope. Wait. I really don't want to know. Just keep your nose-blowing away from me. Far, far, far away from me.
As I have mentioned before, Boyfriend's go-to when he's ill is that neo sicktron stuff. It puts him out, so I may or may not push it on him even when he's just starting to get a cold, or I just need a little me time. Who says that drugging your partner is a bad thing? We have the best bonding time when he's passed out in the living room. We watch shows and movies together that he wouldn't dream of watching if he were conscious. Sometimes we have a good time doing shadow puppets. Oh wait, that's misleading, I do shadow puppets. The light from the dining room shines into the living room at the best angle so that if he's on the left side of the room the shadows land on him. A while ago I was making him look like Gene Simmons in his Kiss makeup. It's all about fanning your fingers out when you position the shadows over his eyes. And one time when he was snoring, I pressed my hand on his stomach to alarm him into silence, but not alarm him enough to wake up. He went, mmm, like the sound one makes when they just finish a hearty meal, then he rolled to his other side and slept in silence. Making memories people, it's what it's all about. We have a good time when Boyfriend is knocked out and on the couch. Wow, in hindsight, if I led with that last sentence for this blog post, somebody may have notified the authorities and they would have found my ether stash. That would be like, nine different kinds of uncool. So I will thank you all for minding your business.
As will happen, there is the stage before the neo sicktron kicks in and puts Boyfriend out. Also, Boyfriend's a sipper. It tastes gnarly, I say hunker down and chug that bad boy, because bleh. It's just so not good at all. He likes to add wedges of actual lemon sometimes to make it taste more...real lemony? You definitely can't say it makes it taste better. Nothing could do that. One night as I'm gently pushing the bottom of his mug higher to pour more of that faux-lemony crap down his throat, he resists and lowers his drink. Boyfriend peers into the darkness of the ceramic mug, and as we don't have an overhead light in the living room it makes it hard to see inside. He squints, then looks at me with curiosity. What? I thought you didn't put any lemon in here. I didn't. Then why is there lemon in it? What? I sit up, look inside myself, and I swear I see a lemon wedge in there too. What in the hell? Boyfriend, though not so put off as to stop drinking the neo sicktron, goes on to blame me for my inability to wash dishes properly. I do! Though I don't like to wash dishes I do it because we don't have a dishwasher. Probably because it would take up half of the free space we have to move in our apartment. I don't disagree, because I truly believe that it's possible that maybe I didn't wash that mug. I don't even remember if I grabbed a dirty one off the counter or a clean one from the cupboard. I'm a little fluffy in the brain, anything is possible. As is customary, I get up to make myself some tea, and Boyfriend follows me into the kitchen with the mug of his now-finished beverage. Can we call it a beverage? No. Beverages, I believe, aren't mediciney. What he just finished was not a beverage. He tilts the mug in the light over the stove and looks in to check out the old lemon from his drink. Huh. What now? Look. I peek inside, bracing myself for something disgusting. Only...the mug is empty. Didn't you see it in there too? I really thought I did. There are only two possible conclusions here: 1) In his medicated winding-down-to-sleep time Boyfriend accidentally swallowed the whole wedge of lemon without realizing (meaning his mouth is bigger than I thought), or 2) We just really need a light in our living room.
Time for tea,
K
As I have mentioned before, Boyfriend's go-to when he's ill is that neo sicktron stuff. It puts him out, so I may or may not push it on him even when he's just starting to get a cold, or I just need a little me time. Who says that drugging your partner is a bad thing? We have the best bonding time when he's passed out in the living room. We watch shows and movies together that he wouldn't dream of watching if he were conscious. Sometimes we have a good time doing shadow puppets. Oh wait, that's misleading, I do shadow puppets. The light from the dining room shines into the living room at the best angle so that if he's on the left side of the room the shadows land on him. A while ago I was making him look like Gene Simmons in his Kiss makeup. It's all about fanning your fingers out when you position the shadows over his eyes. And one time when he was snoring, I pressed my hand on his stomach to alarm him into silence, but not alarm him enough to wake up. He went, mmm, like the sound one makes when they just finish a hearty meal, then he rolled to his other side and slept in silence. Making memories people, it's what it's all about. We have a good time when Boyfriend is knocked out and on the couch. Wow, in hindsight, if I led with that last sentence for this blog post, somebody may have notified the authorities and they would have found my ether stash. That would be like, nine different kinds of uncool. So I will thank you all for minding your business.
As will happen, there is the stage before the neo sicktron kicks in and puts Boyfriend out. Also, Boyfriend's a sipper. It tastes gnarly, I say hunker down and chug that bad boy, because bleh. It's just so not good at all. He likes to add wedges of actual lemon sometimes to make it taste more...real lemony? You definitely can't say it makes it taste better. Nothing could do that. One night as I'm gently pushing the bottom of his mug higher to pour more of that faux-lemony crap down his throat, he resists and lowers his drink. Boyfriend peers into the darkness of the ceramic mug, and as we don't have an overhead light in the living room it makes it hard to see inside. He squints, then looks at me with curiosity. What? I thought you didn't put any lemon in here. I didn't. Then why is there lemon in it? What? I sit up, look inside myself, and I swear I see a lemon wedge in there too. What in the hell? Boyfriend, though not so put off as to stop drinking the neo sicktron, goes on to blame me for my inability to wash dishes properly. I do! Though I don't like to wash dishes I do it because we don't have a dishwasher. Probably because it would take up half of the free space we have to move in our apartment. I don't disagree, because I truly believe that it's possible that maybe I didn't wash that mug. I don't even remember if I grabbed a dirty one off the counter or a clean one from the cupboard. I'm a little fluffy in the brain, anything is possible. As is customary, I get up to make myself some tea, and Boyfriend follows me into the kitchen with the mug of his now-finished beverage. Can we call it a beverage? No. Beverages, I believe, aren't mediciney. What he just finished was not a beverage. He tilts the mug in the light over the stove and looks in to check out the old lemon from his drink. Huh. What now? Look. I peek inside, bracing myself for something disgusting. Only...the mug is empty. Didn't you see it in there too? I really thought I did. There are only two possible conclusions here: 1) In his medicated winding-down-to-sleep time Boyfriend accidentally swallowed the whole wedge of lemon without realizing (meaning his mouth is bigger than I thought), or 2) We just really need a light in our living room.
Time for tea,
K
Monday, December 5, 2011
The other woman
I feel that I'm doing a service for our relationship by threatening Boyfriend's life on a constant basis. If I keep him fearful enough, he'll never dare cheat on me. There are too many a-holes out there that think cheating is awesome, when really it's dirty and disgusting. Are you a two-timing dog? Stop reading my blog, you're nasty. Boyfriend knows how I feel about scumbags that cheat. It's still polite to remind him what will happen on the off-chance he strays: I will chain him down and set him on fire while he sleeps. Cheat and die a flaming death, it's a simple enough rule. Around here we call it house rule number three. Number one: I'm not to be unsupervised in the kitchen, rule number two: keep the liquor cabinet stocked, and rule number four: fair fights are for losers. These four rules make ours a happy home. On a side note, I have a job in the kitchen now: Boyfriend lets me peel potatoes. Done it twice so far and haven't screwed it up yet.
There is one exception to the third rule (aka cheat and die a flaming death). That is his other woman, I know about her so it's cool. Boyfriend and I have an agreement about her. She doesn't come to the house and I go on being fine with how much time he spends either in her or on her. I mean, it gives me a break, doesn't it? He shouldn't be my responsibility all the time. I got myself a time-share, the pamphlets were very helpful in making the decision that a part-time Boyfriend was both affordable and enjoyable. I'm all for polygamy. We're a happy trio: Me, Boyfriend and his boat. She and I get on all right, but I can take her or leave her. How put off were you when I wrote about him being in her or on her? If you said, "very put off" your mind is too nasty to read my blog, I'm a lady you ass face. Of course he can go in her and on her, she's a big gal, got a galley and everything. I'm not allowed in the galley unsupervised either.
That's weird, I thought I was wearing sunglasses on top of my head. I was at some point. I know because it was bright outside and I thought of how smart I was to have worn my sunglasses on my head (it's Vancouver out there, we never see the sun). And then I wore them in the sunshine, and then it got dark at like 3 p.m. (if any farmers are reading, Boyfriend says it's your fault for us having to deal with time change twice a year, so maybe you should send him a fruit basket or a pet goat as compensation, he gets rather ruffled about daylight savings time) so I took them off because only fools wear their sunglasses at night. I bet I put them somewhere smart. Just strange I had the sensation of them still being perched in my hair. Maybe it was a ghost bird that was up there, I don't feel it anymore. Yeah, definitely a ghost bird.
The other woman, yes. She's a Mariner...I think that's right, I'm most positive it is. I'm sure Boyfriend will correct me if I'm wrong, I would wager a shiny nickel on it. Seriously, he's a horse I could bet on and win every time...like when he lights the barbeque he'll always say something along the lines of, I like that I can start it with the push of a button. He does. The boat though, I think is the true love of his life. Well, a labour of love anyhow. He's spent bazillions of hours fixing that old gal up and making her pretty. Oh, and making her work too. He actually took her out last summer on some overnight dates. Good job Boyfriend. Their relationship isn't perfect either. It too, is a matador and bull relationship. I don't know how many times Boyfriend has been frustrated with her and thought seriously of drilling holes in her bottom (again, if you're reading this and thinking gross things, stop reading my blog) and letting the ocean have her. I'm pushing for a viking funeral if Boyfriend's frustration reaches its breaking point. Boyfriend just clarified that yes, he does like her better than me.
I need her in our lives though. She can be the woman that he wants to change. Who spends all her time waiting for him to come home to her. Who feeds Boyfriend's love of all things aquatic and puts up with him interrupting her to look at the vessel across the water just to say, Nice boat. I am not the woman for any of these jobs. I'm more like the trophy wife. Not that I'm a wife, and maybe it's just a participant trophy, but still. I'm not into the other stuff I just listed, got it Boyfriend? And if I may just suggest to all the ladies out there, you should tell your fellas to get boats. You would be amazed the stuff you get away with when they're distracted by fixin' up their other woman.
Time for tea,
K
There is one exception to the third rule (aka cheat and die a flaming death). That is his other woman, I know about her so it's cool. Boyfriend and I have an agreement about her. She doesn't come to the house and I go on being fine with how much time he spends either in her or on her. I mean, it gives me a break, doesn't it? He shouldn't be my responsibility all the time. I got myself a time-share, the pamphlets were very helpful in making the decision that a part-time Boyfriend was both affordable and enjoyable. I'm all for polygamy. We're a happy trio: Me, Boyfriend and his boat. She and I get on all right, but I can take her or leave her. How put off were you when I wrote about him being in her or on her? If you said, "very put off" your mind is too nasty to read my blog, I'm a lady you ass face. Of course he can go in her and on her, she's a big gal, got a galley and everything. I'm not allowed in the galley unsupervised either.
That's weird, I thought I was wearing sunglasses on top of my head. I was at some point. I know because it was bright outside and I thought of how smart I was to have worn my sunglasses on my head (it's Vancouver out there, we never see the sun). And then I wore them in the sunshine, and then it got dark at like 3 p.m. (if any farmers are reading, Boyfriend says it's your fault for us having to deal with time change twice a year, so maybe you should send him a fruit basket or a pet goat as compensation, he gets rather ruffled about daylight savings time) so I took them off because only fools wear their sunglasses at night. I bet I put them somewhere smart. Just strange I had the sensation of them still being perched in my hair. Maybe it was a ghost bird that was up there, I don't feel it anymore. Yeah, definitely a ghost bird.
The other woman, yes. She's a Mariner...I think that's right, I'm most positive it is. I'm sure Boyfriend will correct me if I'm wrong, I would wager a shiny nickel on it. Seriously, he's a horse I could bet on and win every time...like when he lights the barbeque he'll always say something along the lines of, I like that I can start it with the push of a button. He does. The boat though, I think is the true love of his life. Well, a labour of love anyhow. He's spent bazillions of hours fixing that old gal up and making her pretty. Oh, and making her work too. He actually took her out last summer on some overnight dates. Good job Boyfriend. Their relationship isn't perfect either. It too, is a matador and bull relationship. I don't know how many times Boyfriend has been frustrated with her and thought seriously of drilling holes in her bottom (again, if you're reading this and thinking gross things, stop reading my blog) and letting the ocean have her. I'm pushing for a viking funeral if Boyfriend's frustration reaches its breaking point. Boyfriend just clarified that yes, he does like her better than me.
I need her in our lives though. She can be the woman that he wants to change. Who spends all her time waiting for him to come home to her. Who feeds Boyfriend's love of all things aquatic and puts up with him interrupting her to look at the vessel across the water just to say, Nice boat. I am not the woman for any of these jobs. I'm more like the trophy wife. Not that I'm a wife, and maybe it's just a participant trophy, but still. I'm not into the other stuff I just listed, got it Boyfriend? And if I may just suggest to all the ladies out there, you should tell your fellas to get boats. You would be amazed the stuff you get away with when they're distracted by fixin' up their other woman.
Time for tea,
K
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)