Letters of apology and appreciation from the bat cave

Dearest Muse,

I suppose the proper first thing is to thank you for is all the mothering you have done for me over the last week and a half. This girl is lucky to have you as her third mother. A billion thanks for coming with me to laser eye surgery because Boyfriend couldn't make it. I'm sorry, I really thought it would be more fun on your part. My bad. I'm also sorry if my calmness freaked you out. I'm also really sorry about the misunderstanding, I thought, like your husband, that the surgery would enable me to shoot lasers out my eyes. At least that's some good news for Boyfriend, because we all know that he would have been victim #1.

Another thing I need to thank you for are the eye drops you bought me. And the second bottle...and the third ones...and most especially the fourth bottle--the gel ones--they really lubricate my eyes and make them feel rather erotic. I'm not sure how you're taking that, but it's meant to be a compliment. Though, it has been brought to my attention that my backward-ass way of giving compliments is too confusing. I never learned how to do it properly, okay? Erotic eyeballs is the best compliment that's coming, and for that I apologize. Sincerely.

Oh, while I have your attention: We need you to ask Hubby Cupcake to come over and help hook up the blu-ray player, Boyfriend and I have no idea what we're doing. Also, your husband is unlikely going to be fond of his nickname that I just came up with. Tell him that everyone gets an alias in my blog! It makes me feel like Flava Flav, giving nicknames to my prostitutes. Honestly though, it's a good nickname. He's a hubby. And who doesn't like cupcakes? Idiots obviously, but my point is that cupcakes are freaking cute and delicious. Not that I think he's delicious. You know what...never mind. This next bit is for him: You're Hubby Cupcake because I choose for you to be Hubby Cupcake. Own it. Please note that for this nickname I am sincerely sorry.

Where was I? Muse, yes. I'm sorry that I came up with the post-surgery calling plan and it didn't work out. You have to admit, it did seem like a good idea to have you call, let it ring once, hang up and call right back. I would have known it was you without having to check the caller ID and hurt my eyes. I'm sorry that neither of us had the forethought to turn my phone back on after surgery so you worried when I didn't answer your calls. Whoopsies. At least Boyfriend was happy to chat with you when you called him.

I also sincerely appreciate the Wendy's a few days ago. That burger was everything I wanted it to be. Erotic eyes and a burger, the stuff dreams are made of. All thanks to you.

Sincerely (the real sincerely, not the fake sincerely I use when I apologize for things I'm not sorry for) yours,

Your Bestie,

K

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Darling Boyfriend,

We have had ourselves quite a nifty week, haven't we? You have to admit it had its moments and our relationship is all the better for it. No? Yes? Really, who can tell?

My first big thank you is for the assemblage of my bat cave. Who would have thought that our flimsy curtains wouldn't be enough blockage from the outside world to keep my eyes happy? You have to admit, I did my best not to bother you that first morning when I woke up and the post-dawn light sodomized my retinas. That's hyperbole. For effect. Okay, moving on. I'm sorry for the agonized scream that woke you up when I ran to the windowless bathroom to hide from any trace of light. I could have lived in there for days until my eyes healed. At least my legs would have been shaved. Who am I kidding? They really wouldn't have. But I could have stayed there were it not for your act of valour. I didn't know until the other day what you put over the window to coat the bedroom in blackness, but thank you for thumb tacking those towels on the wall. And that signed cardboard cut-out of the Barenaked Ladies that you also used as a screen, thank you for not letting me know that it was in our house. Now that I know it exists I want it gone. They've served their purpose.

I really am sorry that I ate your cookies. I just figured you had lots so I would help you get rid of them. You're welcome for replacing them with the Golden Oreos, I knew I wronged you and had to make it better. I'm really, very sorry that I ate your Golden Oreos in spite of the post-it note I put on them saying that I wouldn't. Yes, it was a bitch move on my part, but I was hurting and the only thing that would make it better was stolen cookies. You're welcome for replacing them with another box of Golden Oreos. I'm sorry we got to the point that you had to hide them from me. No one is sorrier than I am for this happening.

However, thank you for all your help when I couldn't see. Your compassion and sense of duty really shone through last week, this being especially paramount with all the little things. You brought me food and drops, Tylenol threes and helped me with my iPod. The last I am especially grateful for, day two of surgery when I blindly felt around for my iPod, felt a tangled cord on the night stand and grabbed the earbuds was a small victory. When I called you to come and turn the iPod on to a certain audiobook I really appreciate how you pointed out to my great dismay that the earbuds were connected to nothing. That's what I love about you, Boyfriend, you don't give special treatment. You love me the same no matter what the circumstance.

Thanks for telling me I looked hot in my blind person glasses. You didn't need to say that. I know I did. I felt it. Sexy, blind person glasses. I'm holding onto those for summertime. Eat your heart out Vancouver.

The last thing I need to write here is that I'm sorry we can't do this more often. I know how much you loved not fighting over the remote. But now I can see and I'm not afraid to sucker punch you for it.

Would you look at that, Boyfriend? It's time for tea,

Sincerely and lovingly yours,

K

Rude Awakenings

I have a headache that feels like a taser to the temple. The fact that I guilted myself to sit in front of my lap top and write an entry for you should make all of you feel very satisfied. Now stop harassing me. You know who you are. You've heard the unedited version anyways so suck it up and grow some patience like everybody else.

I like to sleep. Frankly, I excel at it. Nap time is a very happy time for me. Bedtime is all the more fantastic. I suppose much of this good sleepy-time fun is due to the engorged queen-size bed (also referred to as a king-size) with that delicious pillow top that hugs me close every night. This gal can crash in a matter of seconds and be out for a full eight hours...okay, eleven hours. We don't judge here. No wait, I do. Rather often. New deal for the blog: I can judge whomever I want and those folks that are tolerant enough to hang around and continue reading what I write do so without judgement in my direction. Yes? Marvelous. Moving on. I don't even hear Boyfriend's alarm when it goes off in the morning. My sub-conscious knows that that alarm holds  no meaning for me, so it keeps me dreaming rather than fumbling around for a snooze button. Screw ignorance, this is bliss.

However, Boyfriend and I have sleeping habits that may not exactly jive with the other half. I'm a talker. I probably snore, it's never been mentioned, but it's safe to presume. I'm a pillow thief. I get the restless legs and rather than leave the room, I like to stay in bed and do horizontal Rockette high-kicks to tire my muscles out. Boyfriend is usually in the way when this happens. We'll just chalk up any damage done here for payment of bad behaviour that he engages in that I am unaware of. What else? I get crazy ideas that I need to put into my notebook at all hours lest I forget so there's the constant use of my night light to scribble my hoards of thoughts that usually don't make much sense come the next day. I drink a lot of water before bed and also when I wake up through the night which means frequent trips across the hall. There are a couple other little things, but who cares about those? Boyfriend's bad sleeping habits are these: he goes to bed way before I do and he's a light sleeper. This is such a headache if I knew what I was getting into these two things would have been a deal-breaker. Just kidding. No I'm not. Am I? I can't watch TV in bed because it will wake him up, Mutt and Fat wake him up and then he wakes me up because I don't hear them and how is it possible that I don't hear them? I have to be quiet after he retires for the evening. It's all just very not good.

The other day, we had an interesting occurrence: we woke each other up. Somehow in my sleep I became empress of the TV remote. I don't know. I wasn't paying attention to my physical body while I was unconscious and got hold of what many would deem the Power. And in obtaining the Power I put into our morning the small series of events that would lead to my own crabbiness. I don't know if this means I have too much practice with the converter, as Boyfriend would call it (Right? Who calls it that? Took me eight months to figure out what he was talking about.), but I turned that beast of a television on. Operating TV = Awake Boyfriend = Boyfriend's outburst (REALLY?) = Awake and confused me (What? You're watching TV. What? Watch it in the other room. I'm not watching TV. Oh. The TV's on.) = Crabby me. Le damn. Such not a good time.

As I mentioned, Boyfriend has his habits that hammer away at my sanity. Boyfriend  has a talent much like that of the cinematic serial killer that won't die. Don't go anywhere, hear me out on this one. I came home late the other night from work, and well, Boyfriend had put in a full shift watching some kind of sport...hockey? Maybe football or lawn darts. I don't know. The point is by the time I get home some sort of TSN or golf channel or something else that oozes testosterone blares from the television. Asleep on the chaise end of the couch is one cozy Boyfriend with a smile adorning the corners of his mouth. Even in slumber the proximity to the Sports Net or NBA All Stars delights him. If I'd taken a snow pick to his frontal lobe he'd have died happy. The good news is I haven't gone beyond thinking about it, so Boyfriend is still alive. A big you're welcome to Boyfriend's boyfriends, your buddy is still among us. Back to the freaky part. As I gaze down on him, deep in sleep, feeling kind of like a weirdo myself for digesting him visually, my eyes zero in on his hand. It's positioned beside his hip and still holding a can of beer. Any person in their right mind can see the future here. He's going to flop over onto his side and paint my couch a lovely amber ale colour. Not today pal. I can play nice and rather than venomously snatch it away I grasp the top of the beer can, feeling the sloshy movement of the beer indicating how very full this can is. The thing is, it's not coming out of his hand, it's wedged in there pretty good. No matter. I use my one hand to pull his fingertips away from the can while I pry the beer away with the other. As I lightly tug his fingers, Boyfriend's eyes snap open and eye me with fury. I see more of the whites of his eyes than I ever have. He doesn't blink, but the usual green/brown/blue (it's not that I don't know, I just can't tell which of these colours his eyes are) fades and is overtaken by the murderous scarlet colour that usually occupies the numbers flashing from the alarm clock. I hear a mechanical whir as he robotically raises his free hand to my throat and lifts me off the ground; my feet dangle a good 18 inches off the floor. This is where I find out that Boyfriend is a robot. That would have been awesome if that happened and I lived to tell the tale. His eyes do bolt open when I attempt to remove the beverage from his hand. In the movie version I step toward Boyfriend (in the film he plays the psycho killer) thinking he's finally dead, the panic slowly dissipates and I approach him just to make sure the terror is over. My movie self would offer up one of those one-liners, something lame like, "See you lager? I don't think so." His eyes open and eye me with pure hatred. If he was harbouring a weapon, this is the point where he uses it to stab me in the chest when I become distracted reaching for the beer. The protagonist (that might be a matter of opinion, but mind your business) bleeds out on the living room floor and Boyfriend sits up, downs the last of his beverage, crushes the can and saunters almost out of the frame. He stops dramatically, then slowly turns to gain eye contact with me before he utters the last words in the film, I've never spilled a beer in my life. The end. In all honesty, he did say that when I took the can out of his hand, but then he rolled over and went back to sleep. Believe me, you'll love it when it hits the big screen.

Well, time for tea,

K

Some ideas might make you look crazy, but at least nobody ends up dead

I used to watch a cartoon when I was younger called Animaniacs. I'm not really sure what kind of animals they were supposed to be...if they were even supposed to be anything at all. Not that they're the ones that are the important allusion here. On this cartoon there was a segment with a cartoon mime...was he a mime? I feel like he was. That, or he was some unfortunate cartoon man that suffered from albinism, or he was an albino, if you will. It would be rather insensitive if the cartoon guy suffered from that disorder, wouldn't it? Anyways, the cartoon albino segment was called, Good Idea/Bad Idea. Or something along those lines. They would cut to a black screen with Good Idea scrawled across it bold lettering, a friendly dad-sounding voice...reminding me much of Danny Tanner (Full House anyone?)...would say something like: "Good Idea: Helping a wrinkly old man with a cane cross the street." Then the cartoon albino would trot an old fella safely across the street at and intersection. The black screen would come back with bright writing. "Bad Idea: Helping a leper cross the street." At the end of Danny Tanner's sentence, the cartoon albino helps a nasty ol' leper across the street, contracting leprosy himself, and both lepers fall into pieces mid-way on the crosswalk. The opposite light turns green and the two men are run over by a city bus filled with knitting grannies.

Okay, maybe that exact scenario didn't play out on the cartoon, but I'm trying to give you the essential idea based on what I'm capable of remembering. This post goes back into the archives of mine and Boyfriend's dating history. As you know, like the average household in Canada, our happy home has two working parents, and 2.5 kids. No wait, that's not us. We live in a cramped toaster oven, with our epileptic Mutt and Fat cat. Just goes to show that all your dreams come true one day. Eat your heart out Cinderella. I was reminded to write this post when Fat jumped onto my desk and stuck her face in my tea. Danny Tanner, if you please. "Good Idea: Rescuing a cat from the animal shelter. Bad Idea: Rescuing a dumb cat from the animal shelter." Asshole move Fat. Time out for you. For the record, we believe in punishment in our house. At least I do. The cat gets a time out in the bathroom, where more often then not I forget about her until my tiny bladder exerts its control over me. Mutt is not so good with this kind of punishment. He's a howler. And a scratcher. And a barker. And so freaking ugly. But I love him. When he does wrong I make him look at himself in the mirror. I may have missed my true calling. Should've been an evil mastermind. Well, I'm always looking for new hobbies. I'll let you know how it goes.

Turn your clocks back a few years people. That's where this story happens. Boyfriend had this huge mother of a fish tank that was in his living room at his old place (circa 2009 or thereabouts). In the tank were three unnamed fish, but we shall call them Gross, Grosser, and Uglier Than Mutt. I'm not into brown fish that look like they lived many years within the confines of a sewage treatment plant. If I have a fish tank in my house it's going to be filled with beautiful salt-water fish that look like they flew in from the most exclusive coral reef in the world. I don't want goldfish, I want diamondfish. I want other jewel-toned fish that are teal, sunset orange, sapphire, chartreuse, lavender, macaroni and cheese. That last one might just be a name for the colour of a crayon. God Bless the creative folks at Crayola. I tip my hat to you.

Now I'm not at liberty to discuss the unsolved homicide investigation, but let's just say that due to unforeseen circumstance, Gross, Grosser and Uglier Than Mutt did not get to make the move with Boyfriend to our apartment. They...well, them ugly fishes are no longer with us. Let's just leave it at that. As you know, Boyfriend and I moved in all his stuff that weighed upwards of forty million pounds (that's how heavy it felt to me anyways), including the fish tank. I, for one, feel it was rather insensitive of Boyfriend to hang a vacancy sign on the fish castle that was inside. CSI hadn't even cleared out when he did that.

The weeks went by with great debate. What was going to happen with this fish tank. I SAY A-BYE-BYE. We don't need no fish tank. Boyfriend, as you know, is a doer. He doesn't like to leave things unfinished. He finds a friend who's shopping around for a home for his dear fishy friend. The conversation with Boyfriend and I goes something like this:

A friend of mine needs to get rid of his fish. We have that empty tank...
What KIND of fish is it? I don't want ugly fish.
It's not...ugly.
What would you call it instead of ugly? Homely? With character? Dull? Endearing in its own way?
It'd be a great conversation piece.
Which means what? It's deformed? Missing an eye so it has an eye patch?
No. It's a piranha. It's tropical like you like.
No piranhas in our house.
Why not?
You know how stupid Fat is. She'd be stoked to go fishing and then she'd lose a paw trying to snatch some freaky sushi.
...

Point Me. Extra points for finding Fat stuck inside the empty fish tank a few days later. She somehow got inside, but couldn't figure out how to exit. It brings me great joy that I know the limitations of her intelligence. At least she didn't think it was some kind of fancy litter box.

We didn't end up getting rid of the fish tank. It's in the hallway and we have two new pets in there. A lobster and a shark. Don't worry, the lobster's in a lobster trap so the shark can't get it. Heaven forbid we put fake animals in danger. For those of you that visited our place prior to our getting these new animals: you remember the former resident that moved into the castle after CSI deemed the ugly fishys' demise a triple suicide, the lizard. Yeah...he wasn't real either. He's also loose in the apartment, so please try not to step on him if you can help it. "Good Idea: Having pets that aren't piranhas. Bad Idea: Having pets that aren't real so friends refer to you as the crazy people with fake pets."

Time for tea,

K