I have to start by giving props to Boyfriend. He bought me a smoothie for each hand. Good Boyfriend.
Sometimes it is best not to notice things. Generally, I live by the rule of not noticing anything. It's for the best because once you pay attention, you're usually one of two things: bored or driven insane which leads to She-Hulking. I RAGE! I DO NOT RIP OFF MY SHIRT LIKE BRUCE BANNER! Bruce Banner, yeah? Don't answer that, I don't care. Not too long ago, within the last few days...definitely within the last week, Muse was telling me about how she started adding up the cost of all of her makeup. That is a terrible game. Her story crept into my head when I was trying to pick out which shoes I would wear to brunch. I saw the massive stack of shoe boxes, and before I knew it, Muse had me wandering down a terrible path. I grabbed my abacus and got comfortable for a long afternoon. Adding up dollars in footwear doesn't bring the money back, it does however make me realize how many awesome pairs of shoes I own. It's never good to know more, whoever invented the phrase, "Knowledge is Power" was obviously a blissful idiot.
In our rinky-dink apartment Boyfriend and I both have our roles. I am the thinker and Boyfriend is the do-er. I conceptualize and he does the lifting or building or repairing or what have you. It's like I'm God and he's Noah. Yes? Maybe I'm mistaken. It would be fun to have two of every animal though. Well, the good animals, yes to baby chickens and no to anything that can rip my arms off my body. Plus, you know when those baby chickens become not-cute, squawking, pecking asshole birds, you can eat them. I suppose the same could be said for an evil gorilla, but that's not guaranteed to taste good. I'm sorry, what is the story of Noah's Ark? Meh, I'm over it.
I've been home a lot more lately, and my eyes have started to drink in their surroundings. I've come to an astounding realization: Boyfriend is Mr Fixit. Boyfriend is a fox. Boyfriend doesn't do the best job of fixing things. For those of you who are less cool than me and others that hail from the same place, the character to whom I am referencing is from Richard Scarry's Busytown. You know, the one with the worm in the green hat who was often an overnight guest at the Cat family's house (not in the sexy way). Whatever. Mr Fixit was hilarious, and you knew even though you never saw it in the books that he was soooooo fired from his job. Mr Fixit is probably that fox diggin' around in your garbage right now. Go look. Get back to me if you find him. He can go on my Ark.
The reason I say Boyfriend is like Mr Fixit is for several reasons. There was the time I decided I wanted the television mounted on the wall, and the only thing Boyfriend successfully used the stud finder for was to run it across his chest and say, Beep, Beep. It works. Apparently it didn't work right...after that. When I decided that I wanted to purchase a television stand and move the TV off the wall and onto that, I saw how many freaking holes were in the wall behind Boyfriend's big screen. I would venture a guess that Boyfriend's original plan when drilling the holes was to spy on our neighbours with the loud grunting noises and oh yeahs. Then, there are the photos I wanted him to hang in a line over the desk. He used a hockey stick as a measuring tape. They look beautiful when my eyes are closed. I wonder if the reason he's always filling my wine glass is so those pictures look straight? Wining not Whining, that's a line from my family crest. Another sarcastically-delightful discovery: Most of our furniture sits away from the wall as if Boyfriend wants to trick me with the size of our apartment. None of our furniture touches the walls. How did I not notice this?? Maybe we actually live in a mansion! It's a shame I'll never move the stuff in order to find out. Tragic. I also have a bamboo whiteboard that came crashing down last week. Another Boyfriend Fixit job, probably used another hockey stick to find the studs in which to hang it. The board is back on the wall on a definite slant. Maybe one of my legs is shorter than the other and that's why it appears on such a crazy angle. I know parallel, and that board is not it. Gee whiz.
Could I do a better job of these kinds of jobs? We'll never find out. I'm the brains, not the brawn. Well, not yet. I have been working out...but that's just to feel less guilty when I binge-eat burritos in my spandex. I should fill my wine glass more often so I don't notice all these things -- and so begins my transformation into an alcoholic. Just remember this when it's time for my intervention: I am not without reason.
Whining is forever, but wining will have to wait. Time for tea,
K
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Tee time
The biggest difference between Boyfriend and me is that he's a boy and I'm a girl. That would make for a lame blog post if I just left it at that, wouldn't it? You can learn the differences between a boy and girl from a book. This blog is for a hoot, not knowledge. Boyfriend and I shared an experience just a couple days ago (yesterday?) that made me realize just how different the two of us can be. Oh no, wait, it was two days ago. I remember, because I went to the gym in the morning. Not just a hat rack here (K taps her temple knowingly with an index finger).
One of the few interests that Boyfriend and I share is golf. He's been into it for aeons (or eons if you will). I decided that I liked it a couple years ago (yesterday?). There's a great amount of satisfaction when your club connects to the golf ball and you knock it into oblivion. What's that? Am I a good golfer? I will have you know that my golf outfit matches my golf shoes which match my golf clubs. Who cares what my abilities are when I look so good? And believe me, it didn't just come together. I somehow offended many a golf shop owner when I asked them for cute clothes, not the lesbian apparel they had on display. Boyfriend doesn't think I know what the word lesbian means. I use it to describe his relationship with Mutt. Lesbian means an adorable idea that doesn't appeal to everyone, does it not?
I've have known for many moons that I'm artsy fartsy. I don't live in the real world, but frankly, it's a lot more fun for me that way. This train of thought has brought me back to my first year in college and I found myself in a biology class. The subject was digestion. What the prof said then was one of the few things of use I learned in college: "I know you're art students because none of you had an interest to know why feces sometimes float." There you have it kids. The mystery of the subjects scientists ponder, solved. I want to say that the reason for floating had something to do with fat content, but if you're curious for an actual answer, google it. If you google it, it means you're not an artist. The facts speak for themselves.
Anywho, believe it or not, there was a break in the Vancouver rain and it was actually somewhat sunny here for awhile...on Tuesday. Boyfriend came up with a brilliant idea: we should go to the driving range and hit some balls around rather than hang around the apartment where one of us busted the others balls. We grabbed our clubs and headed out the door. I have yet to adjust to carrying my own clubs around, so I'm sure I spooked more than a few of our neighbours when my bag banged against the hallway walls. Neighbours, I'm sorry, but frankly I can't feel too bad, especially to the woman who dresses her dogs. Yipes.
We made it to the range, which was actually quiet. Too many people exerted themselves during the weekend of the Masters I suppose. Yeah. I know golf things. Masters means the green jacket dealy, not that I care because Ricky Fowler wasn't playing. Now he has a nice golf wardrobe, so bright and fancy. Also I don't care because based on what I tuned into of Boyfriend's words, they don't let women play at that course. What kind of backward-ass etiquette is that? Everyone is welcome at my golf course that I don't have. BYOB.
Boyfriend grabs some baskets and we both watch as they fill with golf balls.
Ooh. Yellow. Pretty.
There's a reason they're yellow.
I know. I've been thinking about the pink ones I have. They don't match my golf stuff.
Grab your basket.
Now Boyfriend takes his golf seriously. He stretches out, rotating his shoulders and all that fun stuff. I put on my golf glove, which I need to replace. I Cruella De Ville'd the tips with my fingernails. They poked right through the glove. Terrible workmanship. My only prep is to put on my sunglasses. I pick through my clubs and pull out the seven. I don't know why. I still don't know the difference between all the numbers on the sticks.
This is how I take a shot:
I put the ball on the ground.
I stand shoulder width apart.
I shuffle left to right.
I shuffle closer to the ball, then further away.
I end up standing essentially where I started with my feet shoulder width apart.
I wiggle around a little bit to make sure my stance feels right.
I hold my club out and gently tap it to the ball's surface to instill some memory of where it's meant to connect when I swing.
Most importantly, when I pull into a back swing I start to hum.
The humming is effective. I hit the ball much better when I do that and that's not just the opinion of this lady. Believers are out there. There is a theory that humming relaxes me somehow helping with the delivery of my swing. Golf, go figure. Boyfriend sees my technique and offers me tips and I shoo him away with fluttering fingertips. No, no. I'm here for the fun, not improvement. If I care and try to hone this craft I won't enjoy it so much. There's a reason I never keep score when I golf. Boyfriend doesn't get understand.
Boyfriend's technique is slightly different:
He picks a target.
He takes a few practice swings.
He eyes the distance and direction.
He wets his finger with saliva and holds it up to account for the wind.
He stands shoulder width apart.
In a fluid motion, Boyfriend swings backward, then forward with a practiced transfer of weight from back to front.
He whacks the ball way the eff out there.
Wow! That was a good one! When I say this he just looks at me. He winds up and hits another.
Wow! That was a good one!
You don't have to say that every time. Boyfriend hits another ball.
Holy! Did you see that mother fly? Boyfriend shakes his head. My enthusiasm does not amuse him.
When we're both through our buckets of yellow golf balls, I feel great. I had fun, which is my only incentive to do things. Boyfriend though, is already trying to figure out when he can schedule more time at the range so he can improve. Yipes.
Time for tea,
K
One of the few interests that Boyfriend and I share is golf. He's been into it for aeons (or eons if you will). I decided that I liked it a couple years ago (yesterday?). There's a great amount of satisfaction when your club connects to the golf ball and you knock it into oblivion. What's that? Am I a good golfer? I will have you know that my golf outfit matches my golf shoes which match my golf clubs. Who cares what my abilities are when I look so good? And believe me, it didn't just come together. I somehow offended many a golf shop owner when I asked them for cute clothes, not the lesbian apparel they had on display. Boyfriend doesn't think I know what the word lesbian means. I use it to describe his relationship with Mutt. Lesbian means an adorable idea that doesn't appeal to everyone, does it not?
I've have known for many moons that I'm artsy fartsy. I don't live in the real world, but frankly, it's a lot more fun for me that way. This train of thought has brought me back to my first year in college and I found myself in a biology class. The subject was digestion. What the prof said then was one of the few things of use I learned in college: "I know you're art students because none of you had an interest to know why feces sometimes float." There you have it kids. The mystery of the subjects scientists ponder, solved. I want to say that the reason for floating had something to do with fat content, but if you're curious for an actual answer, google it. If you google it, it means you're not an artist. The facts speak for themselves.
Anywho, believe it or not, there was a break in the Vancouver rain and it was actually somewhat sunny here for awhile...on Tuesday. Boyfriend came up with a brilliant idea: we should go to the driving range and hit some balls around rather than hang around the apartment where one of us busted the others balls. We grabbed our clubs and headed out the door. I have yet to adjust to carrying my own clubs around, so I'm sure I spooked more than a few of our neighbours when my bag banged against the hallway walls. Neighbours, I'm sorry, but frankly I can't feel too bad, especially to the woman who dresses her dogs. Yipes.
We made it to the range, which was actually quiet. Too many people exerted themselves during the weekend of the Masters I suppose. Yeah. I know golf things. Masters means the green jacket dealy, not that I care because Ricky Fowler wasn't playing. Now he has a nice golf wardrobe, so bright and fancy. Also I don't care because based on what I tuned into of Boyfriend's words, they don't let women play at that course. What kind of backward-ass etiquette is that? Everyone is welcome at my golf course that I don't have. BYOB.
Boyfriend grabs some baskets and we both watch as they fill with golf balls.
Ooh. Yellow. Pretty.
There's a reason they're yellow.
I know. I've been thinking about the pink ones I have. They don't match my golf stuff.
Grab your basket.
Now Boyfriend takes his golf seriously. He stretches out, rotating his shoulders and all that fun stuff. I put on my golf glove, which I need to replace. I Cruella De Ville'd the tips with my fingernails. They poked right through the glove. Terrible workmanship. My only prep is to put on my sunglasses. I pick through my clubs and pull out the seven. I don't know why. I still don't know the difference between all the numbers on the sticks.
This is how I take a shot:
I put the ball on the ground.
I stand shoulder width apart.
I shuffle left to right.
I shuffle closer to the ball, then further away.
I end up standing essentially where I started with my feet shoulder width apart.
I wiggle around a little bit to make sure my stance feels right.
I hold my club out and gently tap it to the ball's surface to instill some memory of where it's meant to connect when I swing.
Most importantly, when I pull into a back swing I start to hum.
The humming is effective. I hit the ball much better when I do that and that's not just the opinion of this lady. Believers are out there. There is a theory that humming relaxes me somehow helping with the delivery of my swing. Golf, go figure. Boyfriend sees my technique and offers me tips and I shoo him away with fluttering fingertips. No, no. I'm here for the fun, not improvement. If I care and try to hone this craft I won't enjoy it so much. There's a reason I never keep score when I golf. Boyfriend doesn't get understand.
Boyfriend's technique is slightly different:
He picks a target.
He takes a few practice swings.
He eyes the distance and direction.
He wets his finger with saliva and holds it up to account for the wind.
He stands shoulder width apart.
In a fluid motion, Boyfriend swings backward, then forward with a practiced transfer of weight from back to front.
He whacks the ball way the eff out there.
Wow! That was a good one! When I say this he just looks at me. He winds up and hits another.
Wow! That was a good one!
You don't have to say that every time. Boyfriend hits another ball.
Holy! Did you see that mother fly? Boyfriend shakes his head. My enthusiasm does not amuse him.
When we're both through our buckets of yellow golf balls, I feel great. I had fun, which is my only incentive to do things. Boyfriend though, is already trying to figure out when he can schedule more time at the range so he can improve. Yipes.
Time for tea,
K
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Domesticity isn't for everyone
Hello folks. Between tea times, play dates and plots to reverse the demise of my favourite bookstore (R.I.P Book Warehouse) I have carved out time to write a post for you. Aka there was nothing of interest on television. And a happy Easter to all. Maybe we shouldn't rejoice just yet. Who knows what words will march out of these fingertips? Don't answer, it's rhetorical. The answer is me. I do. I have a plan of what to write today. Somewhat. I like to mix it up a bit between flying by the seat of my pants and having some sort of idea for the content. Frankly, I like to wear the pants with wings on the ass. Figuratively.
I am inspired by the star of ourThanksgiving...crap, I keep calling it that...Easter dinner. The turkey, and this year that bastard was done barbecue style, and might I say, friggin' delish. But then again, anything that hits the grill of that barbecue is likely to make me salivate. Who am I kidding? I am down with anything that I don't have to make. However, this short tale has to do with me in charge of making something. For others to ingest. That's right, Boyfriend trusted me alone in the kitchen to cook a turkey. Let's visit that page in our history.
Let's set the scene: My cramped kitchen, it was either springtime or autumntime. I want to wager a guess that the event took place in my pre-death phase. I would be less confused of the timeline if I only kept a diary. Hindsight, sheesh. After a quick consult of the photos (There are always photos of historical moments), if I were to judge by the state of my hair I would venture to say it was about two years ago. I was blonder and my lustrous hairs were much more unruly. Which if I may take an aside here, when I was sixteen and just had my wisdom teeth removed by a sadist, Muse came over to check on my state and to either paraphrase or quote exactly when I saw her she said, "Wow, orphan Annie." That is not something you say to somebody that has swollen cheeks and hasn't risen to straighten her mother's genes from her hair. You just don't. I suppose to be fair, I have gotten my fair share of jabs at Muse's expense. I digress, it was an attempt to illustrate the condition of my hair.
The reason I didn't do my hair the day the photo was taken was because I spent all day in that doll-sized kitchen. I feel like I need to repeat that to emphasize and help the disbelievers out there know that it wasn't a typo, I SPENT ALL DAY IN THAT DOLL-SIZED KITCHEN. Cooking. Sort of. One day, Boyfriend got himself one fun idea.
We should have a turkey dinner tomorrow with all the fixin's. (It was a random Tuesday)
I'm so in Boyfriend.
Great. I picked up a turkey at the store. You have tomorrow off, right?
...Yeah, so?
You can start the Turkey while I'm at work.
Beg pardon?
Don't worry, I'll talk you through it.
Talk me through it Boyfriend? I like turkey a whole lot less now. I mean, yes, it sounds simple, but many disastrous times are advertised with simplicity. For those out there that would like to "talk somebody through" making a turkey, keep these things in mind:
1)I cannot stress how very important it is to inform the turkey-preparer for what happens when you peel back the plastic that seals the bird when you purchase it. The statement Take off the plastic leaves much too much surprise for the cooking virgin. That damn poultry dripped like it was menstruating. Yeah, I was grossed out too. When one is taken aback by this, especially when one is not-a-so-good when it comes to blood in the first place, one wildly swings that turkey around as if trying to assist in post-feather flight. Well, in all honesty, one holds the turkey under its armpits and screams bloody murder when its life fluids pool on the cheap lick n' stick tile of the kitchen floor. That kitchen looked like it was a stage for a musical about a serial killer. OH! The way-so-far-off-Broadway-it's-in-a-different-country presentation of Sweeny Todd, the Demon Barber...if it took place in my kitchen.
2)Make sure you specify where to find the giblets. Is that what they're called? Giblets? Googled it, and yeah. I'm right. To my defense, giblets sound like a synonym for male gonads. It would be supremely embarrassing if I didn't fact check and giblets actually were the hangers-down. I did not have a good time diggin' around and getting my hand stuck in the neck hole. I'm sorry, but if Boyfriend directed me to reach into the hoo-ha I would have been spared a lot of grief.
3) Know that colours don't always help when explaining which seasonings to use. Boyfriend had a unique system in place for awhile where all of his spices and potions and leafy things were either in clear containers or clear Ziploc baggies...none with labels. I understand why he didn't feel the need to write what was what on them because he could tell just by looking at it, and I didn't touch the stuff. It's Boyfriend's voodoo cupboard, none of my business. So this random Tuesday when he instructed me to go in there and grab things for our leaky bird it was really a crap shoot. He told me the names of things and tried to describe its colour. To be frank though, poultry seasoning, cumin, cinnamon, paprika, bay leaves, that crap is all the same to me.
4) Predetermine measuring amounts. Boyfriend told me to use a lot of poultry seasoning. My idea of a lot is to coat that sucker, make sure that none of its skin is showing. I can do that...I did that. Shame that he didn't clarify sooner. I had to scrape that giblet-less bird down and turned my palms orange like I applied self-tanner to a "guido". I'm embarrassed that I just went there. Apologies. The point here: a couple pinches to me is not a lot. A lot is a paint job. Maybe a word like "dusting", or phrase like "amount of confetti a ninety-three year old would throw on New Years", to me that makes much more sense. A lot. Sheesh.
5) Don't assume anything.
After I put the bird in the oven my job was over. I don't know what I did while I waited for Boyfriend to come home and relieve me of my duties. Doddled around I bet, that sounds like me. When Boyfriend arrives, he smells the turkey and smiles that I've still got both my eyebrows.
How's the bird?
I don't know. It was fine when I put it in the oven. Smells good.
You didn't baste it?
No. You didn't tell me to.
Did you check on it at all?
No. You didn't tell me to.
I don't understand his surprise. I can't figure it out on my own people. My parents raised me to be a kept woman. Find a rich man and settle down, that's a direct quote from my childhood. Okay, that's a lie. I just don't cook. I don't have the patience or attention span for it. Sue me. That wasn't an invitation, I would appreciate if you didn't. Nobody in their right mind would represent me.
I think I lost my cell phone...
Oh, I should mention that when I said I spent all day in the kitchen, that was a lie. It was more like forty minutes of bumbling around with a bleedingchicken...turkey. Whatever. A bird is a bird. It was a canary for all I know. Maybe a toucan.
Here it is. My phone I mean. In the bedroom beside the charger. So close to getting it plugged into the wall. Damn attention span.
To conclude: Nobody died in a fire and parts of the turkey were still edible. I say we call that a win. In the photos I look pretty proud.
Time for tea,
K
Post Script: I feel that many of my posts can be summarized in a sentence. For example from this and a few other posts:
Boyfriend trusted me to cook a turkey and I couldn't follow his simple directions.
I procrastinated with writing because I couldn't find a specific mug in the mug cupboard.
The Bookends were over for a sleepover and witnessed Boyfriend hit me in the face with the stuffed bear that Mutt humps.
Maybe I should invest more time editing what I write. If you're still reading these words maybe you should take a step back and better prioritize your time. It's all just nonsense anyways.
I love nonsense.
I am inspired by the star of our
Let's set the scene: My cramped kitchen, it was either springtime or autumntime. I want to wager a guess that the event took place in my pre-death phase. I would be less confused of the timeline if I only kept a diary. Hindsight, sheesh. After a quick consult of the photos (There are always photos of historical moments), if I were to judge by the state of my hair I would venture to say it was about two years ago. I was blonder and my lustrous hairs were much more unruly. Which if I may take an aside here, when I was sixteen and just had my wisdom teeth removed by a sadist, Muse came over to check on my state and to either paraphrase or quote exactly when I saw her she said, "Wow, orphan Annie." That is not something you say to somebody that has swollen cheeks and hasn't risen to straighten her mother's genes from her hair. You just don't. I suppose to be fair, I have gotten my fair share of jabs at Muse's expense. I digress, it was an attempt to illustrate the condition of my hair.
The reason I didn't do my hair the day the photo was taken was because I spent all day in that doll-sized kitchen. I feel like I need to repeat that to emphasize and help the disbelievers out there know that it wasn't a typo, I SPENT ALL DAY IN THAT DOLL-SIZED KITCHEN. Cooking. Sort of. One day, Boyfriend got himself one fun idea.
We should have a turkey dinner tomorrow with all the fixin's. (It was a random Tuesday)
I'm so in Boyfriend.
Great. I picked up a turkey at the store. You have tomorrow off, right?
...Yeah, so?
You can start the Turkey while I'm at work.
Beg pardon?
Don't worry, I'll talk you through it.
Talk me through it Boyfriend? I like turkey a whole lot less now. I mean, yes, it sounds simple, but many disastrous times are advertised with simplicity. For those out there that would like to "talk somebody through" making a turkey, keep these things in mind:
1)I cannot stress how very important it is to inform the turkey-preparer for what happens when you peel back the plastic that seals the bird when you purchase it. The statement Take off the plastic leaves much too much surprise for the cooking virgin. That damn poultry dripped like it was menstruating. Yeah, I was grossed out too. When one is taken aback by this, especially when one is not-a-so-good when it comes to blood in the first place, one wildly swings that turkey around as if trying to assist in post-feather flight. Well, in all honesty, one holds the turkey under its armpits and screams bloody murder when its life fluids pool on the cheap lick n' stick tile of the kitchen floor. That kitchen looked like it was a stage for a musical about a serial killer. OH! The way-so-far-off-Broadway-it's-in-a-different-country presentation of Sweeny Todd, the Demon Barber...if it took place in my kitchen.
2)Make sure you specify where to find the giblets. Is that what they're called? Giblets? Googled it, and yeah. I'm right. To my defense, giblets sound like a synonym for male gonads. It would be supremely embarrassing if I didn't fact check and giblets actually were the hangers-down. I did not have a good time diggin' around and getting my hand stuck in the neck hole. I'm sorry, but if Boyfriend directed me to reach into the hoo-ha I would have been spared a lot of grief.
3) Know that colours don't always help when explaining which seasonings to use. Boyfriend had a unique system in place for awhile where all of his spices and potions and leafy things were either in clear containers or clear Ziploc baggies...none with labels. I understand why he didn't feel the need to write what was what on them because he could tell just by looking at it, and I didn't touch the stuff. It's Boyfriend's voodoo cupboard, none of my business. So this random Tuesday when he instructed me to go in there and grab things for our leaky bird it was really a crap shoot. He told me the names of things and tried to describe its colour. To be frank though, poultry seasoning, cumin, cinnamon, paprika, bay leaves, that crap is all the same to me.
4) Predetermine measuring amounts. Boyfriend told me to use a lot of poultry seasoning. My idea of a lot is to coat that sucker, make sure that none of its skin is showing. I can do that...I did that. Shame that he didn't clarify sooner. I had to scrape that giblet-less bird down and turned my palms orange like I applied self-tanner to a "guido". I'm embarrassed that I just went there. Apologies. The point here: a couple pinches to me is not a lot. A lot is a paint job. Maybe a word like "dusting", or phrase like "amount of confetti a ninety-three year old would throw on New Years", to me that makes much more sense. A lot. Sheesh.
5) Don't assume anything.
After I put the bird in the oven my job was over. I don't know what I did while I waited for Boyfriend to come home and relieve me of my duties. Doddled around I bet, that sounds like me. When Boyfriend arrives, he smells the turkey and smiles that I've still got both my eyebrows.
How's the bird?
I don't know. It was fine when I put it in the oven. Smells good.
You didn't baste it?
No. You didn't tell me to.
Did you check on it at all?
No. You didn't tell me to.
I don't understand his surprise. I can't figure it out on my own people. My parents raised me to be a kept woman. Find a rich man and settle down, that's a direct quote from my childhood. Okay, that's a lie. I just don't cook. I don't have the patience or attention span for it. Sue me. That wasn't an invitation, I would appreciate if you didn't. Nobody in their right mind would represent me.
I think I lost my cell phone...
Oh, I should mention that when I said I spent all day in the kitchen, that was a lie. It was more like forty minutes of bumbling around with a bleeding
Here it is. My phone I mean. In the bedroom beside the charger. So close to getting it plugged into the wall. Damn attention span.
To conclude: Nobody died in a fire and parts of the turkey were still edible. I say we call that a win. In the photos I look pretty proud.
Time for tea,
K
Post Script: I feel that many of my posts can be summarized in a sentence. For example from this and a few other posts:
Boyfriend trusted me to cook a turkey and I couldn't follow his simple directions.
I procrastinated with writing because I couldn't find a specific mug in the mug cupboard.
The Bookends were over for a sleepover and witnessed Boyfriend hit me in the face with the stuffed bear that Mutt humps.
Maybe I should invest more time editing what I write. If you're still reading these words maybe you should take a step back and better prioritize your time. It's all just nonsense anyways.
I love nonsense.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Out of my coma and back on the horse
First blog in a long time and the title is a lie. I'm not on a horse. Oh wait. I needed to double check just to make sure. To my recollection I wasn't in a coma either, but just because I don't remember doesn't mean it isn't true. Or does it? I've gone and stumped myself. Le damn. I know what you're thinking, I took a free class at the YMCA in mind reading so I'm pretty sure it makes me an expert on what's going on inside all of your bean bags. For clarification purposes, bean bag in this instance means brains. Moving on. You're all thinking that the reason I haven't been posting is because my subject matter has run dry. There's no more material. I'm washed up. A has-been. Well you're wrong. Believe me when I say Boyfriend does something every day that I could write about. For instance, and this is a big deal, yesterday he gave up watching the news to enjoy The Breakfast Club instead. That was the moment I fell in love with him. Seriously. The three and a half years before last night were just a way to pass the time. Now you're all wondering if I'm actually serious. Believe me kids, I don't joke about love. I make fun of love, but I don't joke about it. Does that make sense? Did I just stump myself again? Balls.
In all sincerity, there is a reason I haven't been writing to you. I'm one of those people that takes my writing very seriously. There are certain things I need in order to write well:
1) A computer
2) My fun folder with tiny bits of paper scribbled with things that Boyfriend has done to evoke the She Hulk
3) Slabs of meat that I throw to Fat and Mutt to get them to leave me alone.
4) Comfortable clothes
5) My top hat
6) A sledgehammer to smash anything that makes noise. That backwards clock will feel my fury one day. My patience is waning.
7) This one is most important: My mug with the picture of a typewriter that I got from the Bookends. It's my serious writer mug, not to get confused with my television mug, fancy old lady tea cup, cappuccino mug, pre-bedtime tea cup, and pre-pre-bedtime mug. Oh. And the biggun that starts off the day. That mug is a monster. Sometimes I eat cereal out of it.
The thing is, well, my serious writer mug went missing. Gone. Disappeared like a magician's assistant. Which is why I figured that Fat did something with it. She's taken a sudden interest in magic tricks. That wretched, rotund feline. I gave her the shakedown (somewhat similar to the wet-kitty shakedown). I yelled in her face, WHERE IS IT? She stared at me with a sinister look in her eyes. Her mouth parted and her tongue darted out to lick her paw which she then slowly swiped across her brow. I repeated my demand for information and her fangs made an appearance as she said, "meow". That bitch. I slapped her across her furry face, I needed answers! She coughed up a hairball and sauntered away from me.
It was time to get all Dick Tracy up in this tiny apartment. If it wasn't the cat, maybe Mutt saw something. I need witnesses, need to take statements to bring this villain to justice. While I ponder the disappearance of the serious writer mug soft jazz plays in the background. The play list on 8tracks changed without my consent. I reached for my cell phone and dialed the number. I left instructions with Mutt's secretary to have him meet me in the living room. Had I looked down at my heels before I made the call I would have realized Mutt was at my side all along. Well Mutt, you know what's gone missing. Any leads? I got nothing. He looked up, his eyes pleading at me to understand what ails him. Oh crap, you need to go out, don't you? My bad. Let's make it quick, I'm trying to solve a mystery.
I find out real fast that Mutt knows nothing. At least he's not admitting anything. Should have made him give me an answer before I let him loose to do a leg left on those dandelions. Little Bastard. I'll just have to think this one through by myself. Where do we keep the mugs? The upper cupboard. It doesn't make sense that Mutt and Fat could get into the cupboard to take the serious writer mug. There has to be somebody else that has access to it. Somebody like...like...Boyfriend. Fire shot out of my eyes upon realization. Of course. He had it in for my writing all along, but why the mug? What does he have to gain from stealing my precious serious writer mug?
The answer is nothing. He just stacked it with the guest mugs instead of putting it where it usually goes in the cupboard. I still put him in jail though. Oh no wait. Not yet I haven't. Since I don't have access to a jail cell I either have to make one (but my welding's not so good) or frame him for something so he goes to jail. Any welders out there? Give a girl a hand? A cage would look great in the bedroom. Not like a nasty S & M cage. Get over yourselves. It's not like I can lock Boyfriend up in the bathroom. That's where I put the animals when I give them time outs. I need to think this through. I might have stumped myself again.
Time for tea,
K
In all sincerity, there is a reason I haven't been writing to you. I'm one of those people that takes my writing very seriously. There are certain things I need in order to write well:
1) A computer
2) My fun folder with tiny bits of paper scribbled with things that Boyfriend has done to evoke the She Hulk
3) Slabs of meat that I throw to Fat and Mutt to get them to leave me alone.
4) Comfortable clothes
5) My top hat
6) A sledgehammer to smash anything that makes noise. That backwards clock will feel my fury one day. My patience is waning.
7) This one is most important: My mug with the picture of a typewriter that I got from the Bookends. It's my serious writer mug, not to get confused with my television mug, fancy old lady tea cup, cappuccino mug, pre-bedtime tea cup, and pre-pre-bedtime mug. Oh. And the biggun that starts off the day. That mug is a monster. Sometimes I eat cereal out of it.
The thing is, well, my serious writer mug went missing. Gone. Disappeared like a magician's assistant. Which is why I figured that Fat did something with it. She's taken a sudden interest in magic tricks. That wretched, rotund feline. I gave her the shakedown (somewhat similar to the wet-kitty shakedown). I yelled in her face, WHERE IS IT? She stared at me with a sinister look in her eyes. Her mouth parted and her tongue darted out to lick her paw which she then slowly swiped across her brow. I repeated my demand for information and her fangs made an appearance as she said, "meow". That bitch. I slapped her across her furry face, I needed answers! She coughed up a hairball and sauntered away from me.
It was time to get all Dick Tracy up in this tiny apartment. If it wasn't the cat, maybe Mutt saw something. I need witnesses, need to take statements to bring this villain to justice. While I ponder the disappearance of the serious writer mug soft jazz plays in the background. The play list on 8tracks changed without my consent. I reached for my cell phone and dialed the number. I left instructions with Mutt's secretary to have him meet me in the living room. Had I looked down at my heels before I made the call I would have realized Mutt was at my side all along. Well Mutt, you know what's gone missing. Any leads? I got nothing. He looked up, his eyes pleading at me to understand what ails him. Oh crap, you need to go out, don't you? My bad. Let's make it quick, I'm trying to solve a mystery.
I find out real fast that Mutt knows nothing. At least he's not admitting anything. Should have made him give me an answer before I let him loose to do a leg left on those dandelions. Little Bastard. I'll just have to think this one through by myself. Where do we keep the mugs? The upper cupboard. It doesn't make sense that Mutt and Fat could get into the cupboard to take the serious writer mug. There has to be somebody else that has access to it. Somebody like...like...Boyfriend. Fire shot out of my eyes upon realization. Of course. He had it in for my writing all along, but why the mug? What does he have to gain from stealing my precious serious writer mug?
The answer is nothing. He just stacked it with the guest mugs instead of putting it where it usually goes in the cupboard. I still put him in jail though. Oh no wait. Not yet I haven't. Since I don't have access to a jail cell I either have to make one (but my welding's not so good) or frame him for something so he goes to jail. Any welders out there? Give a girl a hand? A cage would look great in the bedroom. Not like a nasty S & M cage. Get over yourselves. It's not like I can lock Boyfriend up in the bathroom. That's where I put the animals when I give them time outs. I need to think this through. I might have stumped myself again.
Time for tea,
K
Monday, March 19, 2012
An update on karma
Karma. That voodoo is real. As you all have read in a previous post, Boyfriend and I both have a Golden Oreo trigger. They're too good to deny. We see 'em, we eat 'em, they gone, we sad. They are the second best invention to this date (Without dispute, chickens are the best invention ever). Also, if you have been following my blog, I gifted him a box of these golden delicacies and, justifiably, he hid them on me. Prepare to gasp with dramatic flair because I FOUND THEM! For the record Boyfriend, not your best hiding place. The pasta cupboard? I know I have no business in there, but it's adjacent to the tea cupboard. Also, not knowing where the hiding place was definitely got the best of me, I had to know in case a craving hit. I tore that kitchen apart. I was aware if there was any place in our matchbox-size apartment that he would hide something, it's in that mysterious room with all its pans, spices, foreign equipment and at first glance, inedible things. My bad for not figuring out the magic behind the transformation of inedibles into good eats. That's voodoo too. As for karma: I found those cookies and in great victory threw copious amounts of metallic confetti throughout the apartment. It looked like a parade wandered through, which strangely enough, Boyfriend did not believe when he came home to an apartment coated in rainbow glitter. Fyi: At this point I have not devoured any Oreos, merely located them. I also felt guilty when I saw the fiery orange post-it written by my hand that PROMISED I wouldn't eat the cookies. For some reason I knew if I ignored another promise written on a post-it Boyfriend would never let me live it down. There has to be some trust in a relationship. And for the record, my intention was to not eat those cookies. I tried. So help me God, I tried.
For days I kept the secret that I had located the treasure. Every ten minutes I'd casually peer into the pasta cupboard and stare longingly at the box wondering if, in his advanced celebration of years, Boyfriend would simply forget about them. In his defense though, I forget stuff all the time and I'll never be old. He also remembers things that he really shouldn't. He would probably love me more if he were capable of forgetting the bad things...the annoying things...those times I've woken him up out of boredom...the She-Hulking...the pettiness...the time I yelled at him for walking in front of me...the demanding princess nature...the three urns I tell him contain the ashes of misbehaving ex-boyfriends that actually hide my arts and crafts...the times I sing off-key just to annoy him...If he could wipe all of these from his memory we'll be just fine. And those are just the things that I do that annoy myself but I can't stop them from happening. I'll never apologize for being whimsical or acting on impulse. That's unacceptable? I'm sincerely sorry.
Where was I? Ah, righto. Eventually Boyfriend made his way through the current box of Oreos...the last ones I pilfered, and he moved the new box to the fridge. Maybe I should explain. Wait. Did I tell you before why we keep our cookies in the fridge? Hold on. I need to investigate. The easy thing to do is just spill the reasoning, but happy news for you, I like to be difficult. And I'm curious. No. I did not. I barely touched on the cookie news. Get over yourself, it's a big deal in our place. We keep stuff like that in the fridge because to put it bluntly, our apartment is a stifling box of sweaty, immense, never-ending, satanic desert-like heat. Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick, it better keep the old folks that live here happy because we're dying. The only reason we're both so skinny is because we sweat out every calorie we consume. I feel like I need to include a sentence here that we've checked the heat control in our apartment, the beastly heat is out of our hands. Either that or our dial-thingamajig is broken. Maybe this is how we're being punished for Boyfriend taking an extra underground parking stall without paying for it. Anyways, our place, being the entrance to hell, makes the icing in the Oreos go too soft. Much, much too soft. Not an ideal attribute for this kind of cookie.
I'm getting to the part about karma. For those of you that haven't heard this story, you're probably really wondering where on earth I'm leading you. Well, you're in my home, and bear with me, it's about to get satisfying, then gross, then there's going to be a weak attempt to cover any tracks of wrongdoing. Shall we?...Before we do, this was supposed to be a post about Boyfriend taking me to my first hockey game, but my Oreo update turned out to be longer than intended. NHL fans can wait for another time. Even writing that last sentence, I realize just how out of whack my priorities are. Not that I'm suggesting that memories that involve sports should merit a better rank, but my first thought is to let the people know about cookies. You can walk away at any time, I'll understand. Frankly, I'm judging those that stick around to read my nonsense rather harshly. Back to the cookies in the fridge.
Scientists and Physicists of the world unite and answer me this: What is the impact of a colder temperature on Golden Oreos? Wrong, they remain just as delicious if not more so. You, in the back. Correct. The fridge temperature will cause the molecules of the cookie to form tighter bonds making the cookie itself harder. Or something like that, it sounds smart anyways. The point is that the softness of the icing becomes replaced with cement. Oh, I forgot another important detail of this story: I recently had minor surgery done on my mouth and was forbidden to bite into food. Now you're probably really unsure as to where I'm going. Compose yourself, we're getting to it. The day arrived that I couldn't fight the craving anymore. I was going to get me some of those cookies. I restrained myself and only took two. With the last box when I...let's call it what it is...stole Boyfriend's cookies, I figured out the best way for my sore mouth to eat the Oreos was to snap them in half and then break those halves in half (Muse, that means I broke it into four pieces, math isn't for everyone, but woman, you're beautiful). It worked on my last stolen cookies, it'll work with these ones too. I tried to snap the cookie in half by pressing my thumbs onto the outside, but it didn't work. I don't know what was up. My lovely primate brain decides that if it's not breaking by pushing with my thumbs, I'll just hold it the same way, but push my index fingers upward into it so the cookie would break in the opposite direction. I'm not even entirely sure how to explain what happened next. With grit and determination I pressed my index fingers into the decorative outside of the cookie. I don't know if I slipped or the Oreo was in a bitchy mood, but the little ridges of the vanilla outside caught on my knuckle and ripped into my skin. Trust when I say ripped is the right word, I had a flap of bloody skin and a hefty leak of scarlet fluid from my finger. The Oreo was painted like it was present for a messy homicide, and strangle enough, still unbroken. Lucky for me the only audience present was Fat, who stared at the DNA spattered Oreo then gave me a look as if to say, "You gonna eat that?" The She-Hulk made an appearance and kicked Monsieur Cora Pearl in her direction before running to the bathroom to attempt to figure out a way to doctor herself up.
I am the worst person to be present at a time like this. I don't know what to do. I can't call Boyfriend and ask what to do. I can figure this out somewhat. The obvious first choice is to cover the wound with something that will hide how disgusting it is so I don't have to look at it. I go for paper towel and to my delight discover that Boyfriend hides our first aid kit in the same cupboard. Cool. I wrap my finger in paper towel anyway. It was more accessible. Not to say that I completely ignore the first aid kit, I grabbed it as an afterthought. The last time I took first aid was over a decade ago and it made me want to throw up. My solution: Quickly wash the wound, splash that stuff on it, glop on that other stuff, put on a Band-Aid, call it a shift. Except the thing won't stop bleeding. And there are no Band-Aids. Plan B: Complete Plan A as fast as possible, wrap the gauze that I found around it and tape it in place. To quote Muse, "Problem El Solvo." Kind of. I left a rather disgusting trail of DNA in the bathroom. I've lost too much blood to care about hiding the evidence I left in the garbage can. In hindsight I should have had the nasty, flesh wound looked at. That damn finger seeped blood for longer than I care to admit. Oh well.
Boyfriend came home and I knew there was no way to hide the bulbous white layers that surrounded my finger. I thought the best thing to do was acknowledge its existence.
I hurt myself.
I saw the garbage can in the bathroom. What happened?
I was...(insert whatever lame excuse I used here, something like,) I was playing with the cat and accidently caught myself on something sharp.
Oh.
I like that he noticed the bloody paper towel in the bathroom and doesn't ask about it. Genuinely. Like it may have been some time-of-the-month event that went awry. Better not to ask, Good Boyfriend. I also like that he didn't question my lame excuse. This post is actually my admission of guilt. The true event of what happened. It does make me feel like a complete fool to say that a cookie almost sawed off my finger because of my own negligence and bad karma. The best part is the beautiful scar tissue that is the result. A lifelong reminder to keep my promises. And just like that, I become the definition of awesome.
Time for tea,
K
For days I kept the secret that I had located the treasure. Every ten minutes I'd casually peer into the pasta cupboard and stare longingly at the box wondering if, in his advanced celebration of years, Boyfriend would simply forget about them. In his defense though, I forget stuff all the time and I'll never be old. He also remembers things that he really shouldn't. He would probably love me more if he were capable of forgetting the bad things...the annoying things...those times I've woken him up out of boredom...the She-Hulking...the pettiness...the time I yelled at him for walking in front of me...the demanding princess nature...the three urns I tell him contain the ashes of misbehaving ex-boyfriends that actually hide my arts and crafts...the times I sing off-key just to annoy him...If he could wipe all of these from his memory we'll be just fine. And those are just the things that I do that annoy myself but I can't stop them from happening. I'll never apologize for being whimsical or acting on impulse. That's unacceptable? I'm sincerely sorry.
Where was I? Ah, righto. Eventually Boyfriend made his way through the current box of Oreos...the last ones I pilfered, and he moved the new box to the fridge. Maybe I should explain. Wait. Did I tell you before why we keep our cookies in the fridge? Hold on. I need to investigate. The easy thing to do is just spill the reasoning, but happy news for you, I like to be difficult. And I'm curious. No. I did not. I barely touched on the cookie news. Get over yourself, it's a big deal in our place. We keep stuff like that in the fridge because to put it bluntly, our apartment is a stifling box of sweaty, immense, never-ending, satanic desert-like heat. Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick, it better keep the old folks that live here happy because we're dying. The only reason we're both so skinny is because we sweat out every calorie we consume. I feel like I need to include a sentence here that we've checked the heat control in our apartment, the beastly heat is out of our hands. Either that or our dial-thingamajig is broken. Maybe this is how we're being punished for Boyfriend taking an extra underground parking stall without paying for it. Anyways, our place, being the entrance to hell, makes the icing in the Oreos go too soft. Much, much too soft. Not an ideal attribute for this kind of cookie.
I'm getting to the part about karma. For those of you that haven't heard this story, you're probably really wondering where on earth I'm leading you. Well, you're in my home, and bear with me, it's about to get satisfying, then gross, then there's going to be a weak attempt to cover any tracks of wrongdoing. Shall we?...Before we do, this was supposed to be a post about Boyfriend taking me to my first hockey game, but my Oreo update turned out to be longer than intended. NHL fans can wait for another time. Even writing that last sentence, I realize just how out of whack my priorities are. Not that I'm suggesting that memories that involve sports should merit a better rank, but my first thought is to let the people know about cookies. You can walk away at any time, I'll understand. Frankly, I'm judging those that stick around to read my nonsense rather harshly. Back to the cookies in the fridge.
Scientists and Physicists of the world unite and answer me this: What is the impact of a colder temperature on Golden Oreos? Wrong, they remain just as delicious if not more so. You, in the back. Correct. The fridge temperature will cause the molecules of the cookie to form tighter bonds making the cookie itself harder. Or something like that, it sounds smart anyways. The point is that the softness of the icing becomes replaced with cement. Oh, I forgot another important detail of this story: I recently had minor surgery done on my mouth and was forbidden to bite into food. Now you're probably really unsure as to where I'm going. Compose yourself, we're getting to it. The day arrived that I couldn't fight the craving anymore. I was going to get me some of those cookies. I restrained myself and only took two. With the last box when I...let's call it what it is...stole Boyfriend's cookies, I figured out the best way for my sore mouth to eat the Oreos was to snap them in half and then break those halves in half (Muse, that means I broke it into four pieces, math isn't for everyone, but woman, you're beautiful). It worked on my last stolen cookies, it'll work with these ones too. I tried to snap the cookie in half by pressing my thumbs onto the outside, but it didn't work. I don't know what was up. My lovely primate brain decides that if it's not breaking by pushing with my thumbs, I'll just hold it the same way, but push my index fingers upward into it so the cookie would break in the opposite direction. I'm not even entirely sure how to explain what happened next. With grit and determination I pressed my index fingers into the decorative outside of the cookie. I don't know if I slipped or the Oreo was in a bitchy mood, but the little ridges of the vanilla outside caught on my knuckle and ripped into my skin. Trust when I say ripped is the right word, I had a flap of bloody skin and a hefty leak of scarlet fluid from my finger. The Oreo was painted like it was present for a messy homicide, and strangle enough, still unbroken. Lucky for me the only audience present was Fat, who stared at the DNA spattered Oreo then gave me a look as if to say, "You gonna eat that?" The She-Hulk made an appearance and kicked Monsieur Cora Pearl in her direction before running to the bathroom to attempt to figure out a way to doctor herself up.
I am the worst person to be present at a time like this. I don't know what to do. I can't call Boyfriend and ask what to do. I can figure this out somewhat. The obvious first choice is to cover the wound with something that will hide how disgusting it is so I don't have to look at it. I go for paper towel and to my delight discover that Boyfriend hides our first aid kit in the same cupboard. Cool. I wrap my finger in paper towel anyway. It was more accessible. Not to say that I completely ignore the first aid kit, I grabbed it as an afterthought. The last time I took first aid was over a decade ago and it made me want to throw up. My solution: Quickly wash the wound, splash that stuff on it, glop on that other stuff, put on a Band-Aid, call it a shift. Except the thing won't stop bleeding. And there are no Band-Aids. Plan B: Complete Plan A as fast as possible, wrap the gauze that I found around it and tape it in place. To quote Muse, "Problem El Solvo." Kind of. I left a rather disgusting trail of DNA in the bathroom. I've lost too much blood to care about hiding the evidence I left in the garbage can. In hindsight I should have had the nasty, flesh wound looked at. That damn finger seeped blood for longer than I care to admit. Oh well.
Boyfriend came home and I knew there was no way to hide the bulbous white layers that surrounded my finger. I thought the best thing to do was acknowledge its existence.
I hurt myself.
I saw the garbage can in the bathroom. What happened?
I was...(insert whatever lame excuse I used here, something like,) I was playing with the cat and accidently caught myself on something sharp.
Oh.
I like that he noticed the bloody paper towel in the bathroom and doesn't ask about it. Genuinely. Like it may have been some time-of-the-month event that went awry. Better not to ask, Good Boyfriend. I also like that he didn't question my lame excuse. This post is actually my admission of guilt. The true event of what happened. It does make me feel like a complete fool to say that a cookie almost sawed off my finger because of my own negligence and bad karma. The best part is the beautiful scar tissue that is the result. A lifelong reminder to keep my promises. And just like that, I become the definition of awesome.
Time for tea,
K
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Monsieur Cora Pearl; A Dog's Best Friend
I just caught Fat snuggled up to Mutt's teddy bear and it made me think of a time when Boyfriend and I were figuring out how to live in close proximity to each other. Now this bear has been around for a long while and has a rich history living in my house. Well, that might be overselling it, calling the bear's past a rich history, but everyone knows I'm not capable of disclosing the whole truth in this blog because, really, where's the fun in that? It does lead me to wonder how y'all (I just read The Help, so I beg your pardon if the Mississippi accent comes a-callin' to the blog) attempt to separate the fact from the fiction or if you just take what I write with the figurative grain of salt. Never mind, I’m over it and no longer care or remember where I was going for that matter.
So the bear. He's bound to be about a decade old by now. At least I assume it's a he. As there are no sex organs I can't tell for certain, but we'll just say this bear is male neuter, just like Mutt. The bear, let's give him a blog alias...Monsieur Cora Pearl (yes it's a girl's name, get over it), was originally a Christmas gift from my younger brother about a decade ago. He's a tan, old-timey looking bear with a triangle chocolate nose and tiny, black beady eyes that have a story to tell.
Monsieur Cora Pearl's Story:
I knew from the words that boy spoke when he brought me home from the freak show of a strip mall in that tiny town (which smelled like a nearby mining and smelting company...very ritzy) that this was the start of my journey to better places. I sat wrapped tightly in festive paper that adorned me like a straight jacket. I was hidden away for so long I thought that maybe I didn't act as a good teddy bear should and my punishment was this solitary confinement. I started going crazy. I came up with a multitude of plans for escape, but as I am not a character in Toy Story, I lacked the ability to physically come alive. Wait. I shouldn’t know what Toy Story is. How does that work. Never you mind. I was left to stew in my mental hell wishing all the while for somebody to bestow their love on me.
K’s Story:
Following my move to Vancouver, I had the Book Ends (They be twins, my younger sisters) over for a sleepover after I was all settled. We were catching up, having some girl time. I was sitting on the living room floor, as I sometimes do, while they perched on the couch and we talked about boys, parents, I gave them the ten-second-tour (that's literal – bedroom, bathroom, Monsieur Cora Pearl there on the floor please don't touch him, kitchen, and dining/living room. Done.) feel free to do what you like, mi casa es your place too. The only rule is: don't touch Mutt's things. I should make a special note here that even Boyfriend and I DO NOT touch Mutt's things. He's very...well, he's kind of a canine hoarder. As I spin in my chair I can tell you that right now he has collected all of his stuff right beside the cat's post, a mountain of uneaten treats, his stuffed alien dog, his neck pillow (Which he pilfered. Yes, pilfered. It wasn't his. Dirty little thief.) and of course, Monsieur Cora Pearl. Oh Law (that's a combination of Kathryn Stockett and the margarita I'm sipping, not me), when you touch Mutt's things he has a tendency to somewhat freak out. Rule of the house: Leave Mutt's things alone. Do whatever else you damn well please unless it pisses off the She-Hulk. She'll let you know when you cross the line, but that's generally after you cross it so she can smash you.
So the bear. He's bound to be about a decade old by now. At least I assume it's a he. As there are no sex organs I can't tell for certain, but we'll just say this bear is male neuter, just like Mutt. The bear, let's give him a blog alias...Monsieur Cora Pearl (yes it's a girl's name, get over it), was originally a Christmas gift from my younger brother about a decade ago. He's a tan, old-timey looking bear with a triangle chocolate nose and tiny, black beady eyes that have a story to tell.
Monsieur Cora Pearl's Story:
I knew from the words that boy spoke when he brought me home from the freak show of a strip mall in that tiny town (which smelled like a nearby mining and smelting company...very ritzy) that this was the start of my journey to better places. I sat wrapped tightly in festive paper that adorned me like a straight jacket. I was hidden away for so long I thought that maybe I didn't act as a good teddy bear should and my punishment was this solitary confinement. I started going crazy. I came up with a multitude of plans for escape, but as I am not a character in Toy Story, I lacked the ability to physically come alive. Wait. I shouldn’t know what Toy Story is. How does that work. Never you mind. I was left to stew in my mental hell wishing all the while for somebody to bestow their love on me.
K’s Story:
Following my move to Vancouver, I had the Book Ends (They be twins, my younger sisters) over for a sleepover after I was all settled. We were catching up, having some girl time. I was sitting on the living room floor, as I sometimes do, while they perched on the couch and we talked about boys, parents, I gave them the ten-second-tour (that's literal – bedroom, bathroom, Monsieur Cora Pearl there on the floor please don't touch him, kitchen, and dining/living room. Done.) feel free to do what you like, mi casa es your place too. The only rule is: don't touch Mutt's things. I should make a special note here that even Boyfriend and I DO NOT touch Mutt's things. He's very...well, he's kind of a canine hoarder. As I spin in my chair I can tell you that right now he has collected all of his stuff right beside the cat's post, a mountain of uneaten treats, his stuffed alien dog, his neck pillow (Which he pilfered. Yes, pilfered. It wasn't his. Dirty little thief.) and of course, Monsieur Cora Pearl. Oh Law (that's a combination of Kathryn Stockett and the margarita I'm sipping, not me), when you touch Mutt's things he has a tendency to somewhat freak out. Rule of the house: Leave Mutt's things alone. Do whatever else you damn well please unless it pisses off the She-Hulk. She'll let you know when you cross the line, but that's generally after you cross it so she can smash you.
Monsieur Cora Pearl’s Story:
That girl saved me from suffocating. She freed me from that trap I was wrapped inside of while a song called Christmas in Jail, played in the background. It was all too appropriate. We stayed at that house for awhile, though it turns out the girl didn’t live there. We went on a long bus ride to a different house. We lived there for awhile. Some days after she woke up she would make her bed and carefully position me on it, with my back resting against the pillows. I think she put me there so I could keep a lookout; I was always facing the door to intimidate any and all intruders. Most days though, the girl didn’t want to wake me. She left me face down on the floor with the blankets strewn about on the carpet for warmth. She was always considerate like that. There were other teddy bears for awhile, but as the years drifted by and the girl started to catch the crazy, those bears slowly disappeared until I was the only one.
K’s Story:
The Book Ends asked why I gave the warning about Mutt’s things. I’m not a liar when I’m speaking...with the exception of that time I told Muse and Hubby Cupcake that Boyfriend was Mister North Shore 1996. He got a sash and a key to the city if you were wondering.
Monsieur Cora Pearl’s Story:
We’ve been moving around a bit over the last little while. I was misplaced in a moving box for far too long. I thought she forgot about me. I’m feeling more and more unloved. Especially when I was finally removed from the box and saw an alive stuffed cat. She’s kind of a fat bitch.
K’s Story:
After I tell the Book Ends why they should NEVER touch Monsieur Cora Pearl or Mutt’s other things, the sisters get the giggles in unison. I laugh too, because, really? Really? Boyfriend arrives, lets himself through the door and greets us. Hey Boyfriend, welcome to the estrogen-fest. Pull up a chair. Or you could...what are you doing Boyfriend?
Monsieur Cora Pearl’s Story:
We’re at a different house now. We live with a dear old woman that seems to be a future version of the girl. I like her. She makes pancakes. The girl brought home a little monster of a thing, she called it a dog, but I’ve seen enough television to know she’s a liar. I think it’s a rodent. I’m pretty sure, no, I’m eight thousand percent certain. Within the rodent’s first few months, he’s rooted into cupboards and staked claim on a forest green neck pillow. Didn’t even ask if I wanted it, and yeah, I did. By now the girl doesn’t even notice me. She put me in the spare bedroom and forgets all about me. Only living things I see are that spherical cat and monster “dog”. They come in and keep me company once in awhile, but never stay long. That is, they don’t stay long until one day the “dog” comes in looking all different. He’s got a lampshade over his head and he’s acting all ashamed. Says he doesn’t know who he is anymore. Feels like less of a man. Says he likes my company.
K’s Story:
Boyfriend is new to our everyday life together as I mentioned earlier. I don’t know what Boyfriend is thinking when he steps toward Monsieur Cora Pearl and picks her up. He shoots me a mischievous smile. Did I forget to tell Boyfriend the only rule of the house?????
Monsieur Cora Pearl’s Story:
The “dog” and I become best friends. Better than best friends, I think he loves me. I mean, he says he does, but I have to admit that sometimes I doubt his sincerity. It’s nice to be loved, but it does make me feel a little used sometimes. At least it’s attention; the girl just looks at me with disgust now, careful to stay away from me. Like I have some disease. This, this is what my life has become.
K’s Story:
Boyfriend pulls Monsieur Cora Pearl away, in a back swing that makes me wonder if Boyfriend plays tennis. The Book Ends and I stare, frozen, all knowing what’s going to happen with Boyfriend’s swift follow-through. They just heard the story and I think they’re rooting for Boyfriend on this one. As if in slow motion, three sets of eyeballs watch Monsieur Cora Pearl come closer. Boyfriend smiles, delighted that I haven’t made a move to stop it from happening. Monsieur Cora Pearl collides with my face. A synchronized “Ohhhhhh” comes from the Book Ends, while I let out and agonized, AGHHHHHHHH! Monsieur Cora Pearl is Mutt’s hump bear. I’ve seen him go at Monsieur Cora Pearl as though he’s filming a porno. And Boyfriend connects the diseased stuffed animal with the side of my face. This is the absolute worst day of my life. Wait, let me think...yes. This is the worst. The She Hulk boils with anger.
Do you have any idea what that is?
A bear?
The bear that Mutt humps.
Ha ha. What?
Oh God. Disgusting. I’m dying. Give me that bear, I’m going to get you in the face with it.
No, that’s gross.
Obviously it’s gross. Forget the bear, I’m going to kill you Boyfriend. Today is the day you are going to die by my hand. It’s happening.
The She Hulk pounces, her mammoth claws rip into Boyfriend’s chest. One by one she snaps his rib bones as if they’re Thanksgiving wish bones. Every time the bones snap the She Hulk wishes Boyfriend didn’t do stupid, nasty things. She then takes the stake that she was saving as a precaution for the next coming of Dracula – stay on guard, it’s going to happen – and the She Hulk plunges the stake into Boyfriend’s rapidly palpitating heart. Boyfriend dies and the She Hulk tosses Monsieur Cora Pearl on top of him. She sets the apartment on fire as she leaves.
It’s a good thing Boyfriend has as many lives as a cat. I should really figure out how many are left. I don’t want to waste his last few willy nilly. Also, excuse me while I shoo Fat away from Monsieur Cora Pearl. She doesn’t need that nonsense.
Time for tea,
K
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Letters of apology and appreciation from the bat cave
Dearest Muse,
I suppose the proper first thing is to thank you for is all the mothering you have done for me over the last week and a half. This girl is lucky to have you as her third mother. A billion thanks for coming with me to laser eye surgery because Boyfriend couldn't make it. I'm sorry, I really thought it would be more fun on your part. My bad. I'm also sorry if my calmness freaked you out. I'm also really sorry about the misunderstanding, I thought, like your husband, that the surgery would enable me to shoot lasers out my eyes. At least that's some good news for Boyfriend, because we all know that he would have been victim #1.
Another thing I need to thank you for are the eye drops you bought me. And the second bottle...and the third ones...and most especially the fourth bottle--the gel ones--they really lubricate my eyes and make them feel rather erotic. I'm not sure how you're taking that, but it's meant to be a compliment. Though, it has been brought to my attention that my backward-ass way of giving compliments is too confusing. I never learned how to do it properly, okay? Erotic eyeballs is the best compliment that's coming, and for that I apologize. Sincerely.
Oh, while I have your attention: We need you to ask Hubby Cupcake to come over and help hook up the blu-ray player, Boyfriend and I have no idea what we're doing. Also, your husband is unlikely going to be fond of his nickname that I just came up with. Tell him that everyone gets an alias in my blog! It makes me feel like Flava Flav, giving nicknames to my prostitutes. Honestly though, it's a good nickname. He's a hubby. And who doesn't like cupcakes? Idiots obviously, but my point is that cupcakes are freaking cute and delicious. Not that I think he's delicious. You know what...never mind. This next bit is for him: You're Hubby Cupcake because I choose for you to be Hubby Cupcake. Own it. Please note that for this nickname I am sincerely sorry.
Where was I? Muse, yes. I'm sorry that I came up with the post-surgery calling plan and it didn't work out. You have to admit, it did seem like a good idea to have you call, let it ring once, hang up and call right back. I would have known it was you without having to check the caller ID and hurt my eyes. I'm sorry that neither of us had the forethought to turn my phone back on after surgery so you worried when I didn't answer your calls. Whoopsies. At least Boyfriend was happy to chat with you when you called him.
I also sincerely appreciate the Wendy's a few days ago. That burger was everything I wanted it to be. Erotic eyes and a burger, the stuff dreams are made of. All thanks to you.
Sincerely (the real sincerely, not the fake sincerely I use when I apologize for things I'm not sorry for) yours,
Your Bestie,
K
**********************************
Darling Boyfriend,
We have had ourselves quite a nifty week, haven't we? You have to admit it had its moments and our relationship is all the better for it. No? Yes? Really, who can tell?
My first big thank you is for the assemblage of my bat cave. Who would have thought that our flimsy curtains wouldn't be enough blockage from the outside world to keep my eyes happy? You have to admit, I did my best not to bother you that first morning when I woke up and the post-dawn light sodomized my retinas. That's hyperbole. For effect. Okay, moving on. I'm sorry for the agonized scream that woke you up when I ran to the windowless bathroom to hide from any trace of light. I could have lived in there for days until my eyes healed. At least my legs would have been shaved. Who am I kidding? They really wouldn't have. But I could have stayed there were it not for your act of valour. I didn't know until the other day what you put over the window to coat the bedroom in blackness, but thank you for thumb tacking those towels on the wall. And that signed cardboard cut-out of the Barenaked Ladies that you also used as a screen, thank you for not letting me know that it was in our house. Now that I know it exists I want it gone. They've served their purpose.
I really am sorry that I ate your cookies. I just figured you had lots so I would help you get rid of them. You're welcome for replacing them with the Golden Oreos, I knew I wronged you and had to make it better. I'm really, very sorry that I ate your Golden Oreos in spite of the post-it note I put on them saying that I wouldn't. Yes, it was a bitch move on my part, but I was hurting and the only thing that would make it better was stolen cookies. You're welcome for replacing them with another box of Golden Oreos. I'm sorry we got to the point that you had to hide them from me. No one is sorrier than I am for this happening.
However, thank you for all your help when I couldn't see. Your compassion and sense of duty really shone through last week, this being especially paramount with all the little things. You brought me food and drops, Tylenol threes and helped me with my iPod. The last I am especially grateful for, day two of surgery when I blindly felt around for my iPod, felt a tangled cord on the night stand and grabbed the earbuds was a small victory. When I called you to come and turn the iPod on to a certain audiobook I really appreciate how you pointed out to my great dismay that the earbuds were connected to nothing. That's what I love about you, Boyfriend, you don't give special treatment. You love me the same no matter what the circumstance.
Thanks for telling me I looked hot in my blind person glasses. You didn't need to say that. I know I did. I felt it. Sexy, blind person glasses. I'm holding onto those for summertime. Eat your heart out Vancouver.
The last thing I need to write here is that I'm sorry we can't do this more often. I know how much you loved not fighting over the remote. But now I can see and I'm not afraid to sucker punch you for it.
Would you look at that, Boyfriend? It's time for tea,
Sincerely and lovingly yours,
K
I suppose the proper first thing is to thank you for is all the mothering you have done for me over the last week and a half. This girl is lucky to have you as her third mother. A billion thanks for coming with me to laser eye surgery because Boyfriend couldn't make it. I'm sorry, I really thought it would be more fun on your part. My bad. I'm also sorry if my calmness freaked you out. I'm also really sorry about the misunderstanding, I thought, like your husband, that the surgery would enable me to shoot lasers out my eyes. At least that's some good news for Boyfriend, because we all know that he would have been victim #1.
Another thing I need to thank you for are the eye drops you bought me. And the second bottle...and the third ones...and most especially the fourth bottle--the gel ones--they really lubricate my eyes and make them feel rather erotic. I'm not sure how you're taking that, but it's meant to be a compliment. Though, it has been brought to my attention that my backward-ass way of giving compliments is too confusing. I never learned how to do it properly, okay? Erotic eyeballs is the best compliment that's coming, and for that I apologize. Sincerely.
Oh, while I have your attention: We need you to ask Hubby Cupcake to come over and help hook up the blu-ray player, Boyfriend and I have no idea what we're doing. Also, your husband is unlikely going to be fond of his nickname that I just came up with. Tell him that everyone gets an alias in my blog! It makes me feel like Flava Flav, giving nicknames to my prostitutes. Honestly though, it's a good nickname. He's a hubby. And who doesn't like cupcakes? Idiots obviously, but my point is that cupcakes are freaking cute and delicious. Not that I think he's delicious. You know what...never mind. This next bit is for him: You're Hubby Cupcake because I choose for you to be Hubby Cupcake. Own it. Please note that for this nickname I am sincerely sorry.
Where was I? Muse, yes. I'm sorry that I came up with the post-surgery calling plan and it didn't work out. You have to admit, it did seem like a good idea to have you call, let it ring once, hang up and call right back. I would have known it was you without having to check the caller ID and hurt my eyes. I'm sorry that neither of us had the forethought to turn my phone back on after surgery so you worried when I didn't answer your calls. Whoopsies. At least Boyfriend was happy to chat with you when you called him.
I also sincerely appreciate the Wendy's a few days ago. That burger was everything I wanted it to be. Erotic eyes and a burger, the stuff dreams are made of. All thanks to you.
Sincerely (the real sincerely, not the fake sincerely I use when I apologize for things I'm not sorry for) yours,
Your Bestie,
K
**********************************
Darling Boyfriend,
We have had ourselves quite a nifty week, haven't we? You have to admit it had its moments and our relationship is all the better for it. No? Yes? Really, who can tell?
My first big thank you is for the assemblage of my bat cave. Who would have thought that our flimsy curtains wouldn't be enough blockage from the outside world to keep my eyes happy? You have to admit, I did my best not to bother you that first morning when I woke up and the post-dawn light sodomized my retinas. That's hyperbole. For effect. Okay, moving on. I'm sorry for the agonized scream that woke you up when I ran to the windowless bathroom to hide from any trace of light. I could have lived in there for days until my eyes healed. At least my legs would have been shaved. Who am I kidding? They really wouldn't have. But I could have stayed there were it not for your act of valour. I didn't know until the other day what you put over the window to coat the bedroom in blackness, but thank you for thumb tacking those towels on the wall. And that signed cardboard cut-out of the Barenaked Ladies that you also used as a screen, thank you for not letting me know that it was in our house. Now that I know it exists I want it gone. They've served their purpose.
I really am sorry that I ate your cookies. I just figured you had lots so I would help you get rid of them. You're welcome for replacing them with the Golden Oreos, I knew I wronged you and had to make it better. I'm really, very sorry that I ate your Golden Oreos in spite of the post-it note I put on them saying that I wouldn't. Yes, it was a bitch move on my part, but I was hurting and the only thing that would make it better was stolen cookies. You're welcome for replacing them with another box of Golden Oreos. I'm sorry we got to the point that you had to hide them from me. No one is sorrier than I am for this happening.
However, thank you for all your help when I couldn't see. Your compassion and sense of duty really shone through last week, this being especially paramount with all the little things. You brought me food and drops, Tylenol threes and helped me with my iPod. The last I am especially grateful for, day two of surgery when I blindly felt around for my iPod, felt a tangled cord on the night stand and grabbed the earbuds was a small victory. When I called you to come and turn the iPod on to a certain audiobook I really appreciate how you pointed out to my great dismay that the earbuds were connected to nothing. That's what I love about you, Boyfriend, you don't give special treatment. You love me the same no matter what the circumstance.
Thanks for telling me I looked hot in my blind person glasses. You didn't need to say that. I know I did. I felt it. Sexy, blind person glasses. I'm holding onto those for summertime. Eat your heart out Vancouver.
The last thing I need to write here is that I'm sorry we can't do this more often. I know how much you loved not fighting over the remote. But now I can see and I'm not afraid to sucker punch you for it.
Would you look at that, Boyfriend? It's time for tea,
Sincerely and lovingly yours,
K
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)