Old Man-nerisms

As I sit down to write this post, I peer over to Boyfriend for inspiration. He's slowly rocking forward and back in his chair, holding a paper in his right hand that's folded open to some article about Conservative stuff. His listless eyes drift from the page to the tobacco pipe his ink-smudged fingers clasp in the opposite hand, he sets down the paper. The pro-gun article will have to wait while Boyfriend lights the tobacco, inhales, and exhales, content. He looks adorable in the plaid collared shirt that sloppily spills out from beneath a forest green cardigan. Oh, excuse me a moment. He's fallen into another impromptu nap and I should really pry that pipe from his fingers before something bad happens.

That's safer. I'll let his snores fill the background as the music to this piece I'm to write. Only, what to write? Maybe I could write about that time...

I bought this really cute dress. It was black, a zipper up to the neck, sleeveless, and sure, showed some leg. I put it on to show Boyfriend, did the model strut and twirl on the imaginary runway. Great dress for cocktails. I flaunt, pose -- nay, vogue -- and ready myself for the compliments that will be showered over me, thinking ahead, I pop open my ducky umbrella and raise it over my head. It's bad luck to open an umbrella indoors. I forgot. Luckily, only the fictionalized version of myself uses the umbrella as a prop. Well Boyfriend? Nice, yeah? ...That's one of those outfits for the bedroom that they sell at the lust stores, right? Uh. No. No no. No. No. Wrong. It so was not. Ask Muse. She'll tell you what's what. And that was no dominatrix deal. It was just a dress! Can wear it in front of my Ma but not Boyfriend. Where's the logic?

Or that other time...

Boyfriend and I were watching the Junos. Then a certain somebody hit the stage. What the hell is that? What? On that guy's head (He points like the Ogopogo just surfaced in our living room). Oh. That's Deadmau5 (I yawn, like, obviously). What's a Deadmau5? You don't know? He's the fifth horseman of the apocalypse. People worship him because they fear his wrath. Just kidding, he's a magician. A magician? Just kidding, he's actually a cyborg. What's a cyborg? You know...robot-y. What's that? Speak up missy. He takes his stare from me and redirects it to the television, What the hell is that?

Ha. I was supremely exaggerating/lying before, but Boyfriend is for real asleep and snoring on the couch now. How do you like that? Maybe I should write about what happened awhile ago...

One time when Boyfriend came to visit me in the Okanagan, in the courtship era. I heard him coming from blocks away, the clip-clop of the horses that led his chuck wagon were unmistakable. He pulled on the reins when they arrived in front of my house, making the horsies come to a halt. One of the horsies had a chip in it and Boyfriend said, I borrowed it from a friend. You can bet I'll have to repair that chip. We were rushing down the highway to get here. That was the day he gave me his letter man jacket and asked me to go steady. Oh wait. I'm wrong. The chip was in a borrowed Mazda and was an entirely different time than when he asked me to be his one and only. Oh. And he didn't ask me to go steady. I got annoyed at him on a telephone call months into our relationship and demanded to know what the deal was. Very romantic deciding not to date other people. In retrospect, this lying mash-up of stories isn't even relevant to the post.

Alright. We'll call this post a wash. I have a better way to describe the Old Man-nerisms of Boyfriend. Stay tuned.

Time for tea,

K