An update on karma

Karma. That voodoo is real. As you all have read in a previous post, Boyfriend and I both have a Golden Oreo trigger. They're too good to deny. We see 'em, we eat 'em, they gone, we sad. They are the second best invention to this date (Without dispute, chickens are the best invention ever). Also, if you have been following my blog, I gifted him a box of these golden delicacies and, justifiably, he hid them on me. Prepare to gasp with dramatic flair because I FOUND THEM! For the record Boyfriend, not your best hiding place. The pasta cupboard? I know I have no business in there, but it's adjacent to the tea cupboard. Also, not knowing where the hiding place was definitely got the best of me, I had to know in case a craving hit. I tore that kitchen apart. I was aware if there was any place in our matchbox-size apartment that he would hide something, it's in that mysterious room with all its pans, spices, foreign equipment and at first glance, inedible things. My bad for not figuring out the magic behind the transformation of inedibles into good eats. That's voodoo too. As for karma: I found those cookies and in great victory threw copious amounts of metallic confetti throughout the apartment. It looked like a parade wandered through, which strangely enough, Boyfriend did not believe when he came home to an apartment coated in rainbow glitter. Fyi: At this point I have not devoured any Oreos, merely located them. I also felt guilty when I saw the fiery orange post-it written by my hand that PROMISED I wouldn't eat the cookies. For some reason I knew if I ignored another promise written on a post-it Boyfriend would never let me live it down. There has to be some trust in a relationship. And for the record, my intention was to not eat those cookies. I tried. So help me God, I tried.

For days I kept the secret that I had located the treasure. Every ten minutes I'd casually peer into the pasta cupboard and stare longingly at the box wondering if, in his advanced celebration of years, Boyfriend would simply forget about them. In his defense though, I forget stuff all the time and I'll never be old. He also remembers things that he really shouldn't. He would probably love me more if he were capable of forgetting the bad things...the annoying things...those times I've woken him up out of boredom...the She-Hulking...the pettiness...the time I yelled at him for walking in front of me...the demanding princess nature...the three urns I tell him contain the ashes of misbehaving ex-boyfriends that actually hide my arts and crafts...the times I sing off-key just to annoy him...If he could wipe all of these from his memory we'll be just fine. And those are just the things that I do that annoy myself but I can't stop them from happening. I'll never apologize for being whimsical or acting on impulse. That's unacceptable? I'm sincerely sorry.

Where was I? Ah, righto. Eventually Boyfriend made his way through the current box of Oreos...the last ones I pilfered, and he moved the new box to the fridge. Maybe I should explain. Wait. Did I tell you before why we keep our cookies in the fridge? Hold on. I need to investigate. The easy thing to do is just spill the reasoning, but happy news for you, I like to be difficult. And I'm curious. No. I did not. I barely touched on the cookie news. Get over yourself, it's a big deal in our place. We keep stuff like that in the fridge because to put it bluntly, our apartment is a stifling box of sweaty, immense, never-ending, satanic desert-like heat. Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick, it better keep the old folks that live here happy because we're dying. The only reason we're both so skinny is because we sweat out every calorie we consume. I feel like I need to include a sentence here that we've checked the heat control in our apartment, the beastly heat is out of our hands. Either that or our dial-thingamajig is broken. Maybe this is how we're being punished for Boyfriend taking an extra underground parking stall without paying for it. Anyways, our place, being the entrance to hell, makes the icing in the Oreos go too soft. Much, much too soft. Not an ideal attribute for this kind of cookie.

I'm getting to the part about karma. For those of you that haven't heard this story, you're probably really wondering where on earth I'm leading you. Well, you're in my home, and bear with me, it's about to get satisfying, then gross, then there's going to be a weak attempt to cover any tracks of wrongdoing. Shall we?...Before we do, this was supposed to be a post about Boyfriend taking me to my first hockey game, but my Oreo update turned out to be longer than intended. NHL fans can wait for another time. Even writing that last sentence, I realize just how out of whack my priorities are. Not that I'm suggesting that memories that involve sports should merit a better rank, but my first thought is to let the people know about cookies. You can walk away at any time, I'll understand. Frankly, I'm judging those that stick around to read my nonsense rather harshly. Back to the cookies in the fridge.

Scientists and Physicists of the world unite and answer me this: What is the impact of a colder temperature on Golden Oreos? Wrong, they remain just as delicious if not more so. You, in the back. Correct. The fridge temperature will cause the molecules of the cookie to form tighter bonds making the cookie itself harder. Or something like that, it sounds smart anyways. The point is that the softness of the icing becomes replaced with cement. Oh, I forgot another important detail of this story: I recently had minor surgery done on my mouth and was forbidden to bite into food. Now you're probably really unsure as to where I'm going. Compose yourself, we're getting to it. The day arrived that I couldn't fight the craving anymore. I was going to get me some of those cookies. I restrained myself and only took two. With the last box when I...let's call it what it is...stole Boyfriend's cookies, I figured out the best way for my sore mouth to eat the Oreos was to snap them in half and then break those halves in half (Muse, that means I broke it into four pieces, math isn't for everyone, but woman, you're beautiful). It worked on my last stolen cookies, it'll work with these ones too. I tried to snap the cookie in half by pressing my thumbs onto the outside, but it didn't work. I don't know what was up. My lovely primate brain decides that if it's not breaking by pushing with my thumbs, I'll just hold it the same way, but push my index fingers upward into it so the cookie would break in the opposite direction. I'm not even entirely sure how to explain what happened next. With grit and determination I pressed my index fingers into the decorative outside of the cookie. I don't know if I slipped or the Oreo was in a bitchy mood, but the little ridges of the vanilla outside caught on my knuckle and ripped into my skin. Trust when I say ripped is the right word, I had a flap of bloody skin and a hefty leak of scarlet fluid from my finger. The Oreo was painted like it was present for a messy homicide, and strangle enough, still unbroken. Lucky for me the only audience present was Fat, who stared at the DNA spattered Oreo then gave me a look as if to say, "You gonna eat that?" The She-Hulk made an appearance and kicked Monsieur Cora Pearl in her direction before running to the bathroom to attempt to figure out a way to doctor herself up.

I am the worst person to be present at a time like this. I don't know what to do. I can't call Boyfriend and ask what to do. I can figure this out somewhat. The obvious first choice is to cover the wound with something that will hide how disgusting it is so I don't have to look at it. I go for paper towel and to my delight discover that Boyfriend hides our first aid kit in the same cupboard. Cool. I wrap my finger in paper towel anyway. It was more accessible. Not to say that I completely ignore the first aid kit, I grabbed it as an afterthought. The last time I took first aid was over a decade ago and it made me want to throw up. My solution: Quickly wash the wound, splash that stuff on it, glop on that other stuff, put on a Band-Aid, call it a shift. Except the thing won't stop bleeding. And there are no Band-Aids. Plan B: Complete Plan A as fast as possible, wrap the gauze that I found around it and tape it in place. To quote Muse, "Problem El Solvo." Kind of. I left a rather disgusting trail of DNA in the bathroom. I've lost too much blood to care about hiding the evidence I left in the garbage can. In hindsight I should have had the nasty, flesh wound looked at. That damn finger seeped blood for longer than I care to admit. Oh well.

Boyfriend came home and I knew there was no way to hide the bulbous white layers that surrounded my finger. I thought the best thing to do was acknowledge its existence.

I hurt myself.
I saw the garbage can in the bathroom. What happened?
I was...(insert whatever lame excuse I used here, something like,) I was playing with the cat and accidently caught myself on something sharp.
Oh.

I like that he noticed the bloody paper towel in the bathroom and doesn't ask about it. Genuinely. Like it may have been some time-of-the-month event that went awry. Better not to ask, Good Boyfriend. I also like that he didn't question my lame excuse. This post is actually my admission of guilt. The true event of what happened. It does make me feel like a complete fool to say that a cookie almost sawed off my finger because of my own negligence and bad karma. The best part is the beautiful scar tissue that is the result. A lifelong reminder to keep my promises. And just like that, I become the definition of awesome.

Time for tea,

K

Monsieur Cora Pearl; A Dog's Best Friend

I just caught Fat snuggled up to Mutt's teddy bear and it made me think of a time when Boyfriend and I were figuring out how to live in close proximity to each other. Now this bear has been around for a long while and has a rich history living in my house. Well, that might be overselling it, calling the bear's past a rich history, but everyone knows I'm not capable of disclosing the whole truth in this blog because, really, where's the fun in that? It does lead me to wonder how y'all (I just read The Help, so I beg your pardon if the Mississippi accent comes a-callin' to the blog) attempt to separate the fact from the fiction or if you just take what I write with the figurative grain of salt. Never mind, I’m over it and no longer care or remember where I was going for that matter.

So the bear. He's bound to be about a decade old by now. At least I assume it's a he. As there are no sex organs I can't tell for certain, but we'll just say this bear is male neuter, just like Mutt. The bear, let's give him a blog alias...Monsieur Cora Pearl (yes it's a girl's name, get over it), was originally a Christmas gift from my younger brother about a decade ago. He's a tan, old-timey looking bear with a triangle chocolate nose and tiny, black beady eyes that have a story to tell.

Monsieur Cora Pearl's Story:
I knew from the words that boy spoke when he brought me home from the freak show of a strip mall in that tiny town (which smelled like a nearby mining and smelting company...very ritzy) that this was the start of my journey to better places. I sat wrapped tightly in festive paper that adorned me like a straight jacket. I was hidden away for so long I thought that maybe I didn't act as a good teddy bear should and my punishment was this solitary confinement. I started going crazy. I came up with a multitude of plans for escape, but as I am not a character in Toy Story, I lacked the ability to physically come alive. Wait. I shouldn’t know what Toy Story is. How does that work. Never you mind. I was left to stew in my mental hell wishing all the while for somebody to bestow their love on me.

K’s Story:
Following my move to Vancouver, I had the Book Ends (They be twins, my younger sisters) over for a sleepover after I was all settled. We were catching up, having some girl time. I was sitting on the living room floor, as I sometimes do, while they perched on the couch and we talked about boys, parents, I gave them the ten-second-tour (that's literal – bedroom, bathroom, Monsieur Cora Pearl there on the floor please don't touch him, kitchen, and dining/living room. Done.) feel free to do what you like, mi casa es your place too. The only rule is: don't touch Mutt's things. I should make a special note here that even Boyfriend and I DO NOT touch Mutt's things. He's very...well, he's kind of a canine hoarder. As I spin in my chair I can tell you that right now he has collected all of his stuff right beside the cat's post, a mountain of uneaten treats, his stuffed alien dog, his neck pillow (Which he pilfered. Yes, pilfered. It wasn't his. Dirty little thief.) and of course, Monsieur Cora Pearl. Oh Law (that's a combination of Kathryn Stockett and the margarita I'm sipping, not me), when you touch Mutt's things he has a tendency to somewhat freak out. Rule of the house: Leave Mutt's things alone. Do whatever else you damn well please unless it pisses off the She-Hulk. She'll let you know when you cross the line, but that's generally after you cross it so she can smash you.

Monsieur Cora Pearl’s Story:

That girl saved me from suffocating. She freed me from that trap I was wrapped inside of while a song called Christmas in Jail, played in the background. It was all too appropriate. We stayed at that house for awhile, though it turns out the girl didn’t live there. We went on a long bus ride to a different house. We lived there for awhile. Some days after she woke up she would make her bed and carefully position me on it, with my back resting against the pillows. I think she put me there so I could keep a lookout; I was always facing the door to intimidate any and all intruders. Most days though, the girl didn’t want to wake me. She left me face down on the floor with the blankets strewn about on the carpet for warmth. She was always considerate like that. There were other teddy bears for awhile, but as the years drifted by and the girl started to catch the crazy, those bears slowly disappeared until I was the only one.

K’s Story:

The Book Ends asked why I gave the warning about Mutt’s things. I’m not a liar when I’m speaking...with the exception of that time I told Muse and Hubby Cupcake that Boyfriend was Mister North Shore 1996. He got a sash and a key to the city if you were wondering.

Monsieur Cora Pearl’s Story:

We’ve been moving around a bit over the last little while. I was misplaced in a moving box for far too long. I thought she forgot about me. I’m feeling more and more unloved. Especially when I was finally removed from the box and saw an alive stuffed cat. She’s kind of a fat bitch.

K’s Story:

After I tell the Book Ends why they should NEVER touch Monsieur Cora Pearl or Mutt’s other things, the sisters get the giggles in unison. I laugh too, because, really? Really? Boyfriend arrives, lets himself through the door and greets us. Hey Boyfriend, welcome to the estrogen-fest. Pull up a chair. Or you could...what are you doing Boyfriend?

Monsieur Cora Pearl’s Story:

We’re at a different house now. We live with a dear old woman that seems to be a future version of the girl. I like her. She makes pancakes. The girl brought home a little monster of a thing, she called it a dog, but I’ve seen enough television to know she’s a liar. I think it’s a rodent. I’m pretty sure, no, I’m eight thousand percent certain. Within the rodent’s first few months, he’s rooted into cupboards and staked claim on a forest green neck pillow. Didn’t even ask if I wanted it, and yeah, I did. By now the girl doesn’t even notice me. She put me in the spare bedroom and forgets all about me. Only living things I see are that spherical cat and monster “dog”. They come in and keep me company once in awhile, but never stay long. That is, they don’t stay long until one day the “dog” comes in looking all different. He’s got a lampshade over his head and he’s acting all ashamed. Says he doesn’t know who he is anymore. Feels like less of a man. Says he likes my company.

K’s Story:

Boyfriend is new to our everyday life together as I mentioned earlier. I don’t know what Boyfriend is thinking when he steps toward Monsieur Cora Pearl and picks her up. He shoots me a mischievous smile. Did I forget to tell Boyfriend the only rule of the house?????

Monsieur Cora Pearl’s Story:

The “dog” and I become best friends. Better than best friends, I think he loves me. I mean, he says he does, but I have to admit that sometimes I doubt his sincerity. It’s nice to be loved, but it does make me feel a little used sometimes. At least it’s attention; the girl just looks at me with disgust now, careful to stay away from me. Like I have some disease. This, this is what my life has become.

K’s Story:

Boyfriend pulls Monsieur Cora Pearl away, in a back swing that makes me wonder if Boyfriend plays tennis. The Book Ends and I stare, frozen, all knowing what’s going to happen with Boyfriend’s swift follow-through. They just heard the story and I think they’re rooting for Boyfriend on this one. As if in slow motion, three sets of eyeballs watch Monsieur Cora Pearl come closer. Boyfriend smiles, delighted that I haven’t made a move to stop it from happening. Monsieur Cora Pearl collides with my face. A synchronized “Ohhhhhh” comes from the Book Ends, while I let out and agonized, AGHHHHHHHH! Monsieur Cora Pearl is Mutt’s hump bear. I’ve seen him go at Monsieur Cora Pearl as though he’s filming a porno. And Boyfriend connects the diseased stuffed animal with the side of my face. This is the absolute worst day of my life. Wait, let me think...yes. This is the worst. The She Hulk boils with anger.

Do you have any idea what that is?

A bear?

The bear that Mutt humps.

Ha ha. What?

Oh God. Disgusting. I’m dying. Give me that bear, I’m going to get you in the face with it.

No, that’s gross.

Obviously it’s gross. Forget the bear, I’m going to kill you Boyfriend. Today is the day you are going to die by my hand. It’s happening.

The She Hulk pounces, her mammoth claws rip into Boyfriend’s chest. One by one she snaps his rib bones as if they’re Thanksgiving wish bones. Every time the bones snap the She Hulk wishes Boyfriend didn’t do stupid, nasty things. She then takes the stake that she was saving as a precaution for the next coming of Dracula – stay on guard, it’s going to happen – and the She Hulk plunges the stake into Boyfriend’s rapidly palpitating heart. Boyfriend dies and the She Hulk tosses Monsieur Cora Pearl on top of him. She sets the apartment on fire as she leaves.

It’s a good thing Boyfriend has as many lives as a cat. I should really figure out how many are left. I don’t want to waste his last few willy nilly. Also, excuse me while I shoo Fat away from Monsieur Cora Pearl. She doesn’t need that nonsense.

Time for tea,

K