Muse likes to remind me of the story of mine and Boyfriend's first New Year's Eve together. She only knows the amorous version of the tale. She knows the classy story. Not to say that the classy tale of said New Year's is fraudulent...it was just missing the ending. The version Muse knows is that Boyfriend cooked us a romantic lobster dinner and we had free-flowing champagne which saw us into 2009 with clinking glass flutes filled with the bubbly. The part of the story that I left out when I told Muse originally was the next morning where I literally kicked Boyfriend out of the bathroom so I could revisit that beautiful, rich dinner – it's not as delicious on the way out. That lobster climbed up and out of my esophagus like a freaky masticated survivor. Boyfriend and I also share the same affliction when it comes to hearing or seeing other people spew – it's a domino effect and causes both of us to choke back our own heaves. While I locked him out of the bathroom I swear I heard him clawing at the door and dry heaving. I'm not just writing this to share the grossness, but I feel like this moment is a true depiction of our relationship. Boyfriend tries to class things up and I puke all over his attempt...sometimes metaphorically, but in the case of New Year's 2009 and my 25th birthday, quite literally.
That being said, this post has to do with being classy, lobsters and the overestimation of my ability to do cruel things. Not long after the New Year's verb-fest (pick whichever verb appeals to your that is synonymous with vomit), Boyfriend made us lobster again...take two if you will. This time he asked if I wanted to share in the murdering and put them into the boiling pot of death. Sure. Yeah. I can totally do that. This won't be what sends me to hell, is it? If I'm heading downward, I want the reason to be something fabulously evil. Perhaps some sort of cruel behaviour involving two-way mirrors and those knarly fetal pigs used in high school dissections that are preserved in formaldehyde. I haven't entirely figured out the details that will be my ticket to hell. Though, if you read that book Damned by Chuck Palahniuk, you'll find we're all going to hell for a lot less. Some sort of circus-inspired evil doing for the price of my eternal soul? Sold.
I picked up the first little lobster beasty. It squirmed in its armour trying to break free of my grasp. When that proved futile, it turned to look at me. "Put me down you vile wench!" It yelled at me, throwing me off with its asian dialect and a statement that didn't suit his manner of speech. I tell you, that was enough. I set the lobster back on the counter, raised my hands and backed away slowly. Boyfriend took care of him, and I had great gratification when Boyfriend cracked open the shell of that horrific Atlantic bastard and put the lobster meat on my plate.
Yeah...uh, Boyfriend takes the shells of my lobster and crab because I would starve otherwise. Also, I'm mean when I'm hungry, so really, this is a survival tactic for Boyfriend.
A few months later the Eastern-Canadian side of Boyfriend beckonned him again. It was lobster time. I guess this is the equivilent of PMS. Boyfriend needs to have lobster several times a year or he gets bitchy. Always afterward he complains about being bloated. Men. Sheesh.
This time when Boyfriend asked if I was ready to put the lobsters into the pot I was definitely ready. I'd been practicing with Fat. If I could wrestle an obese cat into a stovetop pot of water, a lobster with tied pinchers would be SUPER EASY. I suppose I should mention that the stove wasn't on when we practiced or PETA will be charging through with Pamela Anderson and Ron Jeremy leading the brigade.
Sidenote: Worst superhero name ever...SUPER EASY. Man-slut powers activate! Or woman-slut powers...I'm for equal opportunity. No. That's a lie. Women best men all the time. Glass ceiling my ass.
Anyhow, I found myself in the position to end a life. I eyed up my lobster foe. I'll kill you, you nasty little sea rat. Then I'll eat you. I'm going to do it this time. For real. Into the bubbly tomb of death you go. I grabbed the tiny monster in my hand and lifted him off the counter with malicious intention. At this time I would like to give a tremendous pat on the back to me, by now I'd done better than the last time. I brought him over to the cauldron, remembering what Boyfriend said: Put them in head first so they die faster. Alright, cool. The nice person in me hesitated over the pot which let the lobster enjoy the relaxing sensation of the steam. Free sauna, you're welcome. However, it's a good thing I didn't plunge him right in like Boyfriend told me. The squirmy creature opened his tiny lobster mouth and a deep verbrato filled the kitchen. His opera was in its original italian, and though I don't speak the language I was enraptured. I killed the overhead lights and called for a spotlight on the melodious creature. When he sang, his voice carried through the octaves with ease – clearly a practiced talent. Tears sprang from his beady eyes when he sang for his lost love – in spite of the language barrier I always rely on presumption to steer me in a direction that sounds right. It doesn't matter if it actually proves to be right, as long as it COULD be correct. As the performance came to a close, I watched through my opera glasses while his tethered claws rose with his voice to punctuate his final note. I threw long-stem roses in his direction as he bowed, accepting my frenzied applause.
What are you doing? Boyfriend came into the kitchen and seized the lobster that was still in my hand and suspended above the pot. He plunged Opera Lobster into the boiling pot head-first, and we watched him turn from that murky dark colour into a brilliant red. As I had my first bite of Opera Lobster one word fell from my lips, Bravissimo. If that's wrong, I don't speak italian. Shut up.
At least, that's how I'm going to tell the story of The Lobster Opera to Muse. What really happened is the lobster freaked out from the steam and started shrieking, the kind of screaming sound that haunts my dreams. I freaked out and threw him in the sink and ran away. I hoped he wouldn't get out of that makeshift gladiator arena until Boyfriend checked on my lack of progress and punched his clock for me. Like I said, metaphorical verbing (again, anything that means yak goes here...and not yak like the animal).
Time for tea,
K
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Even the She-Hulk goes green
Well. Not a happy realization this morning. I woke up with the old people. Clarification might be needed here. I didn't wake up with old people, that would be some kind of crazy bedroom situation that...yipes. Just yipes. What I mean to say is that I woke up at the old folk witching hour if you will. I was well rested and out for a walk with Mutt, not cognizant of the time. Eventually I noticed that everyone we passed by were of the silver-haired clan. Abandoned toys were scattered across lawns, as though the young ones raced inside, knowing that the time of day did not belong to them. The wrinkle faces would be about at this hour. And I walked among them this morning, that idea scared the hell out of me. Mutt and I ran home, raced up the apartment steps, slamming our door behind us and bolting the lock. I dragged the dresser into the hall and barricaded the door. We made it back safe, they couldn't initiate us into their tribe if they couldn't get us. I ran to the mirror, just to check that there were no liver spots, nasty chin hairs or cataracts. No symptoms were apparent. I must have been infected with their early-morning air though, Mutt and I put on aprons and baked some bread, did laundry, dishes, dusted the hard candies in the gaudy glass bowl on the side table, cleaned the bedroom, and vacuumed. I'm not used to being so productive. Lunch was served at 9 a.m. and Mutt excused himself to nap after the meal while I decided twas time to write another blog since it's been over a week now. Old people like me live in the moment and don't procrastinate. No wonder Boyfriend is always up to something.
I've also deduced something else about old people: going green is a learned behaviour. I've met some biddies that think it's just a hoax and refuse to believe it. Everything goes in the garbage and that's that. Consume and throw away, the circle of life. Boyfriend works hard to understand the concept of saving the planet, but I still find myself digging through our garbage like a raccoon finding plastic containers to put in the right receptacle. Also, if I'm lucky in my rooting I come across dinner scraps that are perfect for a snack. I do like to nibble.
I care very much for the Earth. I mean, until life is possible on another planet, Earth will remain my number one. However, the consumer in me does like new things. And you know if you lived on Saturn, that planet would treat you real good. I'm pretty sure standards would be higher for recycling on Saturn because that planet is too evolved for garbage dumps and waste. When something is past its prime, including household couches and old clothes, the objects will just dissolve into some sort of organic matter that you can compost in your alien plant garden. Ah yes, I'm good to the Earth so I can be rewarded with an alien plant garden on Saturn. Living the dream people. Don't piggyback on my dreams. Just be good to our planet long enough to see me off.
Boyfriend makes my efforts all the more trying. I suppose I make his life difficult for being pro-green...and by being myself. I need to remember to charge my cell phone so I can videotape that moment that my actions actually make him snap. Any day now.
I think Boyfriend's biggest point of contention is that I don't tell him what I'm doing to go green, so he's ignorant to my efforts. The biggest one that makes the steam come out of his ears is my propensity to unplug electronics. We don't waste power in this mud hut. If I see something that's not in use, I unplug it in order to conserve. Awhile ago he insisted that we needed a new toaster. Ours was broken. He also went on to complain about how we just got that toaster and it was still under warranty. Couple things, Boyfriend: 1) I've had that toaster longer than you and I have been together, get your facts straight. 2) Try plugging it in. That's my special trick of getting it to transform bread into toast. Abra Cadabra!
Another thing I like to unplug are what are referred to as vampire cell phone chargers. Boyfriend has one for work and one for his personal cell phone (aka the one that belongs in a museum). There was a solid week where he couldn't understand why neither one would hold their charge. An important aspect of charging one's cell phone is by making sure the cord is plugged into the outlet as well as the phone. He was not a happy old fella when he found out the reason they wouldn't work was because of my interference. Wish I could say I was sorry, but let's get real, the She Hulk doesn't apologize. Sorry you don't care about the planet as I do. That's the best you get. No, wait, I've got one better. Sorry you can't grow intelligence. Sorry your kind still drag their knuckles on the ground when they walk. Evolve damn it! Darwin had it right...
Boyfriend insists that I refrain from this unplugging behaviour. I insist that Boyfriend acknowledge my decree to do what we can to save the planet and one day the She-Hulk will run away from him and start her new life on Saturn. It helps get her point across when she grabs Boyfriend by the throat with one hand and lifts him off the ground to shout the message into his face. In our home, we call this positive reinforcement.
The moral of today's story is to remember not to get old, and that if you don't care for the planet, the She Hulk will get you. She won't show you the same leniency that she shows Boyfriend.
Time for tea,
K
I've also deduced something else about old people: going green is a learned behaviour. I've met some biddies that think it's just a hoax and refuse to believe it. Everything goes in the garbage and that's that. Consume and throw away, the circle of life. Boyfriend works hard to understand the concept of saving the planet, but I still find myself digging through our garbage like a raccoon finding plastic containers to put in the right receptacle. Also, if I'm lucky in my rooting I come across dinner scraps that are perfect for a snack. I do like to nibble.
I care very much for the Earth. I mean, until life is possible on another planet, Earth will remain my number one. However, the consumer in me does like new things. And you know if you lived on Saturn, that planet would treat you real good. I'm pretty sure standards would be higher for recycling on Saturn because that planet is too evolved for garbage dumps and waste. When something is past its prime, including household couches and old clothes, the objects will just dissolve into some sort of organic matter that you can compost in your alien plant garden. Ah yes, I'm good to the Earth so I can be rewarded with an alien plant garden on Saturn. Living the dream people. Don't piggyback on my dreams. Just be good to our planet long enough to see me off.
Boyfriend makes my efforts all the more trying. I suppose I make his life difficult for being pro-green...and by being myself. I need to remember to charge my cell phone so I can videotape that moment that my actions actually make him snap. Any day now.
I think Boyfriend's biggest point of contention is that I don't tell him what I'm doing to go green, so he's ignorant to my efforts. The biggest one that makes the steam come out of his ears is my propensity to unplug electronics. We don't waste power in this mud hut. If I see something that's not in use, I unplug it in order to conserve. Awhile ago he insisted that we needed a new toaster. Ours was broken. He also went on to complain about how we just got that toaster and it was still under warranty. Couple things, Boyfriend: 1) I've had that toaster longer than you and I have been together, get your facts straight. 2) Try plugging it in. That's my special trick of getting it to transform bread into toast. Abra Cadabra!
Another thing I like to unplug are what are referred to as vampire cell phone chargers. Boyfriend has one for work and one for his personal cell phone (aka the one that belongs in a museum). There was a solid week where he couldn't understand why neither one would hold their charge. An important aspect of charging one's cell phone is by making sure the cord is plugged into the outlet as well as the phone. He was not a happy old fella when he found out the reason they wouldn't work was because of my interference. Wish I could say I was sorry, but let's get real, the She Hulk doesn't apologize. Sorry you don't care about the planet as I do. That's the best you get. No, wait, I've got one better. Sorry you can't grow intelligence. Sorry your kind still drag their knuckles on the ground when they walk. Evolve damn it! Darwin had it right...
Boyfriend insists that I refrain from this unplugging behaviour. I insist that Boyfriend acknowledge my decree to do what we can to save the planet and one day the She-Hulk will run away from him and start her new life on Saturn. It helps get her point across when she grabs Boyfriend by the throat with one hand and lifts him off the ground to shout the message into his face. In our home, we call this positive reinforcement.
The moral of today's story is to remember not to get old, and that if you don't care for the planet, the She Hulk will get you. She won't show you the same leniency that she shows Boyfriend.
Time for tea,
K
Friday, July 6, 2012
When the apartment is small you take a big fight to the streets
I used to get uppity when Boyfriend told people how we've never had a fight. Sir, please. The She-Hulk raged at this utter and complete lie, until one day she realized something. Boyfriend, and it pains me greatly to say this...oh God, I think I'm having a brain aneurysm (what's a brain aneurysm?)...Boyfriend is right. We've never had a fight, we're still having the same fight we started having the day we met. The fight has just never concluded but includes many tangents and offshoots, so it gets confusing sometimes. I know for certain that we've gone beyond the usual nine rounds, but neither of us will take that knock-out punch. It's a constant swing and a miss on both ends. Such a shame that both of us have to win or die trying, which is what it might just come to.
Also, don't get a brain aneurysm. An estimated one out of 15 people in the States get them and they can result in a stroke or death. Or other things too, but I've already forgotten both the facts and my source, so...just don't get one, okay? Except for the people that I hate, get as many freaking aneurysms as you please. If you get one for Christmas, that's from me. The sucker that just wanted his two front teeth for the holidays was a damn fool. Wishing with a vengence is much more fun.
I know that a big problem that Boyfriend and I have is a lapse in communication. Well, no. That statement is true and it isn't at the same time. That's right, the best of both worlds because it removes the possibility of me sharing falsehoods with you. Or maybe not. I'm pretty sure I lie all the time in the blog (By the by, it's my blog and I'll do what I please). Well, not lie, but make the story better with false truths. Boyfriend and I have moments where both of us are mute about what drives us out of our heads. This makes the other crazy because we have yet to hone our telepathy skills. I try to transmit my thoughts with such high concentration I don't know how he doesn't clue into what I'm thinking. Especially when my eyes bulge out of my head and I mouth the words of my thoughts...with the audio aid of the words themselves. I shake my head. Triple B. Bad Boyfriend Behaviour. Open your ears and shut your mouth, man.
Boyfriend and I had a very rational argument the other day. It was one of those Jekyll and Hyde days for the weather, and Boyfriend and I took Mutt to the dog park. We keep going in hopes that when it comes time to take Mutt off-leash, he'll run away from us and never come back. Dumb ass. Anyhow, Boyfriend and I sat on the park bench overlooking the ocean. Between Boyfriend pointing out nice boats and the polite interruption to sip tea from the english china we toted along,we argued in friendly conversational tones like this:
I'm excited that summer's coming. I'll be down at the boat all the time. (Boyfriend takes a short sip of tea)
Good, because the two of us in our small apartment is going to make me kill you. (I adjust the brim of the hat I usually only wear to the horse races)
Yeah, you're getting on my last nerve too. (Boyfriend sets his teacup on the saucer and flashes a charismatic smile)
There are times I think about never coming back home. (I offer him a refill from the teapot and he graciously nods his head)
Me too. That's enough thank you, I need room for milk and sugar. Two lumps please.
Proves we're meant to be, doesn't it? (Two small splashes from the sugar cubes come from his teacup)
It sure does. (Boyfriend takes the dainty spoon to stir in the sugar, we catch each other's eye and smile sweetly)
There are also times where we are not so rational. The example that comes to mind is a time we walked to the movie theatre. It's no secret that I like to meander. Boyfriend knows this, and yet, he persisted in walking faster than me. The She-Hulk appeared in a flash and later went on to ransack a village. Believe me when I say you do not want to be the woman yelling like a banshee in front of a 7-11 about her asshole Boyfriend walking in front of her down the street. Nobody will take your side and they will all avert their gaze when you pass.
The point is, when Boyfriend and I argue, we need to bring it outside. Our pea pod-size apartment is just not large enough to accommodate all our words and humongous egos and attitudes. We're like good farmers and keep our fight free-range. That means if it ever gets sold in stores, we can charge more for it. Always good to keep an eye out for ways to supplement the income.
The fight is on pause right now because Boyfriend made me laugh this morning. I mocked his computer skills and his serious retort was, Hey! I'm a Googler now.
Time for tea,
K
Also, don't get a brain aneurysm. An estimated one out of 15 people in the States get them and they can result in a stroke or death. Or other things too, but I've already forgotten both the facts and my source, so...just don't get one, okay? Except for the people that I hate, get as many freaking aneurysms as you please. If you get one for Christmas, that's from me. The sucker that just wanted his two front teeth for the holidays was a damn fool. Wishing with a vengence is much more fun.
I know that a big problem that Boyfriend and I have is a lapse in communication. Well, no. That statement is true and it isn't at the same time. That's right, the best of both worlds because it removes the possibility of me sharing falsehoods with you. Or maybe not. I'm pretty sure I lie all the time in the blog (By the by, it's my blog and I'll do what I please). Well, not lie, but make the story better with false truths. Boyfriend and I have moments where both of us are mute about what drives us out of our heads. This makes the other crazy because we have yet to hone our telepathy skills. I try to transmit my thoughts with such high concentration I don't know how he doesn't clue into what I'm thinking. Especially when my eyes bulge out of my head and I mouth the words of my thoughts...with the audio aid of the words themselves. I shake my head. Triple B. Bad Boyfriend Behaviour. Open your ears and shut your mouth, man.
Boyfriend and I had a very rational argument the other day. It was one of those Jekyll and Hyde days for the weather, and Boyfriend and I took Mutt to the dog park. We keep going in hopes that when it comes time to take Mutt off-leash, he'll run away from us and never come back. Dumb ass. Anyhow, Boyfriend and I sat on the park bench overlooking the ocean. Between Boyfriend pointing out nice boats and the polite interruption to sip tea from the english china we toted along,we argued in friendly conversational tones like this:
I'm excited that summer's coming. I'll be down at the boat all the time. (Boyfriend takes a short sip of tea)
Good, because the two of us in our small apartment is going to make me kill you. (I adjust the brim of the hat I usually only wear to the horse races)
Yeah, you're getting on my last nerve too. (Boyfriend sets his teacup on the saucer and flashes a charismatic smile)
There are times I think about never coming back home. (I offer him a refill from the teapot and he graciously nods his head)
Me too. That's enough thank you, I need room for milk and sugar. Two lumps please.
Proves we're meant to be, doesn't it? (Two small splashes from the sugar cubes come from his teacup)
It sure does. (Boyfriend takes the dainty spoon to stir in the sugar, we catch each other's eye and smile sweetly)
There are also times where we are not so rational. The example that comes to mind is a time we walked to the movie theatre. It's no secret that I like to meander. Boyfriend knows this, and yet, he persisted in walking faster than me. The She-Hulk appeared in a flash and later went on to ransack a village. Believe me when I say you do not want to be the woman yelling like a banshee in front of a 7-11 about her asshole Boyfriend walking in front of her down the street. Nobody will take your side and they will all avert their gaze when you pass.
The point is, when Boyfriend and I argue, we need to bring it outside. Our pea pod-size apartment is just not large enough to accommodate all our words and humongous egos and attitudes. We're like good farmers and keep our fight free-range. That means if it ever gets sold in stores, we can charge more for it. Always good to keep an eye out for ways to supplement the income.
The fight is on pause right now because Boyfriend made me laugh this morning. I mocked his computer skills and his serious retort was, Hey! I'm a Googler now.
Time for tea,
K
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