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
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