If Boyfriend was a robot...

It's hard to keep up with technology. Sometimes you hold onto an outdated computer and optimistically think that it's still just as good as a seductive new iPad. Who doesn't love a good delusion (I, for one, say, blow me reality, playing pretend is much more fun)? I write this and I look over to the couch, regarding a robot model that I invested in years ago.

My Old Mandroid sprawls on the couch, far behind on upgrades, rusted and soldered together at the hinges. When he moves, the ancient metal makes the sound of slamming the hood on a beat-up car from the sixties. He's in recharge mode, consuming enough football to keep him operating for another week. Pulling his plug seems much too tempting sometimes. This Old Mandroid comes from the industrial era, where there is the expectation that everything is built to last. Who knew that he would last this long? When I got him I was told that he was a model inspired by Rosie from the Jetsons, but he ended up becoming rogue like the robot from Short Circuit. I mean, Johnny 5 had flavour, don't get me wrong, but I was looking for something that I could keep in line. Old Mandroid doesn't do anything I say. Maybe I should have just gotten a Segway.

Last Sunday, in recharge mode, Old Mandroid was in the same position on the couch. Slurping oil from a can and filling his system with the required sports to power him through until Monday Night Football... I should check the warranty, maybe it's not too late to exchange him. I went into the bedroom to avoid watching him fuel up on testosterone. Not my thing and never will be. Eventually, I hear Old Mandroid burst out with a tone of familiarity:

Gordon!

I assume he's found a tin can with a string, and chats away with another robot from the same assembly line. This is my chance to sneak in and change the channel for at least a few minutes. I can't have Old Mandroid at full power going into a new week. His was been recalled because they short out if they reach their battery capacity. I thought of sending him back when the recall was issued, but it's just so much work on my part. There are all those papers I need to fill out, and I threw out the box he came in. Hello, hassle. When I made it into the living room, Old Mandroid's lit up, by that I mean all of his light sources blink on and off, by an appearance of Gordon Lightfoot at the Grey Cup. Old things and old people that are familiar to him make my man robot happy. Old Mandroid starts doing the robot. Curious indeed. I hope he doesn't blow a circuit.

Following Gordon Lightfoot, a band comes on the screen: Mariana's Trench. Old Mandroid stops dancing and his light display ceases immediately.

Mariana's Trench? Does not compute. Who names a band Mariana's Trench?

After, Carly Rae Jepsen appears on the screen. Old Mandroid repeatedly wheels toward and away from the television as though at some point there will be a moment of recognition.

Girl with one song? Does not compute.

I don't need to tell you who performed next. The boy that sent hundreds of thousands of middle-aged Grey Cup fans into an outrage, Justin Bieber.

Does not compute. Justin Beaver. No results found. Does not compute. Doesnotcompute. Doesnotco...com...cooooom...pppuuuuuuuu...Beeeebeeeeebeeeee...verrrrrrverrrrrr

His mechanical voice gets warbley, changing from normal to unnaturally fast, briefly mutes, then comes back in random words that stretch out. Bolts from Old Mandroid's face fly, the pressure in his head shooting them like bullets. The whole robot contraption starts rattling, and electric blue flashes escape his outputs. Tiny light bulbs that glowed with joy moments ago, buzz when they light up, become increasingly brighter before they shatter in tiny explosions. A rusted hinge attaching his left leg to his tin-man torso gives way, and his newly-free limb clangs to the floor in a heap. His weight, unevenly distributed, causes the Old Mandroid to collapse on the ground. He grabs his leg and beats himself in his teapot-shaped head until black smoke filters out of his ears and his remaining lights go out, lulled into destruction with a hiss sound.

Should've gotten the upgrades. Youth culture destroyed him. And everyone said it would be the She-Hulk. Damn fools.

I do what any good woman would. I use my mallet, pound the remaining pieces as flat as I can and cover it up with a throw rug. I grab my iPad and settle on the couch. It's always good to have a replacement ready.

Time for tea,

K

Inch After Ungodly Inch

I just got busted. Boyfriend's cuffed me to a chair and he's shining a flashlight in my eyes. I squirm, and in doing so, hear the stitches in my yoga pants give. Oh no.

Why'd you do it?

I do what I've seen on television, I hock and spit at his face. Only, I don't have so much practice with hocking and spitting, so the phlegm/saliva concoction I worked up dribbles down my chin, becomes a long line of stretched mucus and gradually settles in a yellow pool on my knee. Rad.

Tough girl, huh? I've dealt with the likes of you before.

Boyfriend pulls his chair beside mine, kicks it with his heel so it spins a hundred and eighty degrees. It stops, and he sits on it backward like so many dudes in the nineties. He leans forward, his face getting closer to mine as he contemplates. The bridge of his nose compresses when he squints at me. There is no torture technique that can best me, he's not as tough as he looks. Then, Boyfriend opens his mouth.

Yous. Yous. Yous. Yous. You-
Alright, I'll tell you everything! Just please, no more Eastern-Canadian talk.

Boyfriend, seeing me crack, feels secure enough to pull a key from his breast pocket. Before I know it, my cuffs are on the table and my wrists are free. What is that table made of, beechwood? Beautiful choice, not for an inquisition room, but perhaps a cozy cottage.

Boyfriend bangs his fist on the table to get my attention. Oh yeah, right.

Why?
Because he's... he's getting so fat.

My hands cover my face. I can't believe I broke so easily. And now, nobody is safe from obesity. Boyfriend puts a hand to his ear. I'm not sure if it's because of my omission, or he's getting so old that he really didn't hear what I said. So I yell.

I SAID HE'S GETTING SO FAT!

He is not. Boyfriend looks down, and by his feet sits a spherical fur ball.
You made me fat. You made you fat. Fat, well, you definitely contributed to that mess. I thought I could save Mutt.

So you hid the dog treats. I nod. But you didn't hide them from the dog. I shake my head. You hid them from me. I nod again.

He looks at me like I just poured vinegar and baking soda in my mouth. My actions made perfect sense. The dog lacks the motor skills to jimmy into my bedside table. He's not the one I worry about. I worry about the middle-aged man who tries to buy affection with treats that give my furry little bastard another roll on his neck and a heart condition. For clarification's sake, by furry little bastard in the last sentence I meant Mutt... this time anyway.

Boyfriend loosens the tie around his neck while he digests the news. Yes, fool. You're the problem. You're turning all the inhabitants of this apartment into wannabe citizens of the United States. Perhaps pump up the fat content some more in our meals; we'll all be super sized and riding scooters in no time. Dream come true.

That's one crime solved. Now, what happened to the ice cream?

Oh no. There was so much. He's going to judge me for taking it down in one sitting. We were supposed to share. There's no way I can tell him the truth.

Yous. Yous. Yous...

Damn it.

Time for tea,

K

Lesson learned

As many of you know, I've been down and out for almost a week now, infected with some nasty disease that I'm trying to kill off. I hate being confined to an apartment where I can be in the bedroom, bathroom, kitchen and living room at the same time. If Tom Petty is right, and he usually is, I belong among the wild flowers. There are no wild flowers in this freaking apartment. There's a plant I keep forgetting to water... not entirely the same thing. I demand freedom! In my exile I have learned a lot. My only touchstone to the world has been Boyfriend, a very dangerous thing indeed. Ladies, Gentlemen and combinations of both, I give you the top three things that have given me insight this week:

1. My being ill turns us into an old couple.
Who knew that all it took was dysfunctional vocal cords and plugged ears? I can't hear him, he can't hear me, I always imagined this being paradise. Turns out it's just aggravating as hell. On the rare moments I have seen Boyfriend during my stint in the joint, this has been the way our conversations go:

Can you pass me the remote? (To give a better idea of my voice, only random syllables make sounds, and more often than not, it sounds like a honking goose in the distance.)
What? (His lips move, but he might as well be talking to me underwater. I hold my breath -- not because I think we're underwater, I'm trying to make my ears pop. Though, if this were insight number three, the underwater thing could be possible.)
Can you pass me the remote? (Honk, honk, honk.)
I can't hear you, what? (Insert sounds of the wharf here.)
What? (I point at the remote on the table beside him.)
What? You want some tea? I'll make you some tea. (For the record, I can't be upset. Tea is always a good solution if you don't know what I want.)

2. Boyfriend is an illusionist
Night one of system breakdown: Boyfriend disappears in the night. Ta da! He reappears in the morning, sleeping on the couch. Boyfriend disappears every day after work too, but somehow, our fridge keeps accumulating more juice, even when I haven't seen Boyfriend. Ta da! Mysterious. Also, while I decompose on the couch, my collection of cups keeps vanishing. I find them clean in the dish rack later on. Honesty time: I'm actually a professional when it comes to ignoring people. Ta da! I have to tip my hat to Boyfriend though, he's done better than usual when it comes to taking care of me.

3. When your medication advises you not to drink alcohol, don't drink alcohol.
This one stemmed from a case of mistaken identity. On day two of the system breakdown I ran out of juice. Rookie mistake. However, good news, there was margarita mix in the fridge and carbonated water too. Put the two together and you have one decent non-alcoholic beverage. That being said, unbeknown to your protagonist, the last time Boyfriend used the margarita mix, he thought it would be a smart idea to put tequila right in the mix bottle, saving him a valuable thirty seconds the next time a margarita craving hit. The thing about being sick, especially when you can't eat, is that you compensate by drinking more. I polished off the margarita mix and soda water pretty quickly, if I'd been able to taste anything, I'm certain I would've walked away after my first sip.

A short while later the transition happens...

I remember watching some sort of movie involving robots. At least I'm pretty sure I did, the idea that I latched onto had to come from somewhere. I got off the bed (the memory is a little fuzzy, though Boyfriend was delighted to fill me in the next morning) and my throat hurt like I'd spent the last hour reaching my hand into my mouth to claw my larynx (possible). I went into the bathroom, not sure why, then wandered to the living room to see Boyfriend on the couch watching sports something. He says I sat beside him, silent for a moment before I started rambling about robots. I was quite convinced, it seems, that robots were on the cusp of taking over the planet, and the moment I was healthy, they were going to wipe out the human race. I was rather stressed about the whole situation. Then Boyfriend says, I stood up, went into the bedroom, and passed out like a fourteen-year-old after a drinking contest.

The next morning when he recounted the strangeness, it didn't make sense until he called me a drunk. At least my plugged ears finally gave me a break so I could listen to the story.

Why am I a drunk? (Honkity, honk, honk)
I saw the empty bottle of margarita mix. That thing was loaded with tequila.

I shook my head insistently and yelled, Virgin, as loud as I could. Shame nobody popped in at that moment. It could have been a great misunderstanding. Also a shame the She-Hulk was down for the count too. I wrote quickly in my notebook, ripped out the page and handed Boyfriend my note:

IOU one beating from the She-Hulk. She'll be in touch when she's ready to brawl. Love you.

Time for tea,

K

Silent Conversations

Over the years, Muse and I have developed an acute ability to have conversations without saying anything, without resorting to the mime game. How you ask? Eyeballs and eyebrows tell you everything you need to know. If we go to a restaurant and somebody sitting in the booth behind us gets into my personal space we'll have a silent conversation where our eyeballs and eyebrows say this:

How do you feel about that man's arm splayed across the booth like that?
Not too great, Muse. If it persists, I may lose it on him.
Want me to deal with him?
Yes, but no. You always look out for me, don't you?
Of course I do! (Even though she doesn't say it, I hear her voice getting a little pitchy in my head. I'm quite sure we both hear it, as we both bust out with laughter over our muted conversation.)

Seriously, I love that girl. This conversation technique is something that I thought Boyfriend would get the hang of over the years too, but no. The best example of his inability for this happened whilst we were in line at Tim Hortons. The weather was warmer, and ahead of us in line was this buxom middle-aged woman in cargo shorts. Now I've been conditioned by the world's entertainment landscape to have very little attention span. As such, I can't simply stand in line and be fine. My eyes wander and I catch something that I really want Boyfriend to notice. This is how Boyfriend reacts when I try to converse with him sans words:

Why are you looking at me like that? I pointedly stare at the woman's calf in front of us then meet Boyfriend's gaze again. This is where he's supposed to give me an eye bulge or something that says, "Wow." I have to repeat the action, stare, and meet his eyes. I help him out by tilting my head and mouthing the word, "look." Finally, he bends his neck and takes it in.

Wow. That's a pretty bad tattoo, hey? I squint at him with a "What are you, stupid?" look and just wait for the lady in front of us to turn around. Thankfully, she's not the in-your-face-biker-lady type that she's built to be, and just ignores Boyfriend. I'm surprised she didn't whip around with a switchblade and cut him for his remark on her botched, who I assume to be Michael Jackson, tattoo. I shove my elbow into his sternum and give him a "Shut the hell up" stare, which is quickly followed by my "Buy me some timbits" gaze.

Muse, thank you for knowing what I'm saying without having to say it. Boyfriend, I've enrolled you in a mime class, it's only the first step. Hope it helps.

Time for tea,

K

It's not how it sounds

I've admitted on many occasions that I am not the domestic type. Especially when it comes to being in a kitchen, interpreting the foreign concept of recipes, or making anything edible. I don't even speak the language, but maybe I should start to learn some stuff, because at one point I was forming some pretty incorrect opinions.

Early on in our relationship, Boyfriend introduced me to his friend, Artois. They're the best buddy types, finding an especially strong bond in good food. Artois and his wife had us over for dinner several times, and it was clear from the beginning that Artois and Boyfriend got on very well.

That being said, there was a time years ago, when Boyfriend was in the kitchen doing his thing. He has this almost choreographed dance when he makes dinner, the movement is fluid: saute this, season that, sip beer, strain, peek in the oven, slice, check the score on the game, whisk, and taste the perfection. It's really something else to watch. That man just needs a frilly apron and he is ready for his own television show. On this particular night, Boyfriend stops in the middle of his routine and looks me dead in the eyes as I watch from my desk, undoubtedly procrastinating on some kind of work I need to do. Boyfriend's eyes sparkle as they do when he has a brilliant idea.

I gotta call Artois.
Now? What for?
We need to have another rub party.

Silence comes out of my mouth. My mind repeatedly ponders the words that just came out of him. I probably just heard it wrong, by my thoughts keep coming back to... like a rub... and tug party? I know. Wrong. Gross. Much too much. We hadn't been dating for a lengthy time. I thought maybe Boyfriend's into the occasional stint with other males. That's not unheard of. But how do I feel about that? Is it a deal breaker because of the dude thing or because of the polygamous thing? Would a part-time bisexual boyfriend be a bad thing? Lots to think about. Maybe he doesn't need a frilly apron. He would look great in one. I'm confused now, how can he not want to take me to the ballet but be into a rub party with Artois?

I bet he could use more rub too. I've needed rub for awhile.
Okay, you need to stop talking.
I thought you liked the rub.
I beg your pardon?
I put it on my meat.
Can we talk about this maybe after dinner?
I rubbed the pork loin.

My hands go immediately to my ears. There's no way I can have dinner now when he's rubbed down our food. I start humming to drown out the sound of any other gross omissions. I'm certain there's panic all over my face, and Boyfriend picks up a large spice container and holds it so I can see that it's almost empty. We've switched topics, it's safe to have conversation again. I cautiously lower my hands.

So? It's empty. Buy some more spice.
This is my rub container. I'm almost out. That's why I need to make more.

I read the label on the container that he's brought closer to my face: "Boyfriend's poultry/pork rub."

Well why the hell is it called rub? You can't blame me for getting the wrong idea.
...Because you rub it onto the meat.

Boyfriend looks at me like I'm stupid. It's a good thing we clarified this before I could call or text the girls. Being a closet bisexual for life would have quickly altered his life's narrative if I'd run away as my plan A strongly urged. Get the facts, kids. Learn the cooking lingo: there's plenty of words/phrases in kitchens that can cause confusion because of how they sound: Shucking, pulled pork, dutch oven, shove it in the bread box, meat grinder, the list goes on. Beware.

Time for tea,

K

You think you can fool me?

Ever since I can remember I've been opposed to onions. We just don't jive. Their texture and taste just make for one gnarly experience for this kid. For some reason, the smell of sauteed onions is delicious, but any vegetable that makes you cry is not worth ingesting. As a child I used to tell people I was allergic to onions so I could avoid eating them. This trick only worked on Boyfriend for a short while until he saw me mowing down some chips and salsa. Ploy over and it was time to come clean and sound like a child as I did so:

I hate onions. I'm sure you're aware that they're harvested in hell.

Boyfriend replies with an exasperated sigh and shake of the head. The man never takes me seriously. He responds the same way when I say I don't like sports, the last eighth of a cereal box, grown-up women in pigtails, washing the dog and the incorrect use of an en dash. He complains that I'm too fussy, to which I reply, I'm not fussy, I just know what I like. Also, I can't fault the salsa makers -- they don't make it just for me so I can deal. Boyfriend though, he knows of my distaste.

Boyfriend, being the sole person allowed to make food in our kitchen, has tasked himself with manipulating my palate to suit what he likes. He's gone to great lengths to finely chop up onions and put them into his culinary creations. I wish I could say it was rare, but it's several times a week that I find onions in my food. As is customary of my people (I'm not sure who my people are, but I'm certain they are out there), I use my fork to do a little edible exploration. I find these bits of disgustingness and scrape them to the edge of my plate, shooting Boyfriend a threatening look as I do so. I don't mind taking minuscule bites in order to spitefully avoid onions; I was the kid that ate peas one at a time, I've been training for this my whole life.

I admit, though. On the occasions when Boyfriend does trick me and I shovel his latest edible concoction into my mouth (that sounds gross), he gets up out of his chair, points in my face and declares with such pride:

You just ate onions, and a lot of them. You can stop being a princess and just eat them like a regular person from now on.

You think so, do you. I think not. To be contrary, I push my plate away, declare I'm full and since I forgot to bring my ninja stars to dinner, I throw cous cous in his face and leave the room. An exit meant for a movie star if ever there was one.

So now, I'm on guard. I'm not paranoid, per se, but I worry that he's snuck onions into everything he feeds me. Did you rub onions on my eggs? There's definitely onions in these fish tacos, I can taste them. I detect notes of onion in my ice cream. He maintains that, no, there are no onions in anything, but I swear he's messing with me. I've even started snooping around to see if there are onions in the apartment before he makes dinner. And yes, in spite of watching him cook for us every night, I question the ingredient list. When he reaches to scratch his head, I yell, AHA! ONIONS! and then he regards me as though I'm unbalanced.

If this is the reason I end up in the loony bin, I'll be pissed. Why are you here? My Boyfriend tricked me into eating onions. At least I think he did. I'm not entirely certain.

Time for tea,

K

Period or Placenta?

I don't know what the big deal is. When I was in elementary school, boys were all aware of the facts and given a play-by-play on how the system works. Boys love play-by-plays. Frankly, I'm not sure why it comes as a surprise: Girls have periods.

I knew that Boyfriend was one of those in-the-dark homeboys the day I temporarily moved into his place while searching for my own. I just brought the basics: a few clothes, my face, contacts, a samurai sword I use to ward off marauders, and yes, tampons. I unpacked my suitcase, the last to find a temporary home in Boyfriend's place was what most men will have you believe is the most fearful thing in the world. I find morning wood much more unsettling than a box of Tampax...there's a size joke in there somewhere, let me work on it. I'm not sure why boys are so scared of periods and tampons; it's not like they have to watch us cork the bottle, as it were. There I was, crouched and reaching under the bathroom sink to make room for a small box of feminine hygiene products when Boyfriend comes and stands in the door frame.

Whatcha doing? He glances down to the box beside my foot. Oh. He turns to make a getaway before whatever is in that box can touch him and cause him to sprout a vagina upon contact. That's how it works you know. Proven fact. By proven, I mean, illegitimate.

What does it look like I'm doing?

He didn't run fast or far enough, there's an unspoken rule that if you're in earshot you have to reply. Oh! Got it. At least a box of tampons has the size you need. Pow. Outta the park.

I just didn't realize that you would bring...those...here.
You know what? You're right. We haven't considered the alternative. Knock me up so I don't have to bleed from the crotch for a few months, then knock me up again when we have a miniature you running around. Let's just go with that cycle until my monthly one stops altogether. Sure, we'll be ladled with kids neither of us care to have at the moment, but you won't have to put up with tampons. Childbirth is always the preferred way to go; I'm all for having my region crack open like an egg and get sewn back together. If it's period or placenta, I'd go placenta. Brilliant plan, Boyfriend.

I lift my hand up for a high five. Boyfriend, missing my sarcasm, awkwardly presses his palm to mine and then quickly shoves his hands in his pockets. He nervously and purposefully avoids my eye contact.

You're on it right now, aren't you?
You better believe it.
I'm going to take off.
Probably a good idea. I'll call you in a couple days.

Time for tea,

K

The perfect disguise

This short story took place right after Halloween. Boyfriend and I were on the cusp of our fourth year anniversary; as everyone knows, you're entitled to let yourself go after the first anniversary. Before that time, you hide the heinous, actual person you are underneath the perfect disguise. When we started dating, Boyfriend dressed better, shaved every day, wore his hair perfectly coiffed. He would skip out of time watching "the game" (what is this game anyways?) with the boys to chauffeur me around. Boyfriend was quieter back then, as if he knew that too much of his botched Eastern-Canadian turn of phrase was more than enough to get served with a death sentence from this woman. No offense to the population of Eastern-Canadians, I'm sure you're all very nice people. How are yous anyhow? ...Writing that hurts as much as losing a limb, I imagine. Then there was me, perfect makeup, calculated outfits and irrational bitch attitude bound tighter than an Amish chastity belt. Those were the days.

On this particular early November evening, Boyfriend and I busted into our Halloween candy stash. Since our apartment is hot enough to boil water without turning on the stove, we've taken to keeping our chocolate in the fridge. I also like the snap of a frozen Snickers bar when you bite into it, in spite of the occasional flecks of chocolate that fly into the air as a result. Trust me, this information is pertinent to the story. This was one of the rare occasions that we cuddled on the couch (pardon me for steering clear of Tabasco breath and limited cushion space) as we ate our chocolate. One of us, not naming any names, found a delightful low-budget film on Netflix. Something about boats and warships or something dumber than stupid. BAD MOVIE. When Boyfriend's watching a movie like this, or football, or what have you, I let my head fall on his chest and nap. It's spending time together without the agony of spending time together. We'll call that a win for both sides.

Eventually, Boyfriend shakes me awake, complaining that my heavy head has made his arm fall asleep or some nonsense. I sit up, catch his eye, and he smiles like a buffoon at my unimpressed expression.

What?
I just love you.
Uh huh.

I make the executive decision to leave before the She-Hulk wakes up too, and finds him smiling at her like that. New plan: Brush teeth and go to bed.

It takes me a moment to let everything come into focus. You know that haze when you're brutally woken up by an alarm clock or dumb ass. I'm already halfway through brushing my teeth when I look in the mirror. Half my face is dotted with moles; tell the Polka Dot Door to eat its heart out. My face is a constellation-seeker's paradise; there's Cassiopeia on the side of my nose, Orion stretches across my forehead and eyelid, and I do believe that's Perseus over near my chin. It's like the freckles that come a-callin' in the summertime showed up for a winter family reunion and they're all bundled up in thick, dark-brown parkas. Only on the left side of my face. I reach up, scared that this is the skin cancer that will have me losing half my face to scar tissue upon removal. I touch one of the spots that make up Orion's belt, and when I take my finger away, the mole latches onto my fingertip and pulls off my face. I do what any rational person would do, I put the detached mole into my mouth. Milk chocolate. That messy idiot.

As I stalk back to the living room, I pray for Boyfriend. I think the She-Hulk just woke up.

Time for tea,

K

The Good Ol' Hockey Game...

...Is the best game you can name? Really? The folks out there that share this mentality are just lacking in imagination. Let's try together, shall we? Perhaps leap frog is the best game you can name...or scrabble...or that game with the stick and the hoop, though I can't name that one so I suppose that doesn't count. Not that it looks like good fun anyways. Duck, duck, goose because you get to hit people...hit/tap, potato/potato. The point is, any number of these things are better than hockey. I'm going to complain about one more thing and then I will do my best to maintain optimism about a sport that I don't care to familiarize myself with. Why did I have to go with one thing to complain about? It's so hard to choose. Alright. Got it:

Last night Boyfriend watched a show with old dudes in monkey suits. Old dudes and monkey suits, you have my interest for eleven seconds unless you're more than a one trick pony and can make with some magic and bring the panache. This show did not. I asked what this was, it was not from Boyfriend's usual repertoire of sports, news, the whittling hour with Hans Olaf, and action movies with stars who are currently sitting on parts of themselves that went farther south than one ever anticipates. Essentially this show is the Oscars for hockey. Boyfriend called it the Hall of Fame, I think. I call it tedious and dry. Here is my complaint: In the Oscars, the music plays you off if your speech is too long. Bald dude whose name I don't know and whose career I don't care about, you do go on. And on. They should edit that shit for television. No. Wait. I don't care. They had their eleven seconds of my time before I dry heaved and marched out. Complaining over.

This is one of the stories that I know some folks have been waiting anxiously to read; I've retold it countless times, so here it is. The tale of my first and only, ever hockey game. I'm pandering and it makes me She Hulk at myself. That's not a good look on me...She Hulk versus She Hulk, the main event where neither personality survives.

The year was 2010. It was a balmy September afternoon, Wednesday, and a young girl's dreams were about to come true. Not my dreams, I'm sure some kid was going to the hockey arena and she was really looking forward to it. I was not. Her excitement was contagious like an infection. It was a night of pre-season hockey that I will never forget, Vancouver Canucks versus Edmonton Oilers in a head-to-head battle/clash of the titans extravaganza. Vividly I recall our vantage point, Section 310, Row 6, I was in Seat 3. I know you're gaping open-mouthed at your computer screen amazed at how smart I am with sports and how accurate my memory of that night was. What can I say? It was an enchanting evening. Me remembering things, that's an adorable thought. Cards on the table? I found the ticket when I was going through a purse I haven't used in a long while. Cool. Free order of bandara pizza bread from Boston Pizza on the back. I wonder if this is still legit.

The evening began at the Shark Club for dinner. By dinner, I mean a rushed appetizer that Boyfriend ate most of, what an asshole romantic shared plate that was as intimate as the evening would have been if the place wasn't so packed and I had three separate strangers touching me at all times. As I am a doddler by nature, I don't much care to rush, but I swear, 15 minutes before the puck dropped he had me running down the street to Rogers Arena Clearly he was unaware at how difficult it is to run with hands full of a salsa-dripping quesadilla. By the time I handed the doorman my ticket, my palms looked like I had been playing patty cake with a baboon's ass. chasing the promise of visual ecstasy that is hockey.

We passed through the ubiquitous crowd of people clad in Canuck blue. Freaking lemmings. Have you any idea how very long we waited in line for beer? Me either, I'm not sure it would be worse to be in the desert needing that same beer to quench my thirst but with Boyfriend's delightful company, one loses track of time. Now, Boyfriend and I made a deal prior to this lovely night out, wherein he paid for the tickets and dinner, and I would pay for the beer at the game. Sounded like a good deal to me. Beer is cheap. Beer at a sports arena, I learned, is not. When a person such as myself is in a place such as this, she needs all the liquid sports tolerance she can slug back nothing more than to enjoy the experience. She just did not expect it to come at such a price.

We sit in our seats just as the show starts. The lights begin an ostentatious night club display and the television thing lights up with exciting words that flash across the screen, motivating housewives and househusbands to twirl their dishtowels in the air and scream something like, "We just got a dishwasher! We don't need these anymore!" I look at the time clock and think, I just have to survive to the end of this. Optimism time: there are only three acts of this play, not quarters like I originally thought. Push the ceiling as the kids say!...they don't say that? Well they will after this.

Act one of the sports play: the heroine (this part is played by me), struggles with the idea of enjoying an evening at the arena. She has officially given up on optimism and braces for hockey to drain her of her life force. When I say she's given up on optimism, she's going to stop correcting the negativity in this blog post. I can't NOT complain about things. I am She-Hulk, hear me bitch.

I learned something very interesting within the first few seconds of the match: Boyfriend was cheering for the other team. One does not make friends at a hockey game when one's other half is calling the home team a bunch of pussies. How to deal with this whole thing: drink beer. Every time Boyfriend yells at the Canucks or cheers on the Oilers, the circle of people around us scream at us or try to cause us to explode through creepy bulging-eye contact and what I assume are poorly exercised telepathic muscles. I have a solution that makes the situation better, I point at Boyfriend and announce to everyone in earshot that it's him, and only him that feels that way. I live and breathe Canucks -- though, by the time I've implemented this master plan, I'm a few beers in and don't notice that I'm saying Ganucks. No matter. It's not me that they hate.

Now, I'm sure I've mentioned that Boyfriend is a creature of habit. Boyfriend has a tradition when he goes to games at Rogers Arena; about a minute before the period is over he leaves to go to that restaurant/pub dealy they have in there. I'm half in the bag when Boyfriend grabs my elbow and whisks me away. When he walks fast, I need to run to keep up. Count it folks, that's twice thus far he's made me run in the same night. Why do I need to run? I have no intentions of ever needing to make a fast getaway, well, unless the folks in our section turn on us Frankenstein-mob style. We get to the restaurant, sit on bar stools, hammer down a couple more beers, then my hand is grabbed and I'm pulled out in a rush to get back to our seats because the game will start again soon. Need more beverages. We stop and order a couple more for the next third of the game. Only, I open my wallet, and moths fly out. I trained them to do that; I love a non-verbal cue that signals that I'm out of money.

Boyfriend rolls his eyes. Let's be real for a moment here: what did he expect when he tried to dupe me into buying beer all night long? Boyfriend pulls cash from his pocket. You know, Boyfriend, there's enough there for nachos. And CHURROS! My excitement factor gets out of control when I've been sipping the sports tolerance juice.

We get to our seats, arms ladled with popcorn, nachos, beer, candy, a fake gold grill we bought off a gangster wannabe and churros. That'll teach him not to feed me a proper dinner. This is how one does a soccer game in style. Hockey. It was a hockey game. My insincerest apologies.

Act two starts with a score of I don't know what with two teams I can't differentiate. I've long since forgotten the first period and how we're the neighbours everyone hates. Frankly, at this point I don't care. Act two is when the heroine's heart warms to the sport and she begins to cheer. Only in her haze she doesn't know what or who she cheers for, she just screams like a banshee when those around her do. Boyfriend yells something about a penalty, I get my cavewoman grunt on. Our neighbours boo us. The Canucks do something that warrants excitement from the crowd, I do as the Romans do and scream for those in the arena. The hockey neighbours boo Boyfriend for being contrary; seemed like fun, who wouldn't turn on Boyfriend under the same circumstance? Let's face it; I had no clue what was going on. When I spilled a drink I clapped my hands and tried to high five the guy that ended up wearing it. He did not high-five me back.

Just before the inning ends, Boyfriend grabs my arm and he dashes to the pub/restaurant thingmy; I stumble to keep up. This time at the bar goes by even faster. It feels like I blink and we're back in our seats with more drinks in our hand. Act three, score still unknown, not sure if there have been any penalties, the heroine squeals with delight at the zamboni then konks out for the duration of the period.

I wake to the sounds of the crowd when Boyfriend shakes me awake.

Is it over?
Yeah.
Did they live happily ever after?
Who?
Do we ever have to do this again?
Wouldn't waste my money.
Cool.

Somehow we ended up home. I can't say precisely how far Boyfriend needed to carry me, but we both learned a valuable lesson. Hockey and I just can't handle each other.

Time for tea,

K

Women's studies applied to time

In college I took a women's studies class. In hindsight, I'm not sure why. A room full of raging estrogen and one homosexual man isn't entirely my idea of a good time. Actually, it was a good time, that gay guy and I really hit it off; I really saw a future there...I could have been the next Liza. Never too late to fulfil that dream. Calling all gays: report to me immediately for unconditional friendship -- I will sing at your wedding and entertain you with stories of being the toast of the town and Queen of Broadway. Note to self: become the toast of the town and Queen of Broadway, gays don't befriend liars. What was my point? Yes. Women's studies being an easy class in college. The answer for everything was, "the body," I kid you not. Why do women fall victim to the glass ceiling? Their body. Why is it that women are the ones that have babies and not men? Their body. Why is the thesis of your essay about misogyny and all of your supporting paragraphs are random facts about femininity? That's the body of the essay... A+ for me. To be honest, I don't know that I learned anything from that class... except that my gay friend wasn't into me in the romantic sense.

My point here is that in order to get an A in our relationship, Boyfriend really only needs to know one single thing. Just one. Boyfriend has yet to learn that the answer to everything in our relationship is time. I'm a huge advocate for me-time, it mellows me out and in turn, I'm a nicer girlfriend. During long-winded fights, I sometimes need time to get away from his non-sensical recycled points. This break I get allows me to put things into perspective and figure out that a heated debate about non-existent iPhone apps maybe aren't worth the effort. Sometimes, all the time that's needed is a subtle pause. For instance, the other day:

I stared at myself in the mirror, you know how girls do. You know us ladies, we're all pretty faces and no brains and that's why we make less money than men (did I learn this in college or was it something I saw on MTV?). I did the lean-in so my face practically touched my reflection. Okay, I was being narcissistic and trying to make out with myself, sue me. I needed to see if there was any presence of wrinkles, my skin was clear and my trademark you're-an-idiot-smirk was in fine form. I stood up straight and fluffed my hair to see what I was working with. Then I made the mistake of turning to the side and to my horror, saw the slight overhang of a muffin top that was making itself comfortable around my midriff. Le damn. Boyfriend came in to brush his teeth, so I asked him what every girl has asked their significant half at one time or another.

Boyfriend, I need an honest opinion. Do you think I'm getting f-
Yes.
-at? Beg pardon?

He smiles. I've never wanted to decapitate him so much in my life. The head would be the first to go. Don't be gross, I mean the one that does all of his thinking. Seriously? I'm talking about the one that I can't take seriously. Alright stop. I don't mean his penis. I mean the head that perches on his neck just waiting for me to rip it off and punt it like a football. He'd like that. Every man should know that when a woman asks for an honest opinion she's looking for reassurance. No woman wants the actual truth, especially when the question isn't even finished before the answer comes into existence. For the ladies out there who read this, shake their head and say, "Oh no, my relationship is built on a foundation of honesty," you're probably just shacked up with the gents that are either liars or mama's boys. To you I say, God bless ignorance. But Boyfriend, he failed. He must have missed the class on how to feign sincerity when you lie through your teeth. You would think something that affected his ability to continue life would become a second nature to him. Bad Boyfriend. He pressed his luck and took it one step further. As if his cockamamie smile wasn't enough for an immediate outburst of She-Hulk deliciousness, he reached out and gave my overhang a squeeze. What happened next is kind was kind of a blur; fast forward a few steps to the attempted murder. I tackled him like a linebacker and we both ended up in the shower fully-clothed (this isn't a porno after all). For the copycats out there, a word of advice: you can't drown somebody with a shower head alone. Perhaps the issue was lack of water pressure, I'm not sure. The She-Hulk altered her kill plan and lifted the shower head above her head, preparing to bludgeon him like so many cartoon folk do with frying pans. A war-cry filled the bathroom as the She-Hulk brought the pain. She threw her arms down as though she swung an axe, and Boyfriends hands lifted to guard his face from the attack.

The seconds that ensued were possibly the worst of my life. There was no climactic destruction. Boyfriend, feeling brave, peeked through his fingers to see why he wasn't pulverized. The She-Hulk, in a frenzy, continued to swing back and forth with the shower head, it was to her great misfortune that the hose attached to the wall was not so long as to reach Boyfriend's cranium. Well, piss. Boyfriend let go of a laugh, picked himself up from where he cowered in the bathtub, toweled off and sauntered to the bedroom to change. The She-Hulk was left howling in the bathroom, angry at her failure.

The lesson here, Boyfriend, is that moments like this will stop happening if you take the time to pause, disagree with any shortcomings I may or may not have and give me the answer I want to hear. Problem solved. Remember it this way: Take a pause, or I will kill you.

Interesting though that this last She-Hulk experience came about because of an issue with the female body. Maybe that women's studies prof wasn't entirely the type that chased chickens in her free time. It is a fun pastime though.

Time for tea,

K

The impossibility of it all

I know many things for certain. This is what I'm sure of at the moment: my new pedicure looks super fantastic, everybody likes all the same things I do because my taste is impeccable, and PMS is a free ticket to get away with anything. Suck it, testosterone.

But maybe I'm not so sure of my opinions anymore; Boyfriend shook up my confidence on all three that are listed above. Right now, he's accusing the sports broadcaster of stealing his opinions, so that should tell you why I'm upset that Boyfriend's altering my perception.

Shattered Perception #1
 I came home today to show off the seductive canvases that are my toenails...that's never a sentence you think you will write, but here we are. It's like I never expected to ever use the phrase, "Get your tongue out of your ass," but Mutt has a disgusting fascination with his own anus. I digress. I traipse into the apartment and do Rockette-style kicks as I enter the living room. Boyfriend doesn't take his eyes off the football game.

Uh. Hi.
Hey.

His eyes stay glued to the dudes in spandex. Not only has his missed the sight of my smashing feet, he also ignored my high kicks with chorus line precision. I wasn't a ballet dancer until I was eight for nothing. Well, that's a lie, it was for nothing. I caught sight of my can-can spectacle in the mirror, it was more in the style of my four-year-old nephew doing karate. I stop immediately, though I still think it counts as a grand entrance. No matter. When determined, I can make him notice things. I leap onto the sectional and lie down. I prop myself up on my elbows and give him the Non-Wife stare. Not being locked down by ring and by name has the advantage of an easier exit if I get sufficiently pissed off or neglected. I just need him to see the "pay attention to me or else" look on my face. Nothing. So I do what any rational woman would: I inch my feet closer and closer to him. He's not blinking. I briefly fret and wonder if maybe he died since our salutation and I was too self-involved to notice. Boyfriend eventually takes a sip of beer. He's fine...but not for long.

If only he acknowledged me when I came home, my feet wouldn't have worked their way up to his face and gripped his nose between my big toe and the others. Trust me when I say, holy flip out. How was I supposed to know that he wouldn't acquire a foot fetish while I was out today? My apologies, Boyfriend, for trying to be involved with any new interests that I imagine you collect throughout our time apart. It's called growth. Also, I've learned a valuable lesson about putting feet in your face, it's a no-no.

Shattered Perception #2
Recently, I changed my shampoo and conditioner. Boyfriend's been so busy doing old man things (building ships in bottles, muttering about news reports, combing his moustache and the like) I really didn't expect him to notice. Please note: Boyfriend doesn't have a moustache; I like fluff filler, deal with it. Like I posted last week, we're in a good groove right now, so we cuddled up on the couch to watch a movie. Cute, right? Well, that being said cute is not our thing, and any cuteness will not last. I curl up beside him on the couch and rest my head on his shoulder. This is how a lazy night with the other half is meant to be spent. I hear soft sniffs and I wonder if perhaps Boyfriend is showing the first signs of a seasonal cold. I hope he doesn't because I don't deal well with man-illness. As a Non-Wife I'm not patient and nurturing. He lifts up his left hand, the defensive/She-Hulk side of me goes on alert. If he ruins this sweet moment by wiping a drippy nose on his hand and potentially wiping that nasty hand on me that's it. I will end him. His hand comes up, but doesn't leave my field of vision. Instead, it swoops forward, palms my face like a basketball and he pushes me away from him. All I can do is go with the motion and I flop on my side like a rag doll (not of the Aerosmith variety).

You asshole. What's your problem?
Your hair stinks. What is that, dog shampoo? She-Hulk powers activate.
You thought it was WHAAAAAAAT? I will have you know that this is Shampure.
He responds with silence.
Aveda, you damn fool.
There is a gradual pause before Boyfriend speaks, Is that some foreign language for dog shampoo?
She-Hulk attack.

I was right; PMS will let you get away with anything, attempted murder included. Since this is true, it has to mean that I'm right about everything else too. Self-confidence, as well as relationship balance, restored.

Time for tea,

K

The Non-Wife

Boyfriend and I are in the midst of a great stretch in our relationship. I feel like the blog shouldn't be all She-Hulk and death threats, but a place where I can give appreciation to Boyfriend for his goodness as well as for his ubiquitous list of shortcomings. I learned the word ubiquitous from one Mr. Bill Cosby. Is he still alive? I haven't seen a jello commercial with him in awhile. How is he faring? Googled it. He's living under an alias. His real name is William Henry Cosby Jr. That must be why so many other people think he's dead too. But he's not, and he's tired of the accusations. Allegedly.

I have to give a tip of the hat to Boyfriend for several reasons:

1) He bought me chocolate as if he knew the She-Hulk was having her lady time.
2) He made me tea when I was in the tub the other day, and I only had to demand it twice.
3) He vacuumed the apartment when Fat shred cardboard everywhere. No more cat fiestas at our place.
4) He was considerate enough to get drunk at a friend's place on Saturday night so Sunday morning I didn't have to watch football. That is, until Boyfriend realized what day it was and figuratively sodomized my Sunday morning when he came home. For the sake of the people that I know who read this I'm going to bold the word figuratively. That's a lesson you only learn thrice. Some people don't get metaphors or sarcasm and that's how rumours start and S&M freaks show up at your door. The good news about that instance was one of those fellas was selling Girl Scout cookies for his niece.
5) He lost his football picks (something about betting...?) and searched everywhere to find that piece of paper. This is happy news because it means I'm not the only loser in the house. I later found that paper in a sweater. See? Good things happen when I steal money from his pockets. Positive reinforcement on questionable behaviour? Check.
6) He didn't passive-aggressively point out that laundry needs to be done. Therefore, our dirty clothes runeth over. Literally. That pile has become a mountain that is subject to avalanches. I should put up signs for the snowboarders before they try to go down some of the runs. However, delightful news for me because I haven't done laundry in a week.
7) He's taking us to Vegas for Christmas.
8) This one is the most important of all: He bought me a typewriter. When the world ends and the power is out, I'll still be able to blog last-century style. I'll fashion the posts into paper airplanes and send them off the balcony to come find you. A story of the She-Hulk destroying Boyfriend will give you comfort at the end of the world. You're welcome.

Now, with all of this peace in the house of She-Hulk, I feel like this is a moment to decree a promotion. To myself. I will no longer be just a girlfriend, but will henceforth be referred to as the Non-Wife. Mostly because I'm not wifely and Non-Wife sounds like an awesome title to have. A Non-Wife would never be found barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen. What's a kitchen? This prestigious position will not be taken lightly; I promise to uphold this made-up oath of the Non-Wife:

Never will I clean or cook. I do not own an apron, nor do I intend to. I'm not accountable, rational or fair. I will forever be frivolous, temperamental and ridiculous. A Non-Wife has the right to resist her nurturing, soft qualities and instead be a self-indulgent psycho.

Ah, yes. A period of ease in a relationship needs to be shaken up with a new title. And I got a raise. By raise I mean I've given up on stealing from his pockets and just go right for his wallet. I feel like this relationship promotion should come with a scepter or tiara. No wait. Neither. I want a giant gong. Nothing says relationship success like a giant gong.

Time for tea,

K

Metaphors of dead bats and tightrope walkers

A couple months ago, I was walking down the street and happened upon something unexpected on the sidewalk. A dead bat. I named him Mr. Magoo. He was right in the middle of the sidewalk in a position that made him look like he was about to be crucified. Being the kind of person that I am, I loomed over the dead Addam's Family pet and took in the sight. Remembering the little beasty recently, I can't help but feel like that dead bat is the perfect symbol of mine and Boyfriend's relationship.

I'm just going to give you a moment to let that sink in before I explain...

Bats in general are freaky-ass rodents of the night. They're tiny succubus animals that don't see clearly and cause fright which -- on a side note -- is why they are the mascots for Halloween. On a camping trip a long while ago we were by a lake at night. The little flying horrors came out in droves and dive-bombed the area. Strange that all the screaming didn't frighten them away, Boyfriend has quite the set of pipes. What I'm saying is that there's a reason that bats aren't the teacup poodles of the world. Bats get a bad rep. I'm not saying that's without reason.

I jabbed Mr. Magoo with my finger just to make sure he was dead. He wasn't, so I killed him in order to appreciate his dead majesty once again. It's what that filming-pot-selling kid from American Beauty would have done, how is it any different if I do it without a video camera? Now this dead bat has the gnarly quality of the live ones -- you're scared of it and kind of want to make a run for it, but when you realize it's harmless in spite of those fangs and pushed-up nose, you might even consider it cute. Just like me and Boyfriend.

This week I've been uncharacteristically observant. What I've observed is this... Boyfriend should work for the circus as a tightrope walker. I don't say that because he fills out a unitard like no other. Insert unitard joke here -- the material writes itself. What I mean to say is that Boyfriend is quite the whiz when it comes to maintaining relationship balance. He annoys me to the point of searching online for an assassin-for-hire and before I call to get a quote, Boyfriend bounces back with a tremendous act of boyfriendery. That's not a real thing, but work with me people. Boyfriendery it is.

For instance: He made me help with dinner the other night. Faux pas, Boyfriend. While I cut those stupid vegetables it was hard to contain my anger. I blinked once, and when I opened my eyes everything in my vision was filtered through a field of scarlet. Well, more of a blood red colour. Boyfriend popped his head into the kitchen to see how things were going and to remind me to peel the potatoes. The damnedest thing happened. We both heard this weird scuffing sound and arched our necks to peer down where the sound came from. My feet had transformed into hooves, and one repeatedly scraped the ground as though I were preparing to charge. Our eyes met then, and all I could do was shrug. I couldn't control it. I laughed it off, but instead of my typical girlish giggle a hysterical and malevolent baritone came out. Needless to say, I was surprised. The She-Hulk is generally less man-ish. This was a new kind of anger, more...are those horns sprouting out of my head? Oh wait. I forgot I wore my viking helmet that day. I'm trying to bring it back. For some reason that and pillaging villages isn't going over so well. Give it enough time. It'll be trending soon.

The She-Satan stared at Boyfriend, narrowed her eyes and slowly tilted her head to the side. Peel the potatoes? PEEL THE POTATOES? She-Satan grabbed a potato and shoved the whole thing into her mouth. She and Boyfriend didn't break eye contact. Neither blinked, and the She-Satan masticated the spud. After 16 seconds she spat the contents from her mouth onto the counter. The heat from her venom both cooked and mashed the potato in those 16 seconds.

Boyfriend broke their gaze to stare at the steaming mashed potato on the counter. He crossed his arms before he spoke to the She-Satan, That'll be cold before the rest of the dinner is ready.

She-Satan pounded her giant fist into the mashed potato, the anger causing an explosion of the mush throughout the kitchen. She stalked off to go watch Jersey Shore in the bedroom, her hooves clip-clopping as she stomped away to leave Boyfriend alone in the kitchen.

For those of you that are following along, the top part is like a live bat. Scary, unnecessary and misunderstood. I would like to point out that the live bat did not kill anybody. Had it been a baseball bat, it may have killed somebody. Those things are dangerous. The dead bat part of the story comes next:

The next day, Boyfriend brought me home a case of Pink Ting. That's cute in ways that few people understand. I can read that love language like nobody else. He knew he pissed me off to an absurd level the day before, and to regain his footing on the metaphorical tightrope he had to do something nice to make up for it. Pink Ting to the rescue. Boyfriend has almost lost his balance a few times, but he compensates to correct his mistakes. If the time ever comes for him to get off the tightrope, I doubt he'll fall. He'll be pushed.

I told you. We're no teacup poodle. We're a dead bat.

Time for tea,

K

Sessions with Fat

I swing my body onto the couch, kicking my feet up  and leaning my head back on the pillow. I eye the clock on the wall with contempt, berating myself for actually showing up. Fat jumps onto the coffee table and sits. With a flick of her paw, the rimless spectacles that were propped on top of her head move downward and perch on the end of her nose.

"It's been awhile since our last session." I'm forever astonished by her cavalier manner.

Yup.

I lift my hand to wipe away gunk that's collected in the corners of my eyes through the day. Fat nods minutely in my direction. "Want to tell me what happened there?"

Confused, I follow the line of her stare and flip my hand over as if I needed the visual reminder. The bruise, now yellowed, surrounds an itchy scab line.

I cut the corner too tightly on my way out of the kitchen and clipped my hand on the edge of the counter. It hurt like a bitch.

Fat snorts as though that is more professional reaction than just letting go of the laughter that builds inside of her.

What's so funny?

"I love dog humour."

Do I need to remind you that there's a name for cat that's synonymous with vagina? C'mon Fat, I'm paying you by the hour.

She hisses. "Excuse me. Sometimes we can't override our genetic predispositions. Let's get back to it. What have you been up to since our last appointment?"

I dunno. Life. Job #1, Job #2, writing another book and editing the first, stalking Russell Brand, trying to get caught up on sleep, yoga, back alley surgeries...I don't want to talk about my last patient, time with friends, time with Boyfriend."

Fat holds up her paw, "Slow down, I need to write something down." I watch her fumble with a golf pencil and notepad with the picture of a local real estate agent. Her clumsiness causes her to drop the pencil multiple times before she sighs and passes me both the pencil and pad. "I don't have thumbs, can you write down what you just told me?"

You really are the worst shrink ever.

I grab them from her, forget what I am supposed to write down and instead doodle a stick figure of an octopus in a cowboy hat swinging a lasso from each tentacle.

"Do you have any gripes this week?"

I look up and see Fat stirring my tea with the tip of her tail. Not cool, Doc. Not cool. I shove her off the table.

Of course I have gripes this week. One, that's the second time your tail has found its way into my tea. Two, the phrase, "take it to the next level" has really got to go. I don't get it and I don't think the people that say it get it either. What is this supposed next level? Idiots. Three, Boyfriend is telling the world I'm a booze can. Four, what is the deal with those people a few blocks away that have a Christmas tree set up inside their house already? They should know that people like me will sneak up to their windows and judge them harshly. Also, their wallpaper is too much, it should have stayed in the 1980s where it belongs. I lost count of my gripes, but my last one is the NFL.

"Let's address the relevant issues. You really need to learn how to let the little things go and remember that you can't control everything. Just because you don't understand them, doesn't automatically make them idiots." When I shake my head to reject her premise, she continues, "Don't you think that you're judged for seeking therapy from your cat." She jumps back up onto the coffee table, reclaiming her spot beside my tea. I pull out my pistol and wave it in front of her as a polite warning. She sidesteps away from my tea.

Nope. I bet everybody's jealous that they weren't smart enough to think of it first.

"Do me a favour. Write delusional disorder on that pad beside that snowflake you drew."

It's an octopus acting like a cowboy. You and your crazy made up words. I write down what my dyslexic mind hears: order more delusionalidis. Sounds like some kind of flower. I should make sure that it's not poisonous for cats, otherwise I'll have to replace a pet and a therapist.

Fat looks at the clock, "We're wasting away your entire session. Boyfriend tells people that you're a booze can. Is there any truth to that?

Not in the literal sense.

I think back to date night, the night before last. Classic American - dinner and a movie. I had a martini at dinner...two martinis...and a couple beer before we left the house, but that's more of a sweet-freaking-Friday-I've-made-it-to-another-weekend celebration. Boyfriend told the waitress that I was difficult and a booze can. I suppose it didn't help matters when I gulped down the first martini and argued with him over the kind of wings he wanted for an appetizer. I didn't want any, but I wanted him to order a flavour that I liked on the off-chance I wanted one. He did not do what I said. He ordered the opposite of what I wanted. Bad Boyfriend Behaviour. The She-Hulk showed up for a visit and spat metaphorical venom at him until her food arrived and calmed her down.

"Do you feel that you possibly overreacted?"

Not in the slightest. Even the She-Hulk needs to go out on the town every once in awhile. And it's not the first time he's made people think I'm a drunk. Anytime we go to the liquor store, he always makes me out to be some bottle-swilling, stumbling, bumbling alcoholic and he's the poor sap that's trying to turn my life around.

"At which point, you She-Hulk," Fat's paws claw into nothingness as she tries to do air quotes.

I didn't really have another option. What was I supposed to do?

"In the past, I believe we have discussed taking the high road. Perhaps this is an idea we should revisit...?" She bats at a housefly that comes into her line of vision, recomposes herself and stares at me again to wait for my answer.

Nope. I told you. I am high road abstinent. For now and forever.

"I would greatly suggest you rethink that conviction. You said something about the NFL, let's discuss that."

I rolled onto my side and stared at her. I heard the quiet crack of porcelain as my face changed from neutral to disdain. The She-Hulk was doing her best to break free; simply hearing those three letters pumped my veins with hate.

The NFL.

I despise the NFL. It's an agent for hell, you know that, right? The ubiquitous games, the meaningless jargon, the endless replays, the soul-sucking mind thieves. Stop time has to be an invention of the devil. Boyfriend's been taken captive by the NFL. Mondays, Thursdays, all day on Sunday. Frankly, NFL, you're welcome to take him...just take him out of my house. Take him to a pub, to one of his boyfriends' houses, just don't flaunt your hold over him in my own living room. I might see you for what you really are, but Boyfriend, he's just not as sharp as me. And last Monday, I imagine the soulless bastards that are part of the man-stealing conspiracy had a great time with that Green Bay Packers/Seatle _______(some-kind-of-bird-mascot)s game. Do you have any idea how many times I watched a replay of the touchdown/not-a-touchdown fiasco? You don't know how many times Boyfriend said, Watch this. Unbelieveable. Fucking idiots. Watch this..." He was on that loop for three days. I can't pretend to care for longer than two minutes and eighteen seconds.

"Have you ever tried taking a genuine interest in what Boyfriend likes?"

High. Road. Abstinent. Don't try to change me.

Fat sighs, pulls off her glasses and sets them on the table. "I think that will be all for today."

Cool. I'm out of here.

"One more thing before you leave?" I look to the front door and back at Fat, and back and forth one more time. "Write She-Hulk-aholic on the notepad there."

Time for tea,

K

Doing it Garfield Style

Garfield had it right. Mondays can suck it. Sleeping is euphoric. Lasagna reigns supreme. Screw kindergarten. Everything I need to know I learned from a fat cartoon cat.

Last Monday was a drag. And not the sassy kind like Nina Flowers. I can't really pin down why it was a unimpressive other than the fact that it was Monday. Send me back to bed because hiding from Monday beats facing it...plus we just bought these delicious new pillows. Who wouldn't want to curl up in bed when St. Peter opens the bedroom door for you? Come to think of it, that man never goes home. Hope he doesn't have an ear to the door after dark. Pervert. I'm actually writing this post from bed because tomorrow is another Monday and I'm bracing for it. Total honesty? I'm writing this post from bed because it's Football Sunday and I'm tired of getting confused and thinking that Boyfriend is talking to me and not the padded dudes on the field. Believe me, I've tried to explain that those coaches, players and refs can't hear him, but he insists on telling them what he thinks. I've told you before, he just doesn't get how technology works. Poor old man Boyfriend.

Back to the story. Last Monday, Boyfriend decided that to make us lasagna for dinner. I freaking love lasagna, perhaps more than Boyfriend; thankfully they're a package deal so I don't have to choose between them. He went to the store and picked up all the groceries to make the pasta...except the pasta noodles. Of course, this oversight wasn't acknowledged until he'd already started cooking this, mixing that, sprinkling his seasonings and whatnot.

Uh oh.
What?
You have to go to the store.
Why?
We don't have any lasagna noodles.
You can go to the store.
I can if you watch what I've got going on the stove.

We all know that I'm not going to watch whatever's happening on the stove. I could try, but I recently ruined Pillsbury ready-to-bake cookies, so I flop off the couch, grab my keys, and in my schlubby Monday state, stomp over to the corner store. I must have been muttering aloud because the very nice asian man that owns the place interrupted me to say, "We just have cheddar." I don't know what he heard me say, but I was talking to myself. Which, might I add, is completely different than shouting at a television. I didn't want to seem rude so I picked up a box of lasagna noodles and said: If you're out of that, I'll just take this. He offered me a lop-sided uncertain smile with my change. Neither of us had anything else to add to the conversation that didn't appear to make sense to either side.

When I got home I flung the box on the counter.

These are the wrong kind.

She Hulk attack! Before the rage works into the muscles and causes them to explode in green fury, Boyfriend cocks his head to the side and says: Just kidding. Bad joke. Non-joke really. The anger subsides and I stomp into the living room again.

I build myself into a cocoon on the couch, determined to trap myself there for the rest of the evening. The good news was, it worked. The bad news was, it worked.

In my comfort, I was on the brink of sleep, in that weird realm of sleeping but not sleeping. The lines of reality blur in this state and you can never be sure of what's real and what's not. Especially when the television is on, those cartoons can mess you up real good. The oven door slammed shut with satisfaction when Boyfriend filled it with lasagna. Even the oven loves that pasta. It's so good inanimate objects desire it. Lasagna can work it.

While we waited for the oven to have its way with our dinner (not in the sexy way, but how do you think that would work?) Boyfriend sat on the coffee table with a box in hand. While out he came across this box filled with various dog treats for mutt. I passively watched as he opened the box and opened the packages of treats inside. My eyes flick to the television then back to Boyfriend. His fingers dig out a treat from the package he's holding and Boyfriend regards it, then smells it, I glance again at the television and back at Boyfriend just in time to see him nibble the corner of the treat. I will never get used to this. Boyfriend - and I love him for this, I do - tests out any new treats we give Mutt. He will never give anything to Mutt that he wouldn't eat himself.

Have you had these ones before? He takes a bite and lets the treat sweep across his palate. Yeah, we've had these before.

Boyfriend rips into a small box, and bites into what looks like spinach wrapped in phyllo pastry.

These spinach ones are great, try some.
Uh. No.
They're actually pretty good. He tosses a treat to Mutt who gobbles it up like he's just discovered the joy of eating.
I think I can hold out until dinner, but thanks.

Boyfriend shrugs, as if I don't know what I'm missing and puts the treats away. I pull a blanket up and over my head. Was that a dream? Not a dream? Wake me when the lasagna's ready.

Time for tea,

K

Oh Piss

One side of my family has a saying that I never really thought about until now. Check the title, that's the legacy my kinfolk have left me with. We say, Oh piss. It's one of those things you just say when something bad happens. Not even something bad, sometimes it's just said in an effort to pretend that you're listening to Boyfriend drone on about boat this, NFL lockout that, something about Tim Horton's changing their style of hot beverage lids. Oh Piss is the go-to thing to throw out there when you don't know what to say or you don't want to be an asshole and swear in public. That's just rude. Therefore, may I suggest to all of you that this is a phrase you're going to want to keep in your holster. My Ma utilizes the classic, Oh Piss, Bro keeps it simple with just, Piss, and I class it up with, Well, Piss. What? It's classy. Goes great at any event with lace doilies and crumpets. It is most proper to say, Well, Piss, and dab the corners of your mouth with a kerchief. Prove me wrong.

In every relationship there will be a time where you realize, Well, Piss, the honeymoon period is over. My defining moment took place on a sunny vacation last year. You know, the kind of getaway where you reconnect as a couple, take the defibrillator to your relationship and revive the honeymoon stage for at least a couple more months. It's a proven fact.

For the math freaks out there, please solve for x:

Relationship(Booze + Vacation + Sunshine) = x

I sincerely hope that none of you are actually solving this equation...it's not real math. The fact that I have to tell you this is just embarrassing. Please read no further and remove yourself from this post. We'll see you in the next post providing you don't bring your dumb-assery with you. A-thank-you.
For the rest of you, the answer is, well, piss. Seriously. This is a post about urination. My Boyfriend pissed all over our vacation (not literally, but literally in some sense). Ignore the contents of the parenthesis in the last sentence. Perhaps it's better if I explain.

Sometimes after a hot day in the sunshine, a couple needs to escape to the privacy of their hotel room. Stop. Don't be presumptuous, I'm not talking sexy stuff here. You nasty folk. I'm talking more about the wind-down phase of the day. I like to draw a bath and chill out before bed, usually with tea, but vacations have a way of changing parts of your daily routine. It was some kind of adult beverage that I brought to sip while I pondered the day. Aside: yes, I ponder and spend a great deal of my time pondering too. Well, no, more let my imagination take the helm and entertain me as my brain deserves a break too. You go imagination, you’re a good time. Moving on. What tends to happen when one is in the sunshine all day drinking much more than they should of aforementioned beverages is there is a certain side effect that comes with brightness. Direct light makes you want to hide away in the shadows and slink around like the Phantom of the Opera. Well, piss, that could be fun. Screw this post, grab a mask to cover your hideous faces and I'll meet you at the theatre. Aside: it amuses me that people actually read this blog. I should warn you again of the content of this post just in case you missed the previous heads up: this is a story about peeing. If you continue to read this you're as foolish as I am for writing it.

Let's try the story from the top, my imagination jumbled me up pretty good. I was in the hotel room bathtub with the shower curtain drawn to hide the light's brightness. My original plan was to drink in the tub with a soft candle glow to keep it classy, but one never thinks to bring candles on vacation. Well, piss. There I sat, pondering about bird attacks on humans or something else of rich importance when I heard Boyfriend stumble into the room. I remembered back to the moment our flight landed in paradise, some back-alley doctor met us at the airport. He bellowed, "Clear" and struck us both in the chest with battery-powered paddles before sprinting away yelling, "No refunds" over his shoulder. We both felt different after that encounter. It's always sad when mental institutions shut down and they set their patients free on the streets. I thought maybe that instance was Boyfriend's motivation to come into the bathroom, so we could have a heart to heart while he lovingly fed me fresh pineapple. Frankly, I thought this was a likely guess.

Now, the layout of this bathroom comes into play here. If it were set up differently, I'm certain I wouldn't have been as traumatized. If you stood in the doorway of the bathroom, the sink was straight ahead, immediately to the right of the door was the toilet, and directly beside the toilet (less than a half-foot separation, keep this in mind) was the bathtub where I kept busy inventing any number of neat things in my brain. As always when a clever person takes a bath, they sit facing the faucet. The tub's faucet shared a wall with the bathroom sink. Brace yourselves.

I pulled back the shower curtain, expecting some delectable pineapple, and instead I got an eyeful of Boyfriend's urethra. Well, no. That's incorrect. The urethra is on the inside (you’re welcome for this knowledge). What I did see, while I looked up from where I lay in the tub, was Boyfriend's...golden water shall we say, streaming from his man bits into the toilet bowl inches from my head. ROMANCE OVER! No matter how loud you scream, throw the shower curtain back into place and pour the contents of the shampoo bottle into your eyes, you can't unsee this vision. Minor note: This is one of very few instances where shouting Piss! over and over again does not help the situation. Man pee near my face was never something to which I aspired. The trauma from that experience did it. The Honeymoon era had officially flat lined.

True-ish story.

I would love to say that now is time for tea and take my leave of you, but there's something more I need to get off my chest. Boyfriend, pay attention. Seriously, don't just gloss over these words and pretend to read, usually I find that cute. You know what? I'm just going to read it aloud just to make sure you understand where I'm coming from:

I would willingly sacrifice half my living room in our fingernail-sized apartment for a second bathroom. For the men and women out there that successfully share a bathroom, I fear you. I really and truly do. The opposite sexes were not meant to share this space. Not only does he infringe on valuable real estate for my makeup, candles and the boats that I play with in the bathtub, but he picks the worst time to have to pee. Now when Boyfriend has to relieve himself while I'm in the shower, he just comes right on in and does his thing. I feel like this would be less of a problem if our bathroom light didn't hit him from behind and splay his silhouette across the shower curtain. That's right, pal, we have no secrets! I might not hear it when the shower is running, but damn if your shadowy outline doesn't give away your style. I don't know that style is the right word, but perhaps that shake thing that guys do when they're done has a variety of techniques. I don't know. This post is an official request for you to stop. Piss in a plant please, I'm killing them anyway.

That being said, just because boys have the ability to pee more freely than women does not mean they should. Again, Boyfriend, I saw you at the golf course sneak off to empty the tank. I can catch grasshoppers and see things I don't want to at the same time. When I showed you the jumpy friend I caught you said he was pissed off. To which I say he was pissed off because he was pissed on. The next point is K for the win: How would you feel if I bought a She-Pee and just relieved myself wherever I wanted? Google She-Pee. Never in my life have I ever had to go so bad that I need one of those.

Well. I just reread what I wrote, and I can't say that this is the most flattering post I have done, but they can't all be gold. This one was golden water. Well, piss.

Time for tea,

K

Post Script: My apologies. Apparently I mean NHL in the first paragraph. Of all things to take offence about...

Effective Communication is Knowing the Difference Between What is Said and What is Meant

Boyfriend found his way back to the homestead. I figured in all that time apart his old-man brain would have become a bit fuzzy and forgetful. The next time I have this window of opportunity I should perhaps just leave town myself, pack up Fat and Mutt and just run like hell. Somewhere he would never think to find us, where would that be? Greenland. Definitely Greenland. France is far too obvious and if I have to explain why, you just don't get me at all. I do like croissants...but that's beside the point.

Before he departed, our eyes met and I reached for his hand. I grabbed it and in a quick movement twisted it behind his back and made my firm demand, Bring me back some saltwater taffy. What I meant was, Bring me back some saltwater taffy or the She Hulk will greet you upon your return with a chef knife and jar of pickle juice to splash into the resulting wounds. At this point, Boyfriend was sobbing, saying, Anything you want, just please let me go. Well, not sobbing. Laughing because Mutt was licking his feet, but I'm sure he was still intimidated by my kung fu grip. He knew what I meant with my demand. It's called good communication, gladiator style.

What is not good communication was what happened next. I bent his arm some more and said, I want another present too. What I meant was, Get me another surprise present that isn't stupid. For those of you that are reading along, the literary device used in the previous sentence is what is known as foreshadowing. Let's read along to see what happens.

When he came through the door after a week and a half out at sea, or mining, or whatever he was doing, he thrust a bag of saltwater taffy into my hands. Love that stuff, junkies can keep their crack, all I need in this life is saltwater taffy. Really, why aren't I fat? I Must be coming back in my next life as a whale or sumo wrestler. Meh. Worth it. Two points to Boyfriend for coming through with my sugary addiction. Minus a point and a half for bringing home bad flavours. Fruity, Boyfriend, I like fruity, next time pick flavours that would compare with a pride parade. That's a compliment by the way. Also, LOVED the pride parade. We should have them every day. How fantastic would life be if every day was the gay pride parade? Best life ever and enough glitter for everyone! I'm going to need to set up a meeting with the mayor, I'm sure he's got some pull and can make that happen, yes?

Where was I? Ah, Boyfriend's mystery gift. Brace yourselves, folks, it doesn't get much worse. I should have known to run when Boyfriend chuckled as he pulled my surprise present from his suitcase. My instincts are always right, always run when you feel you should, I'm coming Greenland! No, set fire to the apartment and then run because whatever he bought is going to ruin my life and home anyways. Boyfriend pulled out this plastic-coated card stock from his luggage and flicked it onto the bed so I could read it. New Rule: A present that makes Boyfriend giggle is NOT considered an official gift for me. That's the first clue to realizing whatever it is will cause emotional outrage. I must remember to always keep a lighter on or near my person so when the instinct hits I can flick the Bic and take off.

The card has, I need to pause to calm down for a moment as the She Hulk stirs at the thought of it, a mass produced painted picture of a giraffe necked chihuahua that takes over most of the card stock - could it be any more awesome? Yes (If you don't pick up on the sarcasm here you are banned from the blog, banned!), hold your breath and wait for it kids, the caption on the picture reads: BEWARE GUARD CHIHUAHUA ON DUTY. Oh, apologies, that's a misquote; there's an exclamation point after beware. Wow, best gift ever. It would be improved ten-fold if the little rat-dog in the picture sang like those plastic-mounted fish. Boyfriend really gets me. Surprisingly I fought the strong urge to rip this monstrosity into forty-two hundred pieces and believe it or not my angry hands didn't wrap around Boyfriend's throat either. Woop woop for restraint. I must confess, it's only restraint because I thought the whole thing was a joke. My real gift was still in the suitcase, because he's smart enough to get me something that doesn't entirely suck. Eyes of prey watch as Boyfriend unpacked every last thing in his suitcase and put it back to its appropriate spot in the apartment. He's one of those weirdos that doesn't throw his bag on the floor upon arriving home and two weeks later finally remembers that the skirt he's been looking for the last few days is still packed in that bag with several other things that need to be reintroduced to a laundry machine. This is an official triple B situation kids: Bad Boyfriend Behaviour. The bad gift thing, not the missing skirt thing. The missing skirt thing wasn't a real thing. It's sad that I have to explain that to you.

That reminds me of the time I tried to correct Boyfriend's behaviour by attaching electrodes to his temples and wiring him to a sparking electrical outlet. Oh no, wait. That hasn't happened yet. That's what my therapist suggests in order to ease the tension in our relationship. She says that this will open the floodgates of communication. Well, maybe not the electrode thing specifically, but I knew what she was saying, I can read between the lines. My cat is so smart and I only have to pay for her time with tuna. Who says you can't buy good therapy with canned fish?

If you will indulge in a moment of honesty, not fake honesty like I usually insert into the blog, Boyfriend and I are terrible communicators. We're still learning how to share our feelings with each other. Apparently, I feel that sometimes you should shut up and I feel like unless you want to watch football you should leave, are not legitimate feelings. Sometimes I feel like I underpay with that tuna. She says we're a work in progress. I say my therapist is morbidly obese. Sorry, I feel that she's morbidly obese, especially when I pick her up and I feel the squishiness of her rolls. You're fat, bitch. Sorry, that was the She Hulk.

When it comes to communication, I'm not the only one guilty of omitting exactly what I mean to say. For instance, when Boyfriend says, Is that right, eh? during a conversation what he means is, Whatever information you are telling me right now I'm going to tell everyone I know and quote it as fact. Usually that one has to do with stories about people in the sporting world, ways to repair boats, statistics on diseases that befall house pets that will inevitably kill the owners, stuff like that. I also know that when he says, That's weird, he means, I don't understand what you're saying but it offends me, and we'll be going another few rounds in our never-ending fight.

So when I say, I don't want to marry you or have your babies, clearly that's not what I mean. Lord knows we're not upfront with what we mean. Obviously I mean, I'm happy with where we're at right now. I'm not sure how he got all, That's weird, about it. The gloves come up, and long story short, we both end up crying in the corner licking our wounds. What? Our therapist is a cat, we're bound to start grooming ourselves like that. Boyfriend says he heard that from a very reliable source.

It pains me to say that we ended up having a conversation. One of those real ones full of whining and statements like, "We have a problem, we need to fix it, let's work as a team and find a solution, wah wah wah..." Not that there's anything wrong with that. It's just not our flavour. Feelings, bleh. The conversation did make me think of why I said that I didn't want to wed or procreate with Boyfriend right now. Genuine honesty coming out again, please don't vomit: I don't actually know what I want right now. I'm cool right where we're at. I'm sure somewhere down the line I'll get some sort of inclination one way or the other but right now, ah light bulb...I meant to add right now to the end of the statement I don't want to marry you or have your babies. My bad. Alrighty, That's weird was definitely warranted. 

Another part of why I said what I said is that I don't want a BAM engagement ring that has a damn chihuahua photo etched into the diamond and and engraving inside the ring that says, "I like stupid things."

As for babies, do I really want a kid that has the same sense of humour as Boyfriend? OF COURSE NOT. NOT NOW, NOT EVER! Oh geez, I couldn't even begin to imagine a miniature version of Boyfriend. He'd be all full of words that aren't real and into sports and boats, has a keen old man interest in the weather and would prefer I read updates on political campaigns instead of Dr. Seuss at bedtime. The last part is the biggest crime of all. A world without the Lorax or lines like "I'll hunt in the mountains of Zomba-ma-Tant | with helpers who all wear their eyes on a slant" is not a world that I want to live in. Seriously, take a read of If I Ran the Zoo. Man, I need a kid to read to.

As with every story there must be a silver lining. Here's this one: The end result of our discussion about "feelings" and "time together" is that we're actually going to work on spending time together. This is especially happy news for you. More time with Boyfriend means more adventures for the blogs. Happy day. Boyfriend and I survived a conversation about how we need to say what we actually mean and we both came out of the arena alive. Eat your heart out Spartacus.

Time for tea,

K

Breaking News: BOYFRIEND IS GONE

Time to go track down your bookies, folks, who had the second week of August? It finally happened: Boyfriend left me. For a man, well, two men. I came home from work and his golf clubs were gone. He and his fellas made a break for the border while I was making a living. Asses. The nerve of them to go on vacation without me. Super not cool. Don't fret, dear readers. There will be a massive beat down by the She Hulk on his eventual return. Hope he doesn't read this post before he chances coming back, the pulverization of Boyfriend is going to be a surprise welcome home gift.

It's been freaking hot and I'm feeling like a pig at a luau in this apartment. Therefore, Mutt, Fat and I have come up with a brilliant idea to escape the heat. We've put a swimming pool in our pod of an apartment. By swimming pool I mean filled the bathtub with cold water that we sit in whilst wearing swim caps. Mutt has his life jacket on too, it's fluorescent green. It's fine to write the blog here though, lane swimming doesn't start for another half hour so I have time to jot down something for you.

In a very uncharacteristic move, I'm going to dedicate this post to the things about Boyfriend I've been missing this week. Here, for you foolish people that waste your precious time reading my blog, is my list of things that have left a vacancy in my heart for the last few days:

1) The pillow fights
...Not the sexy co-ed variety. Ours is more of a constant battle to claim the one pillow in our apartment that is actually good. I have found that I don't sleep as well if I haven't tuckered myself out with the eventual claim of malicious victory. It brings me great satisfaction to whip that pillow out from under him while he's sleeping. Haven't had a decent night's sleep in almost a week.

2) The compliments
By this I mean both giving and getting compliments. A Sunday morning just isn't the same with the ego boosts. For example:
You look so cute when you're reading the paper.
Why's that? He says, peering over the top of the newspaper.
Your mouth is generally shut.
I think the same thing when I see you reading a book. This is where we smile lovingly at each other and when our eye contact breaks I call him an ass and he calls me a bitch. We're really quite precious.

3) Dinner at 9:00pm
Boyfriend treats me right and cooks a veritable five-star feast for us every night. However, feasts take forever to prepare and Boyfriend has no concept of time. No wonder I have weird dreams every night. Speaking of food, I do have to give Boyfriend appreciation for always making sure that I'm fed. He made sure I had dinners ready for his time away. If all I have to do to make Chicken with mango salsa is throw it in the microwave I am all over it. Good job, Boyfriend, for taking preventative steps to avoid coming home to an emaciated woman.

4) Wine in the evening
I miss those nights where I'm being She Hulky and Boyfriend smiles at me with adoration, excuses himself to go to the kitchen, and returns with a glass of wine that he sets on the table in front of me with a love post-it attached. The notes usually say something sweet like, "Keep it up and I'm throwing you over the balcony". I'm joking, clearly. I assume if it were to come to it, he'd push me over the balcony. You can't throw something you can't lift, and if he keeps feeding me the way that he does, that will never happen. I'll sumo-push him over the balcony first with my huge gut. Sumo She Hulk style, how hot would that be?

5) How he pays attention to the little things
It's no secret that I'm a loser, especially since I did a whole post about it. The number of times I have lost my keys and cell phone this week is just ridiculous. Also, if anybody sees my Frisbee please let me know. It' s regulation size.

6) Somebody to share the triumphs and misfortunes
This week's triumph: I successfully microwaved chicken. I made a freaking dinner for myself! I don't know what all the fuss is about. I whipped up a gourmet meal in less than two minutes. It must just be a natural talent.
This week's misfortune: Our downstairs neighbour who I suspect is a lesbian with a prescription for medicinal marijuana is moving out. She was the best downstairs neighbour ever, and super relaxed about us making noise upstairs, which also fuels my theory. We need a new stoned lesbian to move in. Please fill out an application immediately for a rinky-dink apartment that will boil you alive in the summer. Straight folks need not apply. Too many breeders in this building as is. Not that being a breeder is a bad thing, but for some reason kids think I'm cool and then they cry when I say no and cuss them out. I can't break any more hearts.

7) Mutt and Boyfriend's relationship
Boyfriend's disappearance doesn't just affect me, but Mutt too. He's been a mopey dingus ever since Boyfriend ran away with the circus. Sorry. I mean his boyfriends. Perhaps, though, Mutt is just depressed because I don't put gravy in his food. Out of spite as well as out of caring. The vet says he's getting fat, and no more gravy. I care, so no gravy. Boyfriend says that Mutt's got enough problems that gravy is one of the only good things in his life and he needs it. He even goes so far as to tell me that he's left demi-glaze in the fridge specifically to put on Mutt's food. I don't like people telling me what to do, so I don't do it because I'm spiteful. Also, what's the difference between gravy and demi-glaze? Looks like the same stuff to me.

8) Him doing the dishes
Well, yeah. I hate dishes. He's going to have to come home soon because the filthy plates and cups are piling up. That'll keep him busy for awhile. That, or he'll nag me to do it. Simple solution: Threaten with the She Hulk and dishes will be done in no time.

9) Sharing things
I always wondered why I went through face wash so fast. It turns out Boyfriend was using it too. Only, he was using it wrong. In his head, a bottle in the bathroom that has a dispensing pump means whatever is in said bottle is hand wash. You're buying me a new one, Boyfriend. Learn to read labels.

Most of all, I miss Boyfriend because without him my superiority complex suffers. Oh, and I have feelings and I miss him because of that too...

Ew. Fat starting drinking the water in our swimming pool. Everybody out.

Time for tea,

K