I have to start by giving props to Boyfriend. He bought me a smoothie for each hand. Good Boyfriend.
Sometimes it is best not to notice things. Generally, I live by the rule of not noticing anything. It's for the best because once you pay attention, you're usually one of two things: bored or driven insane which leads to She-Hulking. I RAGE! I DO NOT RIP OFF MY SHIRT LIKE BRUCE BANNER! Bruce Banner, yeah? Don't answer that, I don't care. Not too long ago, within the last few days...definitely within the last week, Muse was telling me about how she started adding up the cost of all of her makeup. That is a terrible game. Her story crept into my head when I was trying to pick out which shoes I would wear to brunch. I saw the massive stack of shoe boxes, and before I knew it, Muse had me wandering down a terrible path. I grabbed my abacus and got comfortable for a long afternoon. Adding up dollars in footwear doesn't bring the money back, it does however make me realize how many awesome pairs of shoes I own. It's never good to know more, whoever invented the phrase, "Knowledge is Power" was obviously a blissful idiot.
In our rinky-dink apartment Boyfriend and I both have our roles. I am the thinker and Boyfriend is the do-er. I conceptualize and he does the lifting or building or repairing or what have you. It's like I'm God and he's Noah. Yes? Maybe I'm mistaken. It would be fun to have two of every animal though. Well, the good animals, yes to baby chickens and no to anything that can rip my arms off my body. Plus, you know when those baby chickens become not-cute, squawking, pecking asshole birds, you can eat them. I suppose the same could be said for an evil gorilla, but that's not guaranteed to taste good. I'm sorry, what is the story of Noah's Ark? Meh, I'm over it.
I've been home a lot more lately, and my eyes have started to drink in their surroundings. I've come to an astounding realization: Boyfriend is Mr Fixit. Boyfriend is a fox. Boyfriend doesn't do the best job of fixing things. For those of you who are less cool than me and others that hail from the same place, the character to whom I am referencing is from Richard Scarry's Busytown. You know, the one with the worm in the green hat who was often an overnight guest at the Cat family's house (not in the sexy way). Whatever. Mr Fixit was hilarious, and you knew even though you never saw it in the books that he was soooooo fired from his job. Mr Fixit is probably that fox diggin' around in your garbage right now. Go look. Get back to me if you find him. He can go on my Ark.
The reason I say Boyfriend is like Mr Fixit is for several reasons. There was the time I decided I wanted the television mounted on the wall, and the only thing Boyfriend successfully used the stud finder for was to run it across his chest and say, Beep, Beep. It works. Apparently it didn't work right...after that. When I decided that I wanted to purchase a television stand and move the TV off the wall and onto that, I saw how many freaking holes were in the wall behind Boyfriend's big screen. I would venture a guess that Boyfriend's original plan when drilling the holes was to spy on our neighbours with the loud grunting noises and oh yeahs. Then, there are the photos I wanted him to hang in a line over the desk. He used a hockey stick as a measuring tape. They look beautiful when my eyes are closed. I wonder if the reason he's always filling my wine glass is so those pictures look straight? Wining not Whining, that's a line from my family crest. Another sarcastically-delightful discovery: Most of our furniture sits away from the wall as if Boyfriend wants to trick me with the size of our apartment. None of our furniture touches the walls. How did I not notice this?? Maybe we actually live in a mansion! It's a shame I'll never move the stuff in order to find out. Tragic. I also have a bamboo whiteboard that came crashing down last week. Another Boyfriend Fixit job, probably used another hockey stick to find the studs in which to hang it. The board is back on the wall on a definite slant. Maybe one of my legs is shorter than the other and that's why it appears on such a crazy angle. I know parallel, and that board is not it. Gee whiz.
Could I do a better job of these kinds of jobs? We'll never find out. I'm the brains, not the brawn. Well, not yet. I have been working out...but that's just to feel less guilty when I binge-eat burritos in my spandex. I should fill my wine glass more often so I don't notice all these things -- and so begins my transformation into an alcoholic. Just remember this when it's time for my intervention: I am not without reason.
Whining is forever, but wining will have to wait. Time for tea,
K
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Tee time
The biggest difference between Boyfriend and me is that he's a boy and I'm a girl. That would make for a lame blog post if I just left it at that, wouldn't it? You can learn the differences between a boy and girl from a book. This blog is for a hoot, not knowledge. Boyfriend and I shared an experience just a couple days ago (yesterday?) that made me realize just how different the two of us can be. Oh no, wait, it was two days ago. I remember, because I went to the gym in the morning. Not just a hat rack here (K taps her temple knowingly with an index finger).
One of the few interests that Boyfriend and I share is golf. He's been into it for aeons (or eons if you will). I decided that I liked it a couple years ago (yesterday?). There's a great amount of satisfaction when your club connects to the golf ball and you knock it into oblivion. What's that? Am I a good golfer? I will have you know that my golf outfit matches my golf shoes which match my golf clubs. Who cares what my abilities are when I look so good? And believe me, it didn't just come together. I somehow offended many a golf shop owner when I asked them for cute clothes, not the lesbian apparel they had on display. Boyfriend doesn't think I know what the word lesbian means. I use it to describe his relationship with Mutt. Lesbian means an adorable idea that doesn't appeal to everyone, does it not?
I've have known for many moons that I'm artsy fartsy. I don't live in the real world, but frankly, it's a lot more fun for me that way. This train of thought has brought me back to my first year in college and I found myself in a biology class. The subject was digestion. What the prof said then was one of the few things of use I learned in college: "I know you're art students because none of you had an interest to know why feces sometimes float." There you have it kids. The mystery of the subjects scientists ponder, solved. I want to say that the reason for floating had something to do with fat content, but if you're curious for an actual answer, google it. If you google it, it means you're not an artist. The facts speak for themselves.
Anywho, believe it or not, there was a break in the Vancouver rain and it was actually somewhat sunny here for awhile...on Tuesday. Boyfriend came up with a brilliant idea: we should go to the driving range and hit some balls around rather than hang around the apartment where one of us busted the others balls. We grabbed our clubs and headed out the door. I have yet to adjust to carrying my own clubs around, so I'm sure I spooked more than a few of our neighbours when my bag banged against the hallway walls. Neighbours, I'm sorry, but frankly I can't feel too bad, especially to the woman who dresses her dogs. Yipes.
We made it to the range, which was actually quiet. Too many people exerted themselves during the weekend of the Masters I suppose. Yeah. I know golf things. Masters means the green jacket dealy, not that I care because Ricky Fowler wasn't playing. Now he has a nice golf wardrobe, so bright and fancy. Also I don't care because based on what I tuned into of Boyfriend's words, they don't let women play at that course. What kind of backward-ass etiquette is that? Everyone is welcome at my golf course that I don't have. BYOB.
Boyfriend grabs some baskets and we both watch as they fill with golf balls.
Ooh. Yellow. Pretty.
There's a reason they're yellow.
I know. I've been thinking about the pink ones I have. They don't match my golf stuff.
Grab your basket.
Now Boyfriend takes his golf seriously. He stretches out, rotating his shoulders and all that fun stuff. I put on my golf glove, which I need to replace. I Cruella De Ville'd the tips with my fingernails. They poked right through the glove. Terrible workmanship. My only prep is to put on my sunglasses. I pick through my clubs and pull out the seven. I don't know why. I still don't know the difference between all the numbers on the sticks.
This is how I take a shot:
I put the ball on the ground.
I stand shoulder width apart.
I shuffle left to right.
I shuffle closer to the ball, then further away.
I end up standing essentially where I started with my feet shoulder width apart.
I wiggle around a little bit to make sure my stance feels right.
I hold my club out and gently tap it to the ball's surface to instill some memory of where it's meant to connect when I swing.
Most importantly, when I pull into a back swing I start to hum.
The humming is effective. I hit the ball much better when I do that and that's not just the opinion of this lady. Believers are out there. There is a theory that humming relaxes me somehow helping with the delivery of my swing. Golf, go figure. Boyfriend sees my technique and offers me tips and I shoo him away with fluttering fingertips. No, no. I'm here for the fun, not improvement. If I care and try to hone this craft I won't enjoy it so much. There's a reason I never keep score when I golf. Boyfriend doesn't get understand.
Boyfriend's technique is slightly different:
He picks a target.
He takes a few practice swings.
He eyes the distance and direction.
He wets his finger with saliva and holds it up to account for the wind.
He stands shoulder width apart.
In a fluid motion, Boyfriend swings backward, then forward with a practiced transfer of weight from back to front.
He whacks the ball way the eff out there.
Wow! That was a good one! When I say this he just looks at me. He winds up and hits another.
Wow! That was a good one!
You don't have to say that every time. Boyfriend hits another ball.
Holy! Did you see that mother fly? Boyfriend shakes his head. My enthusiasm does not amuse him.
When we're both through our buckets of yellow golf balls, I feel great. I had fun, which is my only incentive to do things. Boyfriend though, is already trying to figure out when he can schedule more time at the range so he can improve. Yipes.
Time for tea,
K
One of the few interests that Boyfriend and I share is golf. He's been into it for aeons (or eons if you will). I decided that I liked it a couple years ago (yesterday?). There's a great amount of satisfaction when your club connects to the golf ball and you knock it into oblivion. What's that? Am I a good golfer? I will have you know that my golf outfit matches my golf shoes which match my golf clubs. Who cares what my abilities are when I look so good? And believe me, it didn't just come together. I somehow offended many a golf shop owner when I asked them for cute clothes, not the lesbian apparel they had on display. Boyfriend doesn't think I know what the word lesbian means. I use it to describe his relationship with Mutt. Lesbian means an adorable idea that doesn't appeal to everyone, does it not?
I've have known for many moons that I'm artsy fartsy. I don't live in the real world, but frankly, it's a lot more fun for me that way. This train of thought has brought me back to my first year in college and I found myself in a biology class. The subject was digestion. What the prof said then was one of the few things of use I learned in college: "I know you're art students because none of you had an interest to know why feces sometimes float." There you have it kids. The mystery of the subjects scientists ponder, solved. I want to say that the reason for floating had something to do with fat content, but if you're curious for an actual answer, google it. If you google it, it means you're not an artist. The facts speak for themselves.
Anywho, believe it or not, there was a break in the Vancouver rain and it was actually somewhat sunny here for awhile...on Tuesday. Boyfriend came up with a brilliant idea: we should go to the driving range and hit some balls around rather than hang around the apartment where one of us busted the others balls. We grabbed our clubs and headed out the door. I have yet to adjust to carrying my own clubs around, so I'm sure I spooked more than a few of our neighbours when my bag banged against the hallway walls. Neighbours, I'm sorry, but frankly I can't feel too bad, especially to the woman who dresses her dogs. Yipes.
We made it to the range, which was actually quiet. Too many people exerted themselves during the weekend of the Masters I suppose. Yeah. I know golf things. Masters means the green jacket dealy, not that I care because Ricky Fowler wasn't playing. Now he has a nice golf wardrobe, so bright and fancy. Also I don't care because based on what I tuned into of Boyfriend's words, they don't let women play at that course. What kind of backward-ass etiquette is that? Everyone is welcome at my golf course that I don't have. BYOB.
Boyfriend grabs some baskets and we both watch as they fill with golf balls.
Ooh. Yellow. Pretty.
There's a reason they're yellow.
I know. I've been thinking about the pink ones I have. They don't match my golf stuff.
Grab your basket.
Now Boyfriend takes his golf seriously. He stretches out, rotating his shoulders and all that fun stuff. I put on my golf glove, which I need to replace. I Cruella De Ville'd the tips with my fingernails. They poked right through the glove. Terrible workmanship. My only prep is to put on my sunglasses. I pick through my clubs and pull out the seven. I don't know why. I still don't know the difference between all the numbers on the sticks.
This is how I take a shot:
I put the ball on the ground.
I stand shoulder width apart.
I shuffle left to right.
I shuffle closer to the ball, then further away.
I end up standing essentially where I started with my feet shoulder width apart.
I wiggle around a little bit to make sure my stance feels right.
I hold my club out and gently tap it to the ball's surface to instill some memory of where it's meant to connect when I swing.
Most importantly, when I pull into a back swing I start to hum.
The humming is effective. I hit the ball much better when I do that and that's not just the opinion of this lady. Believers are out there. There is a theory that humming relaxes me somehow helping with the delivery of my swing. Golf, go figure. Boyfriend sees my technique and offers me tips and I shoo him away with fluttering fingertips. No, no. I'm here for the fun, not improvement. If I care and try to hone this craft I won't enjoy it so much. There's a reason I never keep score when I golf. Boyfriend doesn't get understand.
Boyfriend's technique is slightly different:
He picks a target.
He takes a few practice swings.
He eyes the distance and direction.
He wets his finger with saliva and holds it up to account for the wind.
He stands shoulder width apart.
In a fluid motion, Boyfriend swings backward, then forward with a practiced transfer of weight from back to front.
He whacks the ball way the eff out there.
Wow! That was a good one! When I say this he just looks at me. He winds up and hits another.
Wow! That was a good one!
You don't have to say that every time. Boyfriend hits another ball.
Holy! Did you see that mother fly? Boyfriend shakes his head. My enthusiasm does not amuse him.
When we're both through our buckets of yellow golf balls, I feel great. I had fun, which is my only incentive to do things. Boyfriend though, is already trying to figure out when he can schedule more time at the range so he can improve. Yipes.
Time for tea,
K
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Domesticity isn't for everyone
Hello folks. Between tea times, play dates and plots to reverse the demise of my favourite bookstore (R.I.P Book Warehouse) I have carved out time to write a post for you. Aka there was nothing of interest on television. And a happy Easter to all. Maybe we shouldn't rejoice just yet. Who knows what words will march out of these fingertips? Don't answer, it's rhetorical. The answer is me. I do. I have a plan of what to write today. Somewhat. I like to mix it up a bit between flying by the seat of my pants and having some sort of idea for the content. Frankly, I like to wear the pants with wings on the ass. Figuratively.
I am inspired by the star of ourThanksgiving...crap, I keep calling it that...Easter dinner. The turkey, and this year that bastard was done barbecue style, and might I say, friggin' delish. But then again, anything that hits the grill of that barbecue is likely to make me salivate. Who am I kidding? I am down with anything that I don't have to make. However, this short tale has to do with me in charge of making something. For others to ingest. That's right, Boyfriend trusted me alone in the kitchen to cook a turkey. Let's visit that page in our history.
Let's set the scene: My cramped kitchen, it was either springtime or autumntime. I want to wager a guess that the event took place in my pre-death phase. I would be less confused of the timeline if I only kept a diary. Hindsight, sheesh. After a quick consult of the photos (There are always photos of historical moments), if I were to judge by the state of my hair I would venture to say it was about two years ago. I was blonder and my lustrous hairs were much more unruly. Which if I may take an aside here, when I was sixteen and just had my wisdom teeth removed by a sadist, Muse came over to check on my state and to either paraphrase or quote exactly when I saw her she said, "Wow, orphan Annie." That is not something you say to somebody that has swollen cheeks and hasn't risen to straighten her mother's genes from her hair. You just don't. I suppose to be fair, I have gotten my fair share of jabs at Muse's expense. I digress, it was an attempt to illustrate the condition of my hair.
The reason I didn't do my hair the day the photo was taken was because I spent all day in that doll-sized kitchen. I feel like I need to repeat that to emphasize and help the disbelievers out there know that it wasn't a typo, I SPENT ALL DAY IN THAT DOLL-SIZED KITCHEN. Cooking. Sort of. One day, Boyfriend got himself one fun idea.
We should have a turkey dinner tomorrow with all the fixin's. (It was a random Tuesday)
I'm so in Boyfriend.
Great. I picked up a turkey at the store. You have tomorrow off, right?
...Yeah, so?
You can start the Turkey while I'm at work.
Beg pardon?
Don't worry, I'll talk you through it.
Talk me through it Boyfriend? I like turkey a whole lot less now. I mean, yes, it sounds simple, but many disastrous times are advertised with simplicity. For those out there that would like to "talk somebody through" making a turkey, keep these things in mind:
1)I cannot stress how very important it is to inform the turkey-preparer for what happens when you peel back the plastic that seals the bird when you purchase it. The statement Take off the plastic leaves much too much surprise for the cooking virgin. That damn poultry dripped like it was menstruating. Yeah, I was grossed out too. When one is taken aback by this, especially when one is not-a-so-good when it comes to blood in the first place, one wildly swings that turkey around as if trying to assist in post-feather flight. Well, in all honesty, one holds the turkey under its armpits and screams bloody murder when its life fluids pool on the cheap lick n' stick tile of the kitchen floor. That kitchen looked like it was a stage for a musical about a serial killer. OH! The way-so-far-off-Broadway-it's-in-a-different-country presentation of Sweeny Todd, the Demon Barber...if it took place in my kitchen.
2)Make sure you specify where to find the giblets. Is that what they're called? Giblets? Googled it, and yeah. I'm right. To my defense, giblets sound like a synonym for male gonads. It would be supremely embarrassing if I didn't fact check and giblets actually were the hangers-down. I did not have a good time diggin' around and getting my hand stuck in the neck hole. I'm sorry, but if Boyfriend directed me to reach into the hoo-ha I would have been spared a lot of grief.
3) Know that colours don't always help when explaining which seasonings to use. Boyfriend had a unique system in place for awhile where all of his spices and potions and leafy things were either in clear containers or clear Ziploc baggies...none with labels. I understand why he didn't feel the need to write what was what on them because he could tell just by looking at it, and I didn't touch the stuff. It's Boyfriend's voodoo cupboard, none of my business. So this random Tuesday when he instructed me to go in there and grab things for our leaky bird it was really a crap shoot. He told me the names of things and tried to describe its colour. To be frank though, poultry seasoning, cumin, cinnamon, paprika, bay leaves, that crap is all the same to me.
4) Predetermine measuring amounts. Boyfriend told me to use a lot of poultry seasoning. My idea of a lot is to coat that sucker, make sure that none of its skin is showing. I can do that...I did that. Shame that he didn't clarify sooner. I had to scrape that giblet-less bird down and turned my palms orange like I applied self-tanner to a "guido". I'm embarrassed that I just went there. Apologies. The point here: a couple pinches to me is not a lot. A lot is a paint job. Maybe a word like "dusting", or phrase like "amount of confetti a ninety-three year old would throw on New Years", to me that makes much more sense. A lot. Sheesh.
5) Don't assume anything.
After I put the bird in the oven my job was over. I don't know what I did while I waited for Boyfriend to come home and relieve me of my duties. Doddled around I bet, that sounds like me. When Boyfriend arrives, he smells the turkey and smiles that I've still got both my eyebrows.
How's the bird?
I don't know. It was fine when I put it in the oven. Smells good.
You didn't baste it?
No. You didn't tell me to.
Did you check on it at all?
No. You didn't tell me to.
I don't understand his surprise. I can't figure it out on my own people. My parents raised me to be a kept woman. Find a rich man and settle down, that's a direct quote from my childhood. Okay, that's a lie. I just don't cook. I don't have the patience or attention span for it. Sue me. That wasn't an invitation, I would appreciate if you didn't. Nobody in their right mind would represent me.
I think I lost my cell phone...
Oh, I should mention that when I said I spent all day in the kitchen, that was a lie. It was more like forty minutes of bumbling around with a bleedingchicken...turkey. Whatever. A bird is a bird. It was a canary for all I know. Maybe a toucan.
Here it is. My phone I mean. In the bedroom beside the charger. So close to getting it plugged into the wall. Damn attention span.
To conclude: Nobody died in a fire and parts of the turkey were still edible. I say we call that a win. In the photos I look pretty proud.
Time for tea,
K
Post Script: I feel that many of my posts can be summarized in a sentence. For example from this and a few other posts:
Boyfriend trusted me to cook a turkey and I couldn't follow his simple directions.
I procrastinated with writing because I couldn't find a specific mug in the mug cupboard.
The Bookends were over for a sleepover and witnessed Boyfriend hit me in the face with the stuffed bear that Mutt humps.
Maybe I should invest more time editing what I write. If you're still reading these words maybe you should take a step back and better prioritize your time. It's all just nonsense anyways.
I love nonsense.
I am inspired by the star of our
Let's set the scene: My cramped kitchen, it was either springtime or autumntime. I want to wager a guess that the event took place in my pre-death phase. I would be less confused of the timeline if I only kept a diary. Hindsight, sheesh. After a quick consult of the photos (There are always photos of historical moments), if I were to judge by the state of my hair I would venture to say it was about two years ago. I was blonder and my lustrous hairs were much more unruly. Which if I may take an aside here, when I was sixteen and just had my wisdom teeth removed by a sadist, Muse came over to check on my state and to either paraphrase or quote exactly when I saw her she said, "Wow, orphan Annie." That is not something you say to somebody that has swollen cheeks and hasn't risen to straighten her mother's genes from her hair. You just don't. I suppose to be fair, I have gotten my fair share of jabs at Muse's expense. I digress, it was an attempt to illustrate the condition of my hair.
The reason I didn't do my hair the day the photo was taken was because I spent all day in that doll-sized kitchen. I feel like I need to repeat that to emphasize and help the disbelievers out there know that it wasn't a typo, I SPENT ALL DAY IN THAT DOLL-SIZED KITCHEN. Cooking. Sort of. One day, Boyfriend got himself one fun idea.
We should have a turkey dinner tomorrow with all the fixin's. (It was a random Tuesday)
I'm so in Boyfriend.
Great. I picked up a turkey at the store. You have tomorrow off, right?
...Yeah, so?
You can start the Turkey while I'm at work.
Beg pardon?
Don't worry, I'll talk you through it.
Talk me through it Boyfriend? I like turkey a whole lot less now. I mean, yes, it sounds simple, but many disastrous times are advertised with simplicity. For those out there that would like to "talk somebody through" making a turkey, keep these things in mind:
1)I cannot stress how very important it is to inform the turkey-preparer for what happens when you peel back the plastic that seals the bird when you purchase it. The statement Take off the plastic leaves much too much surprise for the cooking virgin. That damn poultry dripped like it was menstruating. Yeah, I was grossed out too. When one is taken aback by this, especially when one is not-a-so-good when it comes to blood in the first place, one wildly swings that turkey around as if trying to assist in post-feather flight. Well, in all honesty, one holds the turkey under its armpits and screams bloody murder when its life fluids pool on the cheap lick n' stick tile of the kitchen floor. That kitchen looked like it was a stage for a musical about a serial killer. OH! The way-so-far-off-Broadway-it's-in-a-different-country presentation of Sweeny Todd, the Demon Barber...if it took place in my kitchen.
2)Make sure you specify where to find the giblets. Is that what they're called? Giblets? Googled it, and yeah. I'm right. To my defense, giblets sound like a synonym for male gonads. It would be supremely embarrassing if I didn't fact check and giblets actually were the hangers-down. I did not have a good time diggin' around and getting my hand stuck in the neck hole. I'm sorry, but if Boyfriend directed me to reach into the hoo-ha I would have been spared a lot of grief.
3) Know that colours don't always help when explaining which seasonings to use. Boyfriend had a unique system in place for awhile where all of his spices and potions and leafy things were either in clear containers or clear Ziploc baggies...none with labels. I understand why he didn't feel the need to write what was what on them because he could tell just by looking at it, and I didn't touch the stuff. It's Boyfriend's voodoo cupboard, none of my business. So this random Tuesday when he instructed me to go in there and grab things for our leaky bird it was really a crap shoot. He told me the names of things and tried to describe its colour. To be frank though, poultry seasoning, cumin, cinnamon, paprika, bay leaves, that crap is all the same to me.
4) Predetermine measuring amounts. Boyfriend told me to use a lot of poultry seasoning. My idea of a lot is to coat that sucker, make sure that none of its skin is showing. I can do that...I did that. Shame that he didn't clarify sooner. I had to scrape that giblet-less bird down and turned my palms orange like I applied self-tanner to a "guido". I'm embarrassed that I just went there. Apologies. The point here: a couple pinches to me is not a lot. A lot is a paint job. Maybe a word like "dusting", or phrase like "amount of confetti a ninety-three year old would throw on New Years", to me that makes much more sense. A lot. Sheesh.
5) Don't assume anything.
After I put the bird in the oven my job was over. I don't know what I did while I waited for Boyfriend to come home and relieve me of my duties. Doddled around I bet, that sounds like me. When Boyfriend arrives, he smells the turkey and smiles that I've still got both my eyebrows.
How's the bird?
I don't know. It was fine when I put it in the oven. Smells good.
You didn't baste it?
No. You didn't tell me to.
Did you check on it at all?
No. You didn't tell me to.
I don't understand his surprise. I can't figure it out on my own people. My parents raised me to be a kept woman. Find a rich man and settle down, that's a direct quote from my childhood. Okay, that's a lie. I just don't cook. I don't have the patience or attention span for it. Sue me. That wasn't an invitation, I would appreciate if you didn't. Nobody in their right mind would represent me.
I think I lost my cell phone...
Oh, I should mention that when I said I spent all day in the kitchen, that was a lie. It was more like forty minutes of bumbling around with a bleeding
Here it is. My phone I mean. In the bedroom beside the charger. So close to getting it plugged into the wall. Damn attention span.
To conclude: Nobody died in a fire and parts of the turkey were still edible. I say we call that a win. In the photos I look pretty proud.
Time for tea,
K
Post Script: I feel that many of my posts can be summarized in a sentence. For example from this and a few other posts:
Boyfriend trusted me to cook a turkey and I couldn't follow his simple directions.
I procrastinated with writing because I couldn't find a specific mug in the mug cupboard.
The Bookends were over for a sleepover and witnessed Boyfriend hit me in the face with the stuffed bear that Mutt humps.
Maybe I should invest more time editing what I write. If you're still reading these words maybe you should take a step back and better prioritize your time. It's all just nonsense anyways.
I love nonsense.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Out of my coma and back on the horse
First blog in a long time and the title is a lie. I'm not on a horse. Oh wait. I needed to double check just to make sure. To my recollection I wasn't in a coma either, but just because I don't remember doesn't mean it isn't true. Or does it? I've gone and stumped myself. Le damn. I know what you're thinking, I took a free class at the YMCA in mind reading so I'm pretty sure it makes me an expert on what's going on inside all of your bean bags. For clarification purposes, bean bag in this instance means brains. Moving on. You're all thinking that the reason I haven't been posting is because my subject matter has run dry. There's no more material. I'm washed up. A has-been. Well you're wrong. Believe me when I say Boyfriend does something every day that I could write about. For instance, and this is a big deal, yesterday he gave up watching the news to enjoy The Breakfast Club instead. That was the moment I fell in love with him. Seriously. The three and a half years before last night were just a way to pass the time. Now you're all wondering if I'm actually serious. Believe me kids, I don't joke about love. I make fun of love, but I don't joke about it. Does that make sense? Did I just stump myself again? Balls.
In all sincerity, there is a reason I haven't been writing to you. I'm one of those people that takes my writing very seriously. There are certain things I need in order to write well:
1) A computer
2) My fun folder with tiny bits of paper scribbled with things that Boyfriend has done to evoke the She Hulk
3) Slabs of meat that I throw to Fat and Mutt to get them to leave me alone.
4) Comfortable clothes
5) My top hat
6) A sledgehammer to smash anything that makes noise. That backwards clock will feel my fury one day. My patience is waning.
7) This one is most important: My mug with the picture of a typewriter that I got from the Bookends. It's my serious writer mug, not to get confused with my television mug, fancy old lady tea cup, cappuccino mug, pre-bedtime tea cup, and pre-pre-bedtime mug. Oh. And the biggun that starts off the day. That mug is a monster. Sometimes I eat cereal out of it.
The thing is, well, my serious writer mug went missing. Gone. Disappeared like a magician's assistant. Which is why I figured that Fat did something with it. She's taken a sudden interest in magic tricks. That wretched, rotund feline. I gave her the shakedown (somewhat similar to the wet-kitty shakedown). I yelled in her face, WHERE IS IT? She stared at me with a sinister look in her eyes. Her mouth parted and her tongue darted out to lick her paw which she then slowly swiped across her brow. I repeated my demand for information and her fangs made an appearance as she said, "meow". That bitch. I slapped her across her furry face, I needed answers! She coughed up a hairball and sauntered away from me.
It was time to get all Dick Tracy up in this tiny apartment. If it wasn't the cat, maybe Mutt saw something. I need witnesses, need to take statements to bring this villain to justice. While I ponder the disappearance of the serious writer mug soft jazz plays in the background. The play list on 8tracks changed without my consent. I reached for my cell phone and dialed the number. I left instructions with Mutt's secretary to have him meet me in the living room. Had I looked down at my heels before I made the call I would have realized Mutt was at my side all along. Well Mutt, you know what's gone missing. Any leads? I got nothing. He looked up, his eyes pleading at me to understand what ails him. Oh crap, you need to go out, don't you? My bad. Let's make it quick, I'm trying to solve a mystery.
I find out real fast that Mutt knows nothing. At least he's not admitting anything. Should have made him give me an answer before I let him loose to do a leg left on those dandelions. Little Bastard. I'll just have to think this one through by myself. Where do we keep the mugs? The upper cupboard. It doesn't make sense that Mutt and Fat could get into the cupboard to take the serious writer mug. There has to be somebody else that has access to it. Somebody like...like...Boyfriend. Fire shot out of my eyes upon realization. Of course. He had it in for my writing all along, but why the mug? What does he have to gain from stealing my precious serious writer mug?
The answer is nothing. He just stacked it with the guest mugs instead of putting it where it usually goes in the cupboard. I still put him in jail though. Oh no wait. Not yet I haven't. Since I don't have access to a jail cell I either have to make one (but my welding's not so good) or frame him for something so he goes to jail. Any welders out there? Give a girl a hand? A cage would look great in the bedroom. Not like a nasty S & M cage. Get over yourselves. It's not like I can lock Boyfriend up in the bathroom. That's where I put the animals when I give them time outs. I need to think this through. I might have stumped myself again.
Time for tea,
K
In all sincerity, there is a reason I haven't been writing to you. I'm one of those people that takes my writing very seriously. There are certain things I need in order to write well:
1) A computer
2) My fun folder with tiny bits of paper scribbled with things that Boyfriend has done to evoke the She Hulk
3) Slabs of meat that I throw to Fat and Mutt to get them to leave me alone.
4) Comfortable clothes
5) My top hat
6) A sledgehammer to smash anything that makes noise. That backwards clock will feel my fury one day. My patience is waning.
7) This one is most important: My mug with the picture of a typewriter that I got from the Bookends. It's my serious writer mug, not to get confused with my television mug, fancy old lady tea cup, cappuccino mug, pre-bedtime tea cup, and pre-pre-bedtime mug. Oh. And the biggun that starts off the day. That mug is a monster. Sometimes I eat cereal out of it.
The thing is, well, my serious writer mug went missing. Gone. Disappeared like a magician's assistant. Which is why I figured that Fat did something with it. She's taken a sudden interest in magic tricks. That wretched, rotund feline. I gave her the shakedown (somewhat similar to the wet-kitty shakedown). I yelled in her face, WHERE IS IT? She stared at me with a sinister look in her eyes. Her mouth parted and her tongue darted out to lick her paw which she then slowly swiped across her brow. I repeated my demand for information and her fangs made an appearance as she said, "meow". That bitch. I slapped her across her furry face, I needed answers! She coughed up a hairball and sauntered away from me.
It was time to get all Dick Tracy up in this tiny apartment. If it wasn't the cat, maybe Mutt saw something. I need witnesses, need to take statements to bring this villain to justice. While I ponder the disappearance of the serious writer mug soft jazz plays in the background. The play list on 8tracks changed without my consent. I reached for my cell phone and dialed the number. I left instructions with Mutt's secretary to have him meet me in the living room. Had I looked down at my heels before I made the call I would have realized Mutt was at my side all along. Well Mutt, you know what's gone missing. Any leads? I got nothing. He looked up, his eyes pleading at me to understand what ails him. Oh crap, you need to go out, don't you? My bad. Let's make it quick, I'm trying to solve a mystery.
I find out real fast that Mutt knows nothing. At least he's not admitting anything. Should have made him give me an answer before I let him loose to do a leg left on those dandelions. Little Bastard. I'll just have to think this one through by myself. Where do we keep the mugs? The upper cupboard. It doesn't make sense that Mutt and Fat could get into the cupboard to take the serious writer mug. There has to be somebody else that has access to it. Somebody like...like...Boyfriend. Fire shot out of my eyes upon realization. Of course. He had it in for my writing all along, but why the mug? What does he have to gain from stealing my precious serious writer mug?
The answer is nothing. He just stacked it with the guest mugs instead of putting it where it usually goes in the cupboard. I still put him in jail though. Oh no wait. Not yet I haven't. Since I don't have access to a jail cell I either have to make one (but my welding's not so good) or frame him for something so he goes to jail. Any welders out there? Give a girl a hand? A cage would look great in the bedroom. Not like a nasty S & M cage. Get over yourselves. It's not like I can lock Boyfriend up in the bathroom. That's where I put the animals when I give them time outs. I need to think this through. I might have stumped myself again.
Time for tea,
K
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