I was introduced to the idea of love language some time ago. It's the manner in which one expresses their affection. Sometimes this is harder to deduce than you think.
There are the couples out there who just put it all out there, being disgustingly affectionate and eating each other's faces without caring that my face is squished between theirs because it's rush hour and the bus is full. Thanks for the inclusion, old people. Boyfriend tries that mushy crap in public I introduce his nose to my knuckles. At least he doesn't succumb to his emotions and cry like a little girl. Kudos, Boyfriend. Kudos.
There are other people who show their love by purchasing gifts. No Boyfriend, we don't count the time you bought that giant bag of basmati rice that would feed Hong Kong for a year. Yes, I know it's my favourite. Maybe I should clarify; Some folk buy fun, frivilous gifts or treats for their significant other(s)...we don't judge here, go polygomy!...These gifts could be: a spa day, quality chocolates (No, Boyfriend. I'm not planning on eating the chocolate rabbit from Easter. Now is as good of time as any to tell you they blow more than a birthday party clown whose parlour trick is making balloon animals.), a luxury automobile, fancy coffee, or even pineapple. Boyfriend gets points for the pineapple BUT NOTHING ELSE. Wow. That might have been a little over the top. What I mean to say is: Boyfriend gets points for trying, but he's not winning any tournaments in this catagory. That's a compliment if I ever heard one.
Another love language is the repairman technique. Do not confuse this with the Mr Fixit method. The repairman technique is when you show your feelings by fixing problems/situations. It can be something as unsexy as fixing that bubbling toilet. That's not a hint Boyfriend, we'll get the landlord to deal with it. Again, though he tries, Boyfriend does not score well in this catagory. While you're reading this, Boyfriend, don't touch my things. I don't care that you claim to know how to sew, I know you're basing that assumption off of finding that minature sewing kit in the junk drawer. We also own a screwdriver, but that doens't make me a mechanic.
Boyfriend is one of those folk who speaks many love languages. His biggest is inclusion, he shows love by inviting every family member, friend, neighbour and freak on a leash to every event ever. Romantic dinner? Bring that hobo we met on the walk to the restaurant! Big anniversary? Call Grandma and ask if she wants to spend the weekend at our place! Couple's vacation in Mexico? Those people from the plane seem nice, let's spend every second of our vacation with them! It's too bad the rooms don't have bunk beds. I love that he's a people person, but at times it can evoke the She-Hulk. I'm selfish. I love me-time.
The point is, there are many love languages out there in the world. None that I've listed so far are mine. I don't do the smarmy love poems, picnics at dusk while a string quartet plays in the background. I'm too much of a control freak to feel wooed by Boyfriend putting a photo or art on the wall that I've been meaning to hang (I will TELL you where it goes then watch you hang it. Stuff doesn't go on those walls willy-nilly, you clown. Learn this lesson, damn it!). The only movement that stirs inside of me when I see man-tears is disgust. No, no. My love language is sarcasm and insults. That is how you know I care. For instance, recently I walked into the living room to see Boyfriend reading the paper:
You're really cute right now.
Because I'm reading?
No. Because your mouth was shut.
Boyfriend must have cruised the book store for my love language translation guide (How to Speak K's Love Language, you can find it at that book store with the books). Yes, book store. Not the app store. If you read this blog, you know why Boyfriend doesn't shop there. If you're lost, perhaps pissing off entirely is the best option for you. Don't be lazy! Read the blog from the beginning. Where was I? Asses. Made me lose my place. Ah, yes. Boyfriend is still working on the pronounciation and nuances of my love language, but he's well on his way. Last night I was singing in the kitchen:
Can you shut up?
What? (Excited, my head pops around the corner from the kitchen to the living room where he sits)
I said can you get me an ice pack for my knee?
That is not what you said. (I can't help but smile) Boyfriend?
Yeah? (He looks like he does before the She-Hulk emerges)
I love you.
Somebody from Disney needs to read this post. That last part is a love story if I ever heard one.
Time for tea,
K
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Judgement Free Zone
For the Doubting Thomases out there (minor aside: Doubting Thomas is a biblical reference, who knew? Thomas the Apostle. I learn something every day.), the universe has given Boyfriend and I clues that we do fit together. Either he and I have some crazy imaginary network of synapses that connect our brains or we're both the same kind of off-kilter. I'm cool with either...unless imaginary synapses have the capacity to be affected by brain damage. I'll need a helmet in that case.
For some reason that the world cannot grasp, telephone books are still distributed by the city every year. Unless you're a strongman from the 1980s whose parlour trick is ripping them in half, there is no reason on the planet to still have one of these cement blocks in your house. Yet, the city persists in gifting these monsters to us every year. I use them as portable steps to reach the cupboard over the fridge. We can officially call off the search, I found my martini glasses. Yes, thank God for those damn books. I don't actually know what we do with ours. I feel like I leave ours with the pile of newspapers in the lobby. Moving on. Our apartment manager, the vandal that he is, always leaves those huge mothers right in front of our doors where this ol' gal trips over them in the morning during the daily rush to work. Starting off the morning with an ungraceful face plant is not my idea of a good time. It turns out, however, that my idea of a good time is rather asinine.
One of the apartments in the hallway was clearly vacant, as their big ol' telephone directory hung outside their door for many days. I got a brilliant idea that struck me as great fun for reasons I cannot explain because I do not know myself. The next time I pass that sad book laying face up on the carpet, I prop it up against the door. On the following trip down the hall I move it back down to the floor and open it up to expose the pages. The trend goes on, every time I pass by the book gets rearranged. It satisfies the crazy in my head. I don't tell Boyfriend about this. He couldn't be more judgemental if he wore a powdered wig and carried a gavel. A couple days into the fun, the telephone book is sloppily balanced on the edges of the pages, the spine lifting upward as though the book is making an attempt to crawl away from the daily abuse. I did not leave it like that. My back groans as I pick the book up and delicately balance it on the doorknob. Leaving the apartment a little while later I notice that the fat directory is now on the ground casually leaning against the door frame, as though it has been waiting for me to show up again.
Strange. The whole thing finally begins to strike me as especially funny since I'm not the only loser getting a kick out of displaying the phone book like a mannequin. Eventually, the creativity on the sides of both myself and my secret opponent wane, reaching expiration one day after work when I saunter by and the book has completed its final illusion. The great disappearing act. I shuffle along, a touch melancholy because this game (that isn't a game) is over. Well, we had a good run. I slump in the desk chair when I get inside our place.
What's wrong with you? (Boyfriend finally dares ask the question when the bomb squad has assessed the situation and given him the go-ahead)
Nothing. (Woman answer)
Doesn't seem like nothing.
Well, I know if I tell you you'll think I'm stupid.
I would never think you're stupid.
Oh please. We both think the other one is stupid all the time.
True. What's up?
Well there was this phone book down the hall... (I can't look at him while I start, but then get rudely interrupted, as is his way)
That was you?
Not just me! (Since I'm a woman I get overly defensive here for reasons I cannot explain because I do not know myself)
I didn't want to tell you that I was moving that book. I thought you'd think I was dumb.
You are dumb. But I'm dumb too.
I fell in love with him all over again that day. Okay, that might be subject to hyperbole. It's just nice to know that I'm not the only fool living in the confines of these walls. Besides, by the next night balance was restored as I threatened his life for reasons I cannot explain because I do not know myself.
Time for tea,
K
For some reason that the world cannot grasp, telephone books are still distributed by the city every year. Unless you're a strongman from the 1980s whose parlour trick is ripping them in half, there is no reason on the planet to still have one of these cement blocks in your house. Yet, the city persists in gifting these monsters to us every year. I use them as portable steps to reach the cupboard over the fridge. We can officially call off the search, I found my martini glasses. Yes, thank God for those damn books. I don't actually know what we do with ours. I feel like I leave ours with the pile of newspapers in the lobby. Moving on. Our apartment manager, the vandal that he is, always leaves those huge mothers right in front of our doors where this ol' gal trips over them in the morning during the daily rush to work. Starting off the morning with an ungraceful face plant is not my idea of a good time. It turns out, however, that my idea of a good time is rather asinine.
One of the apartments in the hallway was clearly vacant, as their big ol' telephone directory hung outside their door for many days. I got a brilliant idea that struck me as great fun for reasons I cannot explain because I do not know myself. The next time I pass that sad book laying face up on the carpet, I prop it up against the door. On the following trip down the hall I move it back down to the floor and open it up to expose the pages. The trend goes on, every time I pass by the book gets rearranged. It satisfies the crazy in my head. I don't tell Boyfriend about this. He couldn't be more judgemental if he wore a powdered wig and carried a gavel. A couple days into the fun, the telephone book is sloppily balanced on the edges of the pages, the spine lifting upward as though the book is making an attempt to crawl away from the daily abuse. I did not leave it like that. My back groans as I pick the book up and delicately balance it on the doorknob. Leaving the apartment a little while later I notice that the fat directory is now on the ground casually leaning against the door frame, as though it has been waiting for me to show up again.
Strange. The whole thing finally begins to strike me as especially funny since I'm not the only loser getting a kick out of displaying the phone book like a mannequin. Eventually, the creativity on the sides of both myself and my secret opponent wane, reaching expiration one day after work when I saunter by and the book has completed its final illusion. The great disappearing act. I shuffle along, a touch melancholy because this game (that isn't a game) is over. Well, we had a good run. I slump in the desk chair when I get inside our place.
What's wrong with you? (Boyfriend finally dares ask the question when the bomb squad has assessed the situation and given him the go-ahead)
Nothing. (Woman answer)
Doesn't seem like nothing.
Well, I know if I tell you you'll think I'm stupid.
I would never think you're stupid.
Oh please. We both think the other one is stupid all the time.
True. What's up?
Well there was this phone book down the hall... (I can't look at him while I start, but then get rudely interrupted, as is his way)
That was you?
Not just me! (Since I'm a woman I get overly defensive here for reasons I cannot explain because I do not know myself)
I didn't want to tell you that I was moving that book. I thought you'd think I was dumb.
You are dumb. But I'm dumb too.
I fell in love with him all over again that day. Okay, that might be subject to hyperbole. It's just nice to know that I'm not the only fool living in the confines of these walls. Besides, by the next night balance was restored as I threatened his life for reasons I cannot explain because I do not know myself.
Time for tea,
K
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Verbal Abuse
A few months ago I got into a conversation with a dufus. It wasn't Boyfriend...not that time anyhow, but this fellow's loudmouthed dufus exterior did lead me to draw a couple parallels to Boyfriend. Anyhow, New Dufus and I get into a conversation about Boyfriend. After a few minutes, New Dufus knits his eyebrows together as if trying very hard to comprehend something far beyond the grasp of his understanding. What is it, New Dufus? In an earnest, serious tone he asks, "How has he put up with you for so long?" Couple things, New Dufus: 1) Mind your business, and 2) I think you mean to ask how I put up with him sometimes. I assure you, our relationship would be entirely harmonious if I had the incredible fortune to be deaf. The man verbally assaults me with his language on a daily basis.
The following is a list for Boyfriend of the words/phrases/incorrect pronunciations of his that rattle the monkey cage inside my head. It's only a matter of time before that cage busts open and those freaky apes run rampant. I can't be held responsible. Don't let those primates get out, Boyfriend. I'm writing this because I care, and you need to realize that your good looks won't last forever. That's why I'm giving you a crash course in charm school.
Vernacular faux pas #1
Festis is not a word, no matter how much you insist that it is. Stop calling me that. I agree, it does sound like some sort of infected vermin, but the fact is, it's not real.
Vernacular faux pas #2
It is pronounced chi-pote-lay. Not chi-pole-tay. You can't use chipotle if you can't say it properly.
Vernacular faux pas #3
When you say, help yourself to some [insert some kind of food here: pasta, chili, curry, etc.], there's all kinds, you actually mean you have a shit tonne of one kind. Just because there is lots does not mean that you've concocted several breeds of whatever the hell is cookin' away in that pot. This particular faux pas warrants an asterisk because it makes the pulsing blood in my temple knock my skull around.
Vernacular faux pas #4
The phrase, Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick, simply must stop. It's contagious and I've even slipped up and used it on occasion. I've filed the paperwork to make this faux pas a violation that comes with a hefty fine. The only time it will be allowed without punishment is an instance where you see Jesus bouncing down the street on a pogo stick. This is your first and final written warning.
Vernacular faux pas #5
Yous. It looks as moronic as it sounds. Yous is not a word. The plural form of you is you. It's like the word fish. You are like fish. I are like fish too...for to eat. It is more than acceptable to say, how are you? Say it, How are yous? and you sound like you have a speech impediment.
Vernacular faux pas #6
I know that the thing for kids to do is make words shorter, because...long words are hard? Don't want to overextend ourselves with supplementary syllables now, do we? I must ask, nay, beg of you to stop calling the barbeque a Q. That is a letter, and not even my favourite one, though I am biased to the letter K. My signoff name by the way is not the same thing. Get over yourselves.
Vernacular faux pas #7
During a serious conversation, you saying, Seriously though... is nonsense.
...Well. Boyfriend just caught me off guard with an impromtu compliment and now I can't finish bitching about his east-coast nonsensical language. Couldn't have saved the charisma for after my ranting list, Boyfriend? How am I supposed to get anything done when you interrupt and throw me right off course? Brutal. The train has left the station.
Well, in any case, time for tea,
K
Post script: It's huge, not hudge. That's a spelling issue that drives me nuts, you say it just fine though, Boyfriend.
The following is a list for Boyfriend of the words/phrases/incorrect pronunciations of his that rattle the monkey cage inside my head. It's only a matter of time before that cage busts open and those freaky apes run rampant. I can't be held responsible. Don't let those primates get out, Boyfriend. I'm writing this because I care, and you need to realize that your good looks won't last forever. That's why I'm giving you a crash course in charm school.
Vernacular faux pas #1
Festis is not a word, no matter how much you insist that it is. Stop calling me that. I agree, it does sound like some sort of infected vermin, but the fact is, it's not real.
Vernacular faux pas #2
It is pronounced chi-pote-lay. Not chi-pole-tay. You can't use chipotle if you can't say it properly.
Vernacular faux pas #3
When you say, help yourself to some [insert some kind of food here: pasta, chili, curry, etc.], there's all kinds, you actually mean you have a shit tonne of one kind. Just because there is lots does not mean that you've concocted several breeds of whatever the hell is cookin' away in that pot. This particular faux pas warrants an asterisk because it makes the pulsing blood in my temple knock my skull around.
Vernacular faux pas #4
The phrase, Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick, simply must stop. It's contagious and I've even slipped up and used it on occasion. I've filed the paperwork to make this faux pas a violation that comes with a hefty fine. The only time it will be allowed without punishment is an instance where you see Jesus bouncing down the street on a pogo stick. This is your first and final written warning.
Vernacular faux pas #5
Yous. It looks as moronic as it sounds. Yous is not a word. The plural form of you is you. It's like the word fish. You are like fish. I are like fish too...for to eat. It is more than acceptable to say, how are you? Say it, How are yous? and you sound like you have a speech impediment.
Vernacular faux pas #6
I know that the thing for kids to do is make words shorter, because...long words are hard? Don't want to overextend ourselves with supplementary syllables now, do we? I must ask, nay, beg of you to stop calling the barbeque a Q. That is a letter, and not even my favourite one, though I am biased to the letter K. My signoff name by the way is not the same thing. Get over yourselves.
Vernacular faux pas #7
During a serious conversation, you saying, Seriously though... is nonsense.
...Well. Boyfriend just caught me off guard with an impromtu compliment and now I can't finish bitching about his east-coast nonsensical language. Couldn't have saved the charisma for after my ranting list, Boyfriend? How am I supposed to get anything done when you interrupt and throw me right off course? Brutal. The train has left the station.
Well, in any case, time for tea,
K
Post script: It's huge, not hudge. That's a spelling issue that drives me nuts, you say it just fine though, Boyfriend.
Sunday, June 3, 2012
Luddite for Life
I was created to be sarcastic. I was created to spill every liquid that is not water or vodka. I wasn't created to be a teacher. I don't have the patience for it. You either learn right away and keep up with my teaching, or I get frustrated enough to pack my things and leave. I didn't talk to Muse for many moons after the time she asked me to teach her about fractions. Even thinking about it makes the She Hulk take over. Now, indents from my fingernails track across my palms. Must learn to let things go, but that She Hulk holds onto bitterness like a prison bitch with a shiv. Le damn.
Boyfriend, in his sweet naivety, is ignorant to the fact that I do not do well when I try to impart wisdom to idiots. Darwin had it right; adapt or die, Boyfriend. Not that you're an idiot. That's the She Hulk talking. She still hasn't forgiven you.
You have to remember, readers, Boyfriend is from a different time. You know about his archaic cell phone deal, well, computers are much worse for my man. He jokes about sending me to cooking class (shout-out to the hollandaise I made this morning...from a package), but the man has got to focus on his inability to do anything with a computer. Let me give you some examples:
After I moved here, I made the purchase of one very sensuous lap top. I spent many a dollar on that beauty, and left her in the care of Boyfriend for an evening while I went to Playland to wait forever in a line to ride that rickety, old roller coaster. It's like gambling with your life every time the safety bar is unsecurely rested across your lap. Best last moment ever, and then you survive. And then you go again, die, and haunt the amusement park for the rest of your life. I'd call that win-win. Anyhow, not important. I'm not sure what exactly Boyfriend was using my computer for, but at some point throughout the evening, I get a text. Computer's broken, how do I fix it? This is the part where I freak out. A matter of hours alone and he's busted up my computer. I call. No answer. I call again. No answer. He must be scared of the wrath. The She Hulk texts him back: What do you MEAN the computer is broken? We go on the bumper cars and the She Hulk takes out her aggression by slamming her car into the cars of young children that are just excited for the opportunity to pretend to drive. No, that's a lie. I got stuck when I went to T-bone some hefty child in his red car. Good news on that front, he was close enough to add some flavourful words to his vocabulary. You're welcome, hefty boy. After the bumper cars, my phone finally rings:
What happened?
To what?
The computer. You said it was broken. What did you do?
I didn't do anything.
No. You did something. If you tell me what you did so I can figure out how to fix it.
I didn't touch anything, the computer just turned off.
Did the battery die?
I don't think so.
In fact, yes, the battery had died. When he plugged it in and turned it on, everything was fine. Crisis averted. In fact, I invited him to come join us at the park and ride the roller coaster.
For a man that insists we have an HD television and PVR he does not know how to work either. He always says we need Hubby Cupcake to come over and fix things. I don't pretend to know what that spiderweb of cords behind the television is for, but the neurotic part of me freaks out at the knots and twists and millions of black wires. That scene behind the entertainment stand is my nightmare. I shouldn't have looked. Better to be ignorant. I might not be patient, but I am tolerant. If I were less of a person, I wouldn't PVR the boring sporting events he insists are good. Aside: At some point last week there was some sort of upset in a hockey game, something about who ended up in the Stanley Cup, and allegedly THAT was the reason to watch sports. I don't pretend to understand, there's no storyline, I can't follow along without a plot. The reason I program the PVR for him is that otherwise he'll break it, and it's just easier on me to record it and not explain how to PVR shows...again.
I bought Boyfriend an iPod a few Christmases ago. When I purchased it, I made a mental note to decrease any frustration that would find me following his opening of the gift. Boyfriend does not fare well with the electronic dealys, so I out-clevered myself. He just wanted it in order to listen to his honky-tonk music. I opened it, charged it, and filled it with his music, and rewrapped it so it was ready to use immediately. I forgot about the part where he would eventually want to change the music that was on it. I am not a-so-smart. I learned how much foresight I lack when Boyfriend came up to me the other day with an announcement: I would like to change up the music on my thing. Oh no. I should have sensed the terror that morning when I woke up, but as it is always overcast here, it is sometimes hard to discern the clouds of doom from the ones that bring the rain. I know that people learn in different ways. I understand it in fact. Therefore, I tell him how to download the music, I show him how to download music, I hold his hand and watch him download the music himself. I exit, because I have seen Boyfriend perform this simple task. As soon as I settle into a book, his voice comes a-callin', How do I make a playlist? I tell him, show him, and watch him make one. My work here is done. I go back to my room and open my book. Hey, can you help me do that again? No. I cannot. Will not. Except that I did. When I open my book again, he shouts another question. This cycle gets old far too fast. His next question I ignore. If I go into that room again, I know that his blood will paint the carpet, but I also know that crimson does not match the apartment. The only responsible decision was to ignore him. For a long time. I thought maybe he could figure it out on his own. Turns out, he cannot. That, or he refuses to adapt.
He thinks it's cute how often I suggest riding the roller coaster at Playland. He has yet to make the connection that I only ask him when the She Hulk is angry.
Time for tea,
K
Boyfriend, in his sweet naivety, is ignorant to the fact that I do not do well when I try to impart wisdom to idiots. Darwin had it right; adapt or die, Boyfriend. Not that you're an idiot. That's the She Hulk talking. She still hasn't forgiven you.
You have to remember, readers, Boyfriend is from a different time. You know about his archaic cell phone deal, well, computers are much worse for my man. He jokes about sending me to cooking class (shout-out to the hollandaise I made this morning...from a package), but the man has got to focus on his inability to do anything with a computer. Let me give you some examples:
After I moved here, I made the purchase of one very sensuous lap top. I spent many a dollar on that beauty, and left her in the care of Boyfriend for an evening while I went to Playland to wait forever in a line to ride that rickety, old roller coaster. It's like gambling with your life every time the safety bar is unsecurely rested across your lap. Best last moment ever, and then you survive. And then you go again, die, and haunt the amusement park for the rest of your life. I'd call that win-win. Anyhow, not important. I'm not sure what exactly Boyfriend was using my computer for, but at some point throughout the evening, I get a text. Computer's broken, how do I fix it? This is the part where I freak out. A matter of hours alone and he's busted up my computer. I call. No answer. I call again. No answer. He must be scared of the wrath. The She Hulk texts him back: What do you MEAN the computer is broken? We go on the bumper cars and the She Hulk takes out her aggression by slamming her car into the cars of young children that are just excited for the opportunity to pretend to drive. No, that's a lie. I got stuck when I went to T-bone some hefty child in his red car. Good news on that front, he was close enough to add some flavourful words to his vocabulary. You're welcome, hefty boy. After the bumper cars, my phone finally rings:
What happened?
To what?
The computer. You said it was broken. What did you do?
I didn't do anything.
No. You did something. If you tell me what you did so I can figure out how to fix it.
I didn't touch anything, the computer just turned off.
Did the battery die?
I don't think so.
In fact, yes, the battery had died. When he plugged it in and turned it on, everything was fine. Crisis averted. In fact, I invited him to come join us at the park and ride the roller coaster.
For a man that insists we have an HD television and PVR he does not know how to work either. He always says we need Hubby Cupcake to come over and fix things. I don't pretend to know what that spiderweb of cords behind the television is for, but the neurotic part of me freaks out at the knots and twists and millions of black wires. That scene behind the entertainment stand is my nightmare. I shouldn't have looked. Better to be ignorant. I might not be patient, but I am tolerant. If I were less of a person, I wouldn't PVR the boring sporting events he insists are good. Aside: At some point last week there was some sort of upset in a hockey game, something about who ended up in the Stanley Cup, and allegedly THAT was the reason to watch sports. I don't pretend to understand, there's no storyline, I can't follow along without a plot. The reason I program the PVR for him is that otherwise he'll break it, and it's just easier on me to record it and not explain how to PVR shows...again.
I bought Boyfriend an iPod a few Christmases ago. When I purchased it, I made a mental note to decrease any frustration that would find me following his opening of the gift. Boyfriend does not fare well with the electronic dealys, so I out-clevered myself. He just wanted it in order to listen to his honky-tonk music. I opened it, charged it, and filled it with his music, and rewrapped it so it was ready to use immediately. I forgot about the part where he would eventually want to change the music that was on it. I am not a-so-smart. I learned how much foresight I lack when Boyfriend came up to me the other day with an announcement: I would like to change up the music on my thing. Oh no. I should have sensed the terror that morning when I woke up, but as it is always overcast here, it is sometimes hard to discern the clouds of doom from the ones that bring the rain. I know that people learn in different ways. I understand it in fact. Therefore, I tell him how to download the music, I show him how to download music, I hold his hand and watch him download the music himself. I exit, because I have seen Boyfriend perform this simple task. As soon as I settle into a book, his voice comes a-callin', How do I make a playlist? I tell him, show him, and watch him make one. My work here is done. I go back to my room and open my book. Hey, can you help me do that again? No. I cannot. Will not. Except that I did. When I open my book again, he shouts another question. This cycle gets old far too fast. His next question I ignore. If I go into that room again, I know that his blood will paint the carpet, but I also know that crimson does not match the apartment. The only responsible decision was to ignore him. For a long time. I thought maybe he could figure it out on his own. Turns out, he cannot. That, or he refuses to adapt.
He thinks it's cute how often I suggest riding the roller coaster at Playland. He has yet to make the connection that I only ask him when the She Hulk is angry.
Time for tea,
K
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