I know many things for certain. This is what I'm sure of at the moment: my new pedicure looks super fantastic, everybody likes all the same things I do because my taste is impeccable, and PMS is a free ticket to get away with anything. Suck it, testosterone.
But maybe I'm not so sure of my opinions anymore; Boyfriend shook up my confidence on all three that are listed above. Right now, he's accusing the sports broadcaster of stealing his opinions, so that should tell you why I'm upset that Boyfriend's altering my perception.
Shattered Perception #1
I came home today to show off the seductive canvases that are my toenails...that's never a sentence you think you will write, but here we are. It's like I never expected to ever use the phrase, "Get your tongue out of your ass," but Mutt has a disgusting fascination with his own anus. I digress. I traipse into the apartment and do Rockette-style kicks as I enter the living room. Boyfriend doesn't take his eyes off the football game.
Uh. Hi.
Hey.
His eyes stay glued to the dudes in spandex. Not only has his missed the sight of my smashing feet, he also ignored my high kicks with chorus line precision. I wasn't a ballet dancer until I was eight for nothing. Well, that's a lie, it was for nothing. I caught sight of my can-can spectacle in the mirror, it was more in the style of my four-year-old nephew doing karate. I stop immediately, though I still think it counts as a grand entrance. No matter. When determined, I can make him notice things. I leap onto the sectional and lie down. I prop myself up on my elbows and give him the Non-Wife stare. Not being locked down by ring and by name has the advantage of an easier exit if I get sufficiently pissed off or neglected. I just need him to see the "pay attention to me or else" look on my face. Nothing. So I do what any rational woman would: I inch my feet closer and closer to him. He's not blinking. I briefly fret and wonder if maybe he died since our salutation and I was too self-involved to notice. Boyfriend eventually takes a sip of beer. He's fine...but not for long.
If only he acknowledged me when I came home, my feet wouldn't have worked their way up to his face and gripped his nose between my big toe and the others. Trust me when I say, holy flip out. How was I supposed to know that he wouldn't acquire a foot fetish while I was out today? My apologies, Boyfriend, for trying to be involved with any new interests that I imagine you collect throughout our time apart. It's called growth. Also, I've learned a valuable lesson about putting feet in your face, it's a no-no.
Shattered Perception #2
Recently, I changed my shampoo and conditioner. Boyfriend's been so busy doing old man things (building ships in bottles, muttering about news reports, combing his moustache and the like) I really didn't expect him to notice. Please note: Boyfriend doesn't have a moustache; I like fluff filler, deal with it. Like I posted last week, we're in a good groove right now, so we cuddled up on the couch to watch a movie. Cute, right? Well, that being said cute is not our thing, and any cuteness will not last. I curl up beside him on the couch and rest my head on his shoulder. This is how a lazy night with the other half is meant to be spent. I hear soft sniffs and I wonder if perhaps Boyfriend is showing the first signs of a seasonal cold. I hope he doesn't because I don't deal well with man-illness. As a Non-Wife I'm not patient and nurturing. He lifts up his left hand, the defensive/She-Hulk side of me goes on alert. If he ruins this sweet moment by wiping a drippy nose on his hand and potentially wiping that nasty hand on me that's it. I will end him. His hand comes up, but doesn't leave my field of vision. Instead, it swoops forward, palms my face like a basketball and he pushes me away from him. All I can do is go with the motion and I flop on my side like a rag doll (not of the Aerosmith variety).
You asshole. What's your problem?
Your hair stinks. What is that, dog shampoo? She-Hulk powers activate.
You thought it was WHAAAAAAAT? I will have you know that this is Shampure.
He responds with silence.
Aveda, you damn fool.
There is a gradual pause before Boyfriend speaks, Is that some foreign language for dog shampoo?
She-Hulk attack.
I was right; PMS will let you get away with anything, attempted murder included. Since this is true, it has to mean that I'm right about everything else too. Self-confidence, as well as relationship balance, restored.
Time for tea,
K
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Monday, October 22, 2012
The Non-Wife
Boyfriend and I are in the midst of a great stretch in our relationship. I feel like the blog shouldn't be all She-Hulk and death threats, but a place where I can give appreciation to Boyfriend for his goodness as well as for his ubiquitous list of shortcomings. I learned the word ubiquitous from one Mr. Bill Cosby. Is he still alive? I haven't seen a jello commercial with him in awhile. How is he faring? Googled it. He's living under an alias. His real name is William Henry Cosby Jr. That must be why so many other people think he's dead too. But he's not, and he's tired of the accusations. Allegedly.
I have to give a tip of the hat to Boyfriend for several reasons:
1) He bought me chocolate as if he knew the She-Hulk was having her lady time.
2) He made me tea when I was in the tub the other day, and I only had to demand it twice.
3) He vacuumed the apartment when Fat shred cardboard everywhere. No more cat fiestas at our place.
4) He was considerate enough to get drunk at a friend's place on Saturday night so Sunday morning I didn't have to watch football. That is, until Boyfriend realized what day it was and figuratively sodomized my Sunday morning when he came home. For the sake of the people that I know who read this I'm going to bold the word figuratively. That's a lesson you only learn thrice. Some people don't get metaphors or sarcasm and that's how rumours start and S&M freaks show up at your door. The good news about that instance was one of those fellas was selling Girl Scout cookies for his niece.
5) He lost his football picks (something about betting...?) and searched everywhere to find that piece of paper. This is happy news because it means I'm not the only loser in the house. I later found that paper in a sweater. See? Good things happen when I steal money from his pockets. Positive reinforcement on questionable behaviour? Check.
6) He didn't passive-aggressively point out that laundry needs to be done. Therefore, our dirty clothes runeth over. Literally. That pile has become a mountain that is subject to avalanches. I should put up signs for the snowboarders before they try to go down some of the runs. However, delightful news for me because I haven't done laundry in a week.
7) He's taking us to Vegas for Christmas.
8) This one is the most important of all: He bought me a typewriter. When the world ends and the power is out, I'll still be able to blog last-century style. I'll fashion the posts into paper airplanes and send them off the balcony to come find you. A story of the She-Hulk destroying Boyfriend will give you comfort at the end of the world. You're welcome.
Now, with all of this peace in the house of She-Hulk, I feel like this is a moment to decree a promotion. To myself. I will no longer be just a girlfriend, but will henceforth be referred to as the Non-Wife. Mostly because I'm not wifely and Non-Wife sounds like an awesome title to have. A Non-Wife would never be found barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen. What's a kitchen? This prestigious position will not be taken lightly; I promise to uphold this made-up oath of the Non-Wife:
Never will I clean or cook. I do not own an apron, nor do I intend to. I'm not accountable, rational or fair. I will forever be frivolous, temperamental and ridiculous. A Non-Wife has the right to resist her nurturing, soft qualities and instead be a self-indulgent psycho.
Ah, yes. A period of ease in a relationship needs to be shaken up with a new title. And I got a raise. By raise I mean I've given up on stealing from his pockets and just go right for his wallet. I feel like this relationship promotion should come with a scepter or tiara. No wait. Neither. I want a giant gong. Nothing says relationship success like a giant gong.
Time for tea,
K
I have to give a tip of the hat to Boyfriend for several reasons:
1) He bought me chocolate as if he knew the She-Hulk was having her lady time.
2) He made me tea when I was in the tub the other day, and I only had to demand it twice.
3) He vacuumed the apartment when Fat shred cardboard everywhere. No more cat fiestas at our place.
4) He was considerate enough to get drunk at a friend's place on Saturday night so Sunday morning I didn't have to watch football. That is, until Boyfriend realized what day it was and figuratively sodomized my Sunday morning when he came home. For the sake of the people that I know who read this I'm going to bold the word figuratively. That's a lesson you only learn thrice. Some people don't get metaphors or sarcasm and that's how rumours start and S&M freaks show up at your door. The good news about that instance was one of those fellas was selling Girl Scout cookies for his niece.
5) He lost his football picks (something about betting...?) and searched everywhere to find that piece of paper. This is happy news because it means I'm not the only loser in the house. I later found that paper in a sweater. See? Good things happen when I steal money from his pockets. Positive reinforcement on questionable behaviour? Check.
6) He didn't passive-aggressively point out that laundry needs to be done. Therefore, our dirty clothes runeth over. Literally. That pile has become a mountain that is subject to avalanches. I should put up signs for the snowboarders before they try to go down some of the runs. However, delightful news for me because I haven't done laundry in a week.
7) He's taking us to Vegas for Christmas.
8) This one is the most important of all: He bought me a typewriter. When the world ends and the power is out, I'll still be able to blog last-century style. I'll fashion the posts into paper airplanes and send them off the balcony to come find you. A story of the She-Hulk destroying Boyfriend will give you comfort at the end of the world. You're welcome.
Now, with all of this peace in the house of She-Hulk, I feel like this is a moment to decree a promotion. To myself. I will no longer be just a girlfriend, but will henceforth be referred to as the Non-Wife. Mostly because I'm not wifely and Non-Wife sounds like an awesome title to have. A Non-Wife would never be found barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen. What's a kitchen? This prestigious position will not be taken lightly; I promise to uphold this made-up oath of the Non-Wife:
Never will I clean or cook. I do not own an apron, nor do I intend to. I'm not accountable, rational or fair. I will forever be frivolous, temperamental and ridiculous. A Non-Wife has the right to resist her nurturing, soft qualities and instead be a self-indulgent psycho.
Ah, yes. A period of ease in a relationship needs to be shaken up with a new title. And I got a raise. By raise I mean I've given up on stealing from his pockets and just go right for his wallet. I feel like this relationship promotion should come with a scepter or tiara. No wait. Neither. I want a giant gong. Nothing says relationship success like a giant gong.
Time for tea,
K
Saturday, October 13, 2012
Metaphors of dead bats and tightrope walkers
A couple months ago, I was walking down the street and happened upon something unexpected on the sidewalk. A dead bat. I named him Mr. Magoo. He was right in the middle of the sidewalk in a position that made him look like he was about to be crucified. Being the kind of person that I am, I loomed over the dead Addam's Family pet and took in the sight. Remembering the little beasty recently, I can't help but feel like that dead bat is the perfect symbol of mine and Boyfriend's relationship.
I'm just going to give you a moment to let that sink in before I explain...
Bats in general are freaky-ass rodents of the night. They're tiny succubus animals that don't see clearly and cause fright which -- on a side note -- is why they are the mascots for Halloween. On a camping trip a long while ago we were by a lake at night. The little flying horrors came out in droves and dive-bombed the area. Strange that all the screaming didn't frighten them away, Boyfriend has quite the set of pipes. What I'm saying is that there's a reason that bats aren't the teacup poodles of the world. Bats get a bad rep. I'm not saying that's without reason.
I jabbed Mr. Magoo with my finger just to make sure he was dead. He wasn't, so I killed him in order to appreciate his dead majesty once again. It's what that filming-pot-selling kid from American Beauty would have done, how is it any different if I do it without a video camera? Now this dead bat has the gnarly quality of the live ones -- you're scared of it and kind of want to make a run for it, but when you realize it's harmless in spite of those fangs and pushed-up nose, you might even consider it cute. Just like me and Boyfriend.
This week I've been uncharacteristically observant. What I've observed is this... Boyfriend should work for the circus as a tightrope walker. I don't say that because he fills out a unitard like no other. Insert unitard joke here -- the material writes itself. What I mean to say is that Boyfriend is quite the whiz when it comes to maintaining relationship balance. He annoys me to the point of searching online for an assassin-for-hire and before I call to get a quote, Boyfriend bounces back with a tremendous act of boyfriendery. That's not a real thing, but work with me people. Boyfriendery it is.
For instance: He made me help with dinner the other night. Faux pas, Boyfriend. While I cut those stupid vegetables it was hard to contain my anger. I blinked once, and when I opened my eyes everything in my vision was filtered through a field of scarlet. Well, more of a blood red colour. Boyfriend popped his head into the kitchen to see how things were going and to remind me to peel the potatoes. The damnedest thing happened. We both heard this weird scuffing sound and arched our necks to peer down where the sound came from. My feet had transformed into hooves, and one repeatedly scraped the ground as though I were preparing to charge. Our eyes met then, and all I could do was shrug. I couldn't control it. I laughed it off, but instead of my typical girlish giggle a hysterical and malevolent baritone came out. Needless to say, I was surprised. The She-Hulk is generally less man-ish. This was a new kind of anger, more...are those horns sprouting out of my head? Oh wait. I forgot I wore my viking helmet that day. I'm trying to bring it back. For some reason that and pillaging villages isn't going over so well. Give it enough time. It'll be trending soon.
The She-Satan stared at Boyfriend, narrowed her eyes and slowly tilted her head to the side. Peel the potatoes? PEEL THE POTATOES? She-Satan grabbed a potato and shoved the whole thing into her mouth. She and Boyfriend didn't break eye contact. Neither blinked, and the She-Satan masticated the spud. After 16 seconds she spat the contents from her mouth onto the counter. The heat from her venom both cooked and mashed the potato in those 16 seconds.
Boyfriend broke their gaze to stare at the steaming mashed potato on the counter. He crossed his arms before he spoke to the She-Satan, That'll be cold before the rest of the dinner is ready.
She-Satan pounded her giant fist into the mashed potato, the anger causing an explosion of the mush throughout the kitchen. She stalked off to go watch Jersey Shore in the bedroom, her hooves clip-clopping as she stomped away to leave Boyfriend alone in the kitchen.
For those of you that are following along, the top part is like a live bat. Scary, unnecessary and misunderstood. I would like to point out that the live bat did not kill anybody. Had it been a baseball bat, it may have killed somebody. Those things are dangerous. The dead bat part of the story comes next:
The next day, Boyfriend brought me home a case of Pink Ting. That's cute in ways that few people understand. I can read that love language like nobody else. He knew he pissed me off to an absurd level the day before, and to regain his footing on the metaphorical tightrope he had to do something nice to make up for it. Pink Ting to the rescue. Boyfriend has almost lost his balance a few times, but he compensates to correct his mistakes. If the time ever comes for him to get off the tightrope, I doubt he'll fall. He'll be pushed.
I told you. We're no teacup poodle. We're a dead bat.
Time for tea,
K
I'm just going to give you a moment to let that sink in before I explain...
Bats in general are freaky-ass rodents of the night. They're tiny succubus animals that don't see clearly and cause fright which -- on a side note -- is why they are the mascots for Halloween. On a camping trip a long while ago we were by a lake at night. The little flying horrors came out in droves and dive-bombed the area. Strange that all the screaming didn't frighten them away, Boyfriend has quite the set of pipes. What I'm saying is that there's a reason that bats aren't the teacup poodles of the world. Bats get a bad rep. I'm not saying that's without reason.
I jabbed Mr. Magoo with my finger just to make sure he was dead. He wasn't, so I killed him in order to appreciate his dead majesty once again. It's what that filming-pot-selling kid from American Beauty would have done, how is it any different if I do it without a video camera? Now this dead bat has the gnarly quality of the live ones -- you're scared of it and kind of want to make a run for it, but when you realize it's harmless in spite of those fangs and pushed-up nose, you might even consider it cute. Just like me and Boyfriend.
This week I've been uncharacteristically observant. What I've observed is this... Boyfriend should work for the circus as a tightrope walker. I don't say that because he fills out a unitard like no other. Insert unitard joke here -- the material writes itself. What I mean to say is that Boyfriend is quite the whiz when it comes to maintaining relationship balance. He annoys me to the point of searching online for an assassin-for-hire and before I call to get a quote, Boyfriend bounces back with a tremendous act of boyfriendery. That's not a real thing, but work with me people. Boyfriendery it is.
For instance: He made me help with dinner the other night. Faux pas, Boyfriend. While I cut those stupid vegetables it was hard to contain my anger. I blinked once, and when I opened my eyes everything in my vision was filtered through a field of scarlet. Well, more of a blood red colour. Boyfriend popped his head into the kitchen to see how things were going and to remind me to peel the potatoes. The damnedest thing happened. We both heard this weird scuffing sound and arched our necks to peer down where the sound came from. My feet had transformed into hooves, and one repeatedly scraped the ground as though I were preparing to charge. Our eyes met then, and all I could do was shrug. I couldn't control it. I laughed it off, but instead of my typical girlish giggle a hysterical and malevolent baritone came out. Needless to say, I was surprised. The She-Hulk is generally less man-ish. This was a new kind of anger, more...are those horns sprouting out of my head? Oh wait. I forgot I wore my viking helmet that day. I'm trying to bring it back. For some reason that and pillaging villages isn't going over so well. Give it enough time. It'll be trending soon.
The She-Satan stared at Boyfriend, narrowed her eyes and slowly tilted her head to the side. Peel the potatoes? PEEL THE POTATOES? She-Satan grabbed a potato and shoved the whole thing into her mouth. She and Boyfriend didn't break eye contact. Neither blinked, and the She-Satan masticated the spud. After 16 seconds she spat the contents from her mouth onto the counter. The heat from her venom both cooked and mashed the potato in those 16 seconds.
Boyfriend broke their gaze to stare at the steaming mashed potato on the counter. He crossed his arms before he spoke to the She-Satan, That'll be cold before the rest of the dinner is ready.
She-Satan pounded her giant fist into the mashed potato, the anger causing an explosion of the mush throughout the kitchen. She stalked off to go watch Jersey Shore in the bedroom, her hooves clip-clopping as she stomped away to leave Boyfriend alone in the kitchen.
For those of you that are following along, the top part is like a live bat. Scary, unnecessary and misunderstood. I would like to point out that the live bat did not kill anybody. Had it been a baseball bat, it may have killed somebody. Those things are dangerous. The dead bat part of the story comes next:
The next day, Boyfriend brought me home a case of Pink Ting. That's cute in ways that few people understand. I can read that love language like nobody else. He knew he pissed me off to an absurd level the day before, and to regain his footing on the metaphorical tightrope he had to do something nice to make up for it. Pink Ting to the rescue. Boyfriend has almost lost his balance a few times, but he compensates to correct his mistakes. If the time ever comes for him to get off the tightrope, I doubt he'll fall. He'll be pushed.
I told you. We're no teacup poodle. We're a dead bat.
Time for tea,
K
Sunday, October 7, 2012
Sessions with Fat
I swing my body onto the couch, kicking my feet up and leaning my head back on the pillow. I eye the clock on the wall with contempt, berating myself for actually showing up. Fat jumps onto the coffee table and sits. With a flick of her paw, the rimless spectacles that were propped on top of her head move downward and perch on the end of her nose.
"It's been awhile since our last session." I'm forever astonished by her cavalier manner.
Yup.
I lift my hand to wipe away gunk that's collected in the corners of my eyes through the day. Fat nods minutely in my direction. "Want to tell me what happened there?"
Confused, I follow the line of her stare and flip my hand over as if I needed the visual reminder. The bruise, now yellowed, surrounds an itchy scab line.
I cut the corner too tightly on my way out of the kitchen and clipped my hand on the edge of the counter. It hurt like a bitch.
Fat snorts as though that is more professional reaction than just letting go of the laughter that builds inside of her.
What's so funny?
"I love dog humour."
Do I need to remind you that there's a name for cat that's synonymous with vagina? C'mon Fat, I'm paying you by the hour.
She hisses. "Excuse me. Sometimes we can't override our genetic predispositions. Let's get back to it. What have you been up to since our last appointment?"
I dunno. Life. Job #1, Job #2, writing another book and editing the first, stalking Russell Brand, trying to get caught up on sleep, yoga, back alley surgeries...I don't want to talk about my last patient, time with friends, time with Boyfriend."
Fat holds up her paw, "Slow down, I need to write something down." I watch her fumble with a golf pencil and notepad with the picture of a local real estate agent. Her clumsiness causes her to drop the pencil multiple times before she sighs and passes me both the pencil and pad. "I don't have thumbs, can you write down what you just told me?"
You really are the worst shrink ever.
I grab them from her, forget what I am supposed to write down and instead doodle a stick figure of an octopus in a cowboy hat swinging a lasso from each tentacle.
"Do you have any gripes this week?"
I look up and see Fat stirring my tea with the tip of her tail. Not cool, Doc. Not cool. I shove her off the table.
Of course I have gripes this week. One, that's the second time your tail has found its way into my tea. Two, the phrase, "take it to the next level" has really got to go. I don't get it and I don't think the people that say it get it either. What is this supposed next level? Idiots. Three, Boyfriend is telling the world I'm a booze can. Four, what is the deal with those people a few blocks away that have a Christmas tree set up inside their house already? They should know that people like me will sneak up to their windows and judge them harshly. Also, their wallpaper is too much, it should have stayed in the 1980s where it belongs. I lost count of my gripes, but my last one is the NFL.
"Let's address the relevant issues. You really need to learn how to let the little things go and remember that you can't control everything. Just because you don't understand them, doesn't automatically make them idiots." When I shake my head to reject her premise, she continues, "Don't you think that you're judged for seeking therapy from your cat." She jumps back up onto the coffee table, reclaiming her spot beside my tea. I pull out my pistol and wave it in front of her as a polite warning. She sidesteps away from my tea.
Nope. I bet everybody's jealous that they weren't smart enough to think of it first.
"Do me a favour. Write delusional disorder on that pad beside that snowflake you drew."
It's an octopus acting like a cowboy. You and your crazy made up words. I write down what my dyslexic mind hears: order more delusionalidis. Sounds like some kind of flower. I should make sure that it's not poisonous for cats, otherwise I'll have to replace a pet and a therapist.
Fat looks at the clock, "We're wasting away your entire session. Boyfriend tells people that you're a booze can. Is there any truth to that?
Not in the literal sense.
I think back to date night, the night before last. Classic American - dinner and a movie. I had a martini at dinner...two martinis...and a couple beer before we left the house, but that's more of a sweet-freaking-Friday-I've-made-it-to-another-weekend celebration. Boyfriend told the waitress that I was difficult and a booze can. I suppose it didn't help matters when I gulped down the first martini and argued with him over the kind of wings he wanted for an appetizer. I didn't want any, but I wanted him to order a flavour that I liked on the off-chance I wanted one. He did not do what I said. He ordered the opposite of what I wanted. Bad Boyfriend Behaviour. The She-Hulk showed up for a visit and spat metaphorical venom at him until her food arrived and calmed her down.
"Do you feel that you possibly overreacted?"
Not in the slightest. Even the She-Hulk needs to go out on the town every once in awhile. And it's not the first time he's made people think I'm a drunk. Anytime we go to the liquor store, he always makes me out to be some bottle-swilling, stumbling, bumbling alcoholic and he's the poor sap that's trying to turn my life around.
"At which point, you She-Hulk," Fat's paws claw into nothingness as she tries to do air quotes.
I didn't really have another option. What was I supposed to do?
"In the past, I believe we have discussed taking the high road. Perhaps this is an idea we should revisit...?" She bats at a housefly that comes into her line of vision, recomposes herself and stares at me again to wait for my answer.
Nope. I told you. I am high road abstinent. For now and forever.
"I would greatly suggest you rethink that conviction. You said something about the NFL, let's discuss that."
I rolled onto my side and stared at her. I heard the quiet crack of porcelain as my face changed from neutral to disdain. The She-Hulk was doing her best to break free; simply hearing those three letters pumped my veins with hate.
The NFL.
I despise the NFL. It's an agent for hell, you know that, right? The ubiquitous games, the meaningless jargon, the endless replays, the soul-sucking mind thieves. Stop time has to be an invention of the devil. Boyfriend's been taken captive by the NFL. Mondays, Thursdays, all day on Sunday. Frankly, NFL, you're welcome to take him...just take him out of my house. Take him to a pub, to one of his boyfriends' houses, just don't flaunt your hold over him in my own living room. I might see you for what you really are, but Boyfriend, he's just not as sharp as me. And last Monday, I imagine the soulless bastards that are part of the man-stealing conspiracy had a great time with that Green Bay Packers/Seatle _______(some-kind-of-bird-mascot)s game. Do you have any idea how many times I watched a replay of the touchdown/not-a-touchdown fiasco? You don't know how many times Boyfriend said, Watch this. Unbelieveable. Fucking idiots. Watch this..." He was on that loop for three days. I can't pretend to care for longer than two minutes and eighteen seconds.
"Have you ever tried taking a genuine interest in what Boyfriend likes?"
High. Road. Abstinent. Don't try to change me.
Fat sighs, pulls off her glasses and sets them on the table. "I think that will be all for today."
Cool. I'm out of here.
"One more thing before you leave?" I look to the front door and back at Fat, and back and forth one more time. "Write She-Hulk-aholic on the notepad there."
Time for tea,
K
"It's been awhile since our last session." I'm forever astonished by her cavalier manner.
Yup.
I lift my hand to wipe away gunk that's collected in the corners of my eyes through the day. Fat nods minutely in my direction. "Want to tell me what happened there?"
Confused, I follow the line of her stare and flip my hand over as if I needed the visual reminder. The bruise, now yellowed, surrounds an itchy scab line.
I cut the corner too tightly on my way out of the kitchen and clipped my hand on the edge of the counter. It hurt like a bitch.
Fat snorts as though that is more professional reaction than just letting go of the laughter that builds inside of her.
What's so funny?
"I love dog humour."
Do I need to remind you that there's a name for cat that's synonymous with vagina? C'mon Fat, I'm paying you by the hour.
She hisses. "Excuse me. Sometimes we can't override our genetic predispositions. Let's get back to it. What have you been up to since our last appointment?"
I dunno. Life. Job #1, Job #2, writing another book and editing the first, stalking Russell Brand, trying to get caught up on sleep, yoga, back alley surgeries...I don't want to talk about my last patient, time with friends, time with Boyfriend."
Fat holds up her paw, "Slow down, I need to write something down." I watch her fumble with a golf pencil and notepad with the picture of a local real estate agent. Her clumsiness causes her to drop the pencil multiple times before she sighs and passes me both the pencil and pad. "I don't have thumbs, can you write down what you just told me?"
You really are the worst shrink ever.
I grab them from her, forget what I am supposed to write down and instead doodle a stick figure of an octopus in a cowboy hat swinging a lasso from each tentacle.
"Do you have any gripes this week?"
I look up and see Fat stirring my tea with the tip of her tail. Not cool, Doc. Not cool. I shove her off the table.
Of course I have gripes this week. One, that's the second time your tail has found its way into my tea. Two, the phrase, "take it to the next level" has really got to go. I don't get it and I don't think the people that say it get it either. What is this supposed next level? Idiots. Three, Boyfriend is telling the world I'm a booze can. Four, what is the deal with those people a few blocks away that have a Christmas tree set up inside their house already? They should know that people like me will sneak up to their windows and judge them harshly. Also, their wallpaper is too much, it should have stayed in the 1980s where it belongs. I lost count of my gripes, but my last one is the NFL.
"Let's address the relevant issues. You really need to learn how to let the little things go and remember that you can't control everything. Just because you don't understand them, doesn't automatically make them idiots." When I shake my head to reject her premise, she continues, "Don't you think that you're judged for seeking therapy from your cat." She jumps back up onto the coffee table, reclaiming her spot beside my tea. I pull out my pistol and wave it in front of her as a polite warning. She sidesteps away from my tea.
Nope. I bet everybody's jealous that they weren't smart enough to think of it first.
"Do me a favour. Write delusional disorder on that pad beside that snowflake you drew."
It's an octopus acting like a cowboy. You and your crazy made up words. I write down what my dyslexic mind hears: order more delusionalidis. Sounds like some kind of flower. I should make sure that it's not poisonous for cats, otherwise I'll have to replace a pet and a therapist.
Fat looks at the clock, "We're wasting away your entire session. Boyfriend tells people that you're a booze can. Is there any truth to that?
Not in the literal sense.
I think back to date night, the night before last. Classic American - dinner and a movie. I had a martini at dinner...two martinis...and a couple beer before we left the house, but that's more of a sweet-freaking-Friday-I've-made-it-to-another-weekend celebration. Boyfriend told the waitress that I was difficult and a booze can. I suppose it didn't help matters when I gulped down the first martini and argued with him over the kind of wings he wanted for an appetizer. I didn't want any, but I wanted him to order a flavour that I liked on the off-chance I wanted one. He did not do what I said. He ordered the opposite of what I wanted. Bad Boyfriend Behaviour. The She-Hulk showed up for a visit and spat metaphorical venom at him until her food arrived and calmed her down.
"Do you feel that you possibly overreacted?"
Not in the slightest. Even the She-Hulk needs to go out on the town every once in awhile. And it's not the first time he's made people think I'm a drunk. Anytime we go to the liquor store, he always makes me out to be some bottle-swilling, stumbling, bumbling alcoholic and he's the poor sap that's trying to turn my life around.
"At which point, you She-Hulk," Fat's paws claw into nothingness as she tries to do air quotes.
I didn't really have another option. What was I supposed to do?
"In the past, I believe we have discussed taking the high road. Perhaps this is an idea we should revisit...?" She bats at a housefly that comes into her line of vision, recomposes herself and stares at me again to wait for my answer.
Nope. I told you. I am high road abstinent. For now and forever.
"I would greatly suggest you rethink that conviction. You said something about the NFL, let's discuss that."
I rolled onto my side and stared at her. I heard the quiet crack of porcelain as my face changed from neutral to disdain. The She-Hulk was doing her best to break free; simply hearing those three letters pumped my veins with hate.
The NFL.
I despise the NFL. It's an agent for hell, you know that, right? The ubiquitous games, the meaningless jargon, the endless replays, the soul-sucking mind thieves. Stop time has to be an invention of the devil. Boyfriend's been taken captive by the NFL. Mondays, Thursdays, all day on Sunday. Frankly, NFL, you're welcome to take him...just take him out of my house. Take him to a pub, to one of his boyfriends' houses, just don't flaunt your hold over him in my own living room. I might see you for what you really are, but Boyfriend, he's just not as sharp as me. And last Monday, I imagine the soulless bastards that are part of the man-stealing conspiracy had a great time with that Green Bay Packers/Seatle _______(some-kind-of-bird-mascot)s game. Do you have any idea how many times I watched a replay of the touchdown/not-a-touchdown fiasco? You don't know how many times Boyfriend said, Watch this. Unbelieveable. Fucking idiots. Watch this..." He was on that loop for three days. I can't pretend to care for longer than two minutes and eighteen seconds.
"Have you ever tried taking a genuine interest in what Boyfriend likes?"
High. Road. Abstinent. Don't try to change me.
Fat sighs, pulls off her glasses and sets them on the table. "I think that will be all for today."
Cool. I'm out of here.
"One more thing before you leave?" I look to the front door and back at Fat, and back and forth one more time. "Write She-Hulk-aholic on the notepad there."
Time for tea,
K
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