The thing that every story needs

They say you should open with a joke: I lost the pots and pans in the divorce. What? The truth can be a joke. I won lots of things in the divorce too if that makes the news any better. That's neat.

I knew I couldn't evade you readers forever. Not going to lie, I figured that just abandoning ship was the answer. I would've made a terrible boat captain. Most people know how the Matador and Bull story concludes -- and if you waste your time reading my blog you should be able to figure it out on your own -- especially since I opened with the ending. That was kind of foolish of me. For those of you that are still hanging around, let me tell you a story of the when and the why:

It's the worst part of winter outside. Well, winter being the rainy season, and the worst part being that all the holiday fun was over so there was no more promise of presents and gluttony to make the weather a non-issue. Give me cookies, chocolate or a grilled cheese sandwich and I will instantly become a buoy for these monotonous down pouring days. Fact.

I enter the great hall. From the giant room’s perimeter, the hushed townsfolk stare at the middle of the massive room where two thrones face each other with just a small distance between them. The velvet curtains are drawn, the blaze of hundreds of candles interrupts the darkness of the stone manor. At my arrival, the altar boys quickly light the remaining candles and skip into place alongside the townsfolk. Yes. The altar boys in my castle skip. Deal. It occurs to me in hindsight that their presence was rather unwelcome; the priests had been driven from the kingdom long ago. You would think they would have remembered to corral the altar boys upon departure. No matter; I'm certain the boys were grateful to be left behind. I'm going to stop here because I feel like if I continue down this priest/altar boy road I'm going to enter into grossly offensive territory. Moving on.

I cross the floor, the echo of my deliberate steps caught notice of the peons. They stood straighter, avoided eye contact and bowed respectfully. Several of them were either scarred or missing limbs, a price paid for disobeying the order of the Queen. Upon my approach to the throne, I threw a sideways look at King Boyfriend. He slumped in a high-backed royal chair -- which today was across from mine to accommodate the afternoon’s intended sport.

Your Majesty. He doesn’t try to hide his sarcasm, but merely smiles and sips his beer.

Royal pain in my ass.

 

I extend a similar tone and force a tight smile as I smooth out my robes and perch on the cast iron throne.

Riesling? King Boyfriend gestures at the servant pouring a glass of white wine from an already opened bottle.

Trying to poison me?

King Boyfriend shrugs and pulls out his phone, disinterested in my concern. I swill half the glass, then pause.

Oh balls.

 

There’s just enough time to shove the chalice back into the servant’s hands after my utterance. I feel my eyes bulge and my breathing change. My fingernails claw at my neck in an effort to free my esophagus. It’s not enough. My body collapses and falls from the throne to the floor as if all my hinges and muscles stopped working at once. The bejewelled crown hits the floor and rolls a few feet from the body of me, a fallen Queen. A collective gasp comes from the townsfolk and all eyes go to the King to see what he will do. King Boyfriend doesn’t look up from the sports highlights on his iPhone.

You're being ridiculous.

What if I were dead?

 

My eyes flutter open as I shout from the floor, my body contorted from the awkward landing.

 

You are the absolute worst.

 

I unknot myself, swipe my crown off the floor and flop back onto the throne.

 

Hi. I’m talking to you.

 

The servant offers me the chalice again, I guzzle the last of the wine and the back of my hand serves as a napkin.

 

That should make you much more bearable. Shall we to the day’s event?

 

King Boyfriend nods, takes a moment to finish watching some kind of sports goal or save or who the hell cares, and sets the phone on the arm of his seat.

 

Very well then, let’s give the townsfolk a show.

I thought you just did.
Clever. Should that not be a jester's cap atop your pompous head?

The trumpet sounds as two more servants shuffle in carrying a table with a chess set balanced on top. It’s hard to maintain my royal exterior when all I want to do is point out the drastic muffin top of the servant girl walking backward while holding the table. Her pants are so tight that she’s not just spilling over the sides, but out of the distressed holes in the thighs. You look so lumpy. Dress for your size! You’re not even a large girl for Christ’s sake. It’s not worth it just to say you can fit into a size four. Oh no. Not here. Not for my eyes. Solution: I motion for the Chancellor to come over and I whisper in his ear as the servants position the chess table between the thrones.

“By royal decree of her majesty, the Queen, there shall be no,” he glances at me, my nod prompts him to continue, “nasty-ass muffin tops in this kingdom.” He catches my eye again and a sigh escapes him when I give him another non-verbal prompt. “You girl,” the teenage servant stares at him wide-eyed, “are in violation of this decree. Therefore you shall fall victim to the Queen’s preferred method of torment.” Impulsively, my hands clap together like a child who has ingested both pixie sticks with a chaser of Red Bull. The servant girl’s jaw must have gained some extra weight, it damn near hit the floor. You see, I had this brilliant idea to invent my own reality show, Cannibal Circus. It's pretty self explanatory, yes? Two guards march forward, lift the girl by the arms and begin to carry her away to walk a tightrope above a pen of cannibals. I do hope she falls, my pets are hungry. We’re working on adding cannibal taming to the show, but I understand that complete and utter failure of a task gets boring after awhile. You need to have those heroes that give the people somebody to root for, it makes them care and they'll keep watching. The audience can't form emotional ties if the contestants keep disappearing into flesh-hungry mouths. Frankly, I can watch that shit all day. Who needs a hero?

Guards?

The men immediately stop and turn around. “Yes, your majesty?” They answer in unison.

Take the jester with you. Have him shake the tightrope as she walks across. That will be all.

The guards turn around and the last sight before their exit down the hall to the Cannibal pen is the servant girl’s horrified face. That’s how I know she’s learned her lesson. You’re welcome, servant girl. Your life will be all the better now that you’ll never grease your way into those pants again.

Fuck I love the Feudal system. Now then. You are cognizant of the stakes, King Boyfriend?

King Boyfriend gestures for another beer. Yup. When this is over I can go watch the game.
There’s a game on?
I could probably find something. He points at the board. After you.

I eye up the board, and tap my finger on my chin while I ponder. I assume the first move is an imperative one. I pinch one of the pieces between my fingers. The royal commentator whispers into a microphone, “Her majesty, the Queen, has picked up the bishop. Let’s see where this goes.”

The what?

 

I instantly form a fist around the black piece and shake it at the commentator.

 

What in the bloody blue blazes did you call this?

“The... bishop, your majesty.”

No clergy in my kingdom!

 

I jump off my throne and pick up the three other bishops from the board. I throw them with all my might and the pieces plunk one-by-one on the floor about seven paces in front of me. The only thing I can throw successfully is a fit.

Balls. Wizard, turn these into something that I can take my aggression out on.

With a lazy flick of the wrist, the wizard’s wand lights up, and turns three of the bishop pieces into life-size ice sculptures of Nicholas Cage. The fourth piece becomes a blowtorch. I run for that blow torch with a frenzy as the She-Hulk starts her take-over.

“Your highness,” the stoned wizard’s calls out with a royal title that no one else dares call the Queen. The wizard and I, however, go way back to the days of yore where we imbibed together of the finest (and sometimes not-so-finest) greenery of the kingdom and noshed at the Dairy Queen (which was another one of my nicknames that thankfully faded out of the wizard’s memory). The wizard held up a welder’s helmet.

Ah. Yes. Safety first. Can’t risk an accident with a blowtorch/royal money-maker connection.

 

In unusual form, the She-Hulk daintily takes off the crown, pulls the helmet on, and replaces the royal headdress. A Queen sans crown garners no respect after all, even if she is a She-Hulk.

The She-Hulk trots over, lights the blowtorch and with great satisfaction watches the first ice face of Nicholas Cage melt away in seconds. Her maniac laughter courses through the great hall and she giddily repeats the process with the second ice sculpture. One last time with the third, until she is left with an icy trio of headless Nicholas Cages. Fuck. That felt good. Satiated, the She-Hulk smiles and disappears until the next power outrage. The Queen is once again under control.

I hear a crunching sound.

“And the bodies, your highness?” The wizard’s bloodshot eyes drift across the remaining pieces. The corners of his mouth are bright orange. He shoves another handful of Doritos into his word-hole.

Non-issue. I just hate that clown’s face. Let the bodies melt into puddles.

The word does its best to sound legible coming out of a full mouth, “Cool.”

I stroll back to my throne and plonk down. Feeling pretty good now. Perhaps I can concentrate here.

With calculated precision, I pick up the horse piece and set it in the middle of the board. King Boyfriend sits up, intrigued. I curl back my index finger and flick the horse with as much force as can be mustered. It circles as it sails through the air and connects in the corner of King Boyfriend’s right eye and falls to his lap.

“Point for the Queen!” The royal referee bellows and the crowd of onlookers applauds. I know. I thought having a royal referee was simply preposterous. King Boyfriend insisted that we needed one. The ruler of the next Kingdom over has one, after all. Let’s be real. King Boyfriend just wanted a drinking buddy for football season. I found a use for him though: the referee bakes amazing cinnamon rolls; I just have to make sure I get to the kitchen before the wizard does.

Nice move. King Boyfriend plucks up one of the castles and waves over his advisor who hands him a blowgun. King Boyfriend puts the castle into the gun like a tranquilizer dart and his abundance of hot air propels the castle in my direction.

I close my eyes and wait to be impaled, but there is only a soft “tink” sound before the castle ricochets and lands back on the board.

I stop wincing and open my eyes. It’s still pretty dark. Wait. I’m still wearing the welding helmet, aren’t I? Fuck yes. Idiotic forgetfulness pays off in my favour yet again.

“Another point for the Queen!” the referee calls out as I slide the helmet off my head. King Boyfriend chuckles.

What’s so funny, then?

Nothing. This whole scenario is very you.
That doesn’t sound like the compliment that it should be.

Never mind.

Of course. Why talk about it, right? We’ve built up a solid tolerance over the years.

Tolerance?

What? I said foundation, didn’t I?

Nope.

That was sarcasm.

King Boyfriend is silent.

You know how this ends, don’t you?

King Boyfriend nods. Do you want to keep playing?

Nope. I’m done. I don’t see how either of us can win when neither of us knows what’s happening here in the first place.

It dawns on me now that there are still onlookers.

Chancellor, dismiss the townsfolk. Guard, bring in the guillotine.

Soft murmurs of the King’s imminent death exit with the peons. The room feels so much bigger without an audience. King Boyfriend and I sit in silence, waiting for the other to say something. My hands curl into fists and recoil.

King Boyfriend looks amused when the guard comes back holding a guillotine in his hands. King Boyfriend bursts out laughing as the guard knocks the chess board from the table and sets the torture device there instead.

Something funny?

Yous got to be kidding me. What is that miniature thing for?
Beheading.

King Boyfriend cocks an eyebrow. I sigh. My gaze falls to his crotch, stare pointedly, then my eyes meet his again. King Boyfriend nonchalantly crosses his legs at the knee and protectively rests his hands in his lap.

Oh. Beheading.King Boyfriend’s eyes dart from the guard to the guillotine and back again.

Not so funny now, is it chuckles?

He stays silent.

Guard, leave us.

When the hall is empty, King Boyfriend and I are left alone, facing each other and avoiding each other at the same time.

You are not meant to be a monarch to this Kingdom.

My voice comes out raspy and tired.

This isn’t a Kingdom. It’s our living room. Boyfriend is suddenly stirring pasta on the stove in our apartment. His throne is gone, his crown and royal clothing replaced by a baseball cap, golf shirt and cargo shorts. I watch him feed scraps to Mutt while I remain seated on my throne in my robes and crown, and stare at him through an expanse of time and perspective.

We’ve never been in the same place, have we? And we’ve only ever pretended to understand each other.

 

I sit back and let the impact and hard truth of my words sink in.

 

What made us try for so long?

 

I hear cries and the noisy race of animal hooves outside the castle. Though I just reclined, I rise and at the window I pull back the velvet curtains. Outside the castle walls, mayhem reigns. Wild bulls charge the dirt streets of the kingdom.

 

Boyfriend strains the linguine and I watch the steam rise to his face. A thought hits him. Can you turn on TSN?

The She-Hulk awakes. She pounces from her place beside the window and snatches the guillotine with both hands. With a snarl, words spit from her mouth:

 

I suggest you get the fuck out of my Kingdom.

 

She pulls the small rope attached to the blade, lifting it up, when the blade reaches as high as it can, the She-Hulk lets go of the rope, taunting him. The sight of the falling blade makes the man cringe. As if to make sure I didn’t remove his fallace from across the room, he grabs his crotch to ensure that all of his pieces are still attached. He looks at the She-Hulk with a panic. Then he runs.

And the townsfolk speculated he wouldn’t make it out alive. Need to go catch the latest episode of Cannibal Circus. Wonder how Muffin Top did with that tightrope.

Time for tea,

 

K

 

 

Times are changing. To find out what happens from here go to:

www.sessionswithfat.com

 

If Boyfriend was a robot...

It's hard to keep up with technology. Sometimes you hold onto an outdated computer and optimistically think that it's still just as good as a seductive new iPad. Who doesn't love a good delusion (I, for one, say, blow me reality, playing pretend is much more fun)? I write this and I look over to the couch, regarding a robot model that I invested in years ago.

My Old Mandroid sprawls on the couch, far behind on upgrades, rusted and soldered together at the hinges. When he moves, the ancient metal makes the sound of slamming the hood on a beat-up car from the sixties. He's in recharge mode, consuming enough football to keep him operating for another week. Pulling his plug seems much too tempting sometimes. This Old Mandroid comes from the industrial era, where there is the expectation that everything is built to last. Who knew that he would last this long? When I got him I was told that he was a model inspired by Rosie from the Jetsons, but he ended up becoming rogue like the robot from Short Circuit. I mean, Johnny 5 had flavour, don't get me wrong, but I was looking for something that I could keep in line. Old Mandroid doesn't do anything I say. Maybe I should have just gotten a Segway.

Last Sunday, in recharge mode, Old Mandroid was in the same position on the couch. Slurping oil from a can and filling his system with the required sports to power him through until Monday Night Football... I should check the warranty, maybe it's not too late to exchange him. I went into the bedroom to avoid watching him fuel up on testosterone. Not my thing and never will be. Eventually, I hear Old Mandroid burst out with a tone of familiarity:

Gordon!

I assume he's found a tin can with a string, and chats away with another robot from the same assembly line. This is my chance to sneak in and change the channel for at least a few minutes. I can't have Old Mandroid at full power going into a new week. His was been recalled because they short out if they reach their battery capacity. I thought of sending him back when the recall was issued, but it's just so much work on my part. There are all those papers I need to fill out, and I threw out the box he came in. Hello, hassle. When I made it into the living room, Old Mandroid's lit up, by that I mean all of his light sources blink on and off, by an appearance of Gordon Lightfoot at the Grey Cup. Old things and old people that are familiar to him make my man robot happy. Old Mandroid starts doing the robot. Curious indeed. I hope he doesn't blow a circuit.

Following Gordon Lightfoot, a band comes on the screen: Mariana's Trench. Old Mandroid stops dancing and his light display ceases immediately.

Mariana's Trench? Does not compute. Who names a band Mariana's Trench?

After, Carly Rae Jepsen appears on the screen. Old Mandroid repeatedly wheels toward and away from the television as though at some point there will be a moment of recognition.

Girl with one song? Does not compute.

I don't need to tell you who performed next. The boy that sent hundreds of thousands of middle-aged Grey Cup fans into an outrage, Justin Bieber.

Does not compute. Justin Beaver. No results found. Does not compute. Doesnotcompute. Doesnotco...com...cooooom...pppuuuuuuuu...Beeeebeeeeebeeeee...verrrrrrverrrrrr

His mechanical voice gets warbley, changing from normal to unnaturally fast, briefly mutes, then comes back in random words that stretch out. Bolts from Old Mandroid's face fly, the pressure in his head shooting them like bullets. The whole robot contraption starts rattling, and electric blue flashes escape his outputs. Tiny light bulbs that glowed with joy moments ago, buzz when they light up, become increasingly brighter before they shatter in tiny explosions. A rusted hinge attaching his left leg to his tin-man torso gives way, and his newly-free limb clangs to the floor in a heap. His weight, unevenly distributed, causes the Old Mandroid to collapse on the ground. He grabs his leg and beats himself in his teapot-shaped head until black smoke filters out of his ears and his remaining lights go out, lulled into destruction with a hiss sound.

Should've gotten the upgrades. Youth culture destroyed him. And everyone said it would be the She-Hulk. Damn fools.

I do what any good woman would. I use my mallet, pound the remaining pieces as flat as I can and cover it up with a throw rug. I grab my iPad and settle on the couch. It's always good to have a replacement ready.

Time for tea,

K

Inch After Ungodly Inch

I just got busted. Boyfriend's cuffed me to a chair and he's shining a flashlight in my eyes. I squirm, and in doing so, hear the stitches in my yoga pants give. Oh no.

Why'd you do it?

I do what I've seen on television, I hock and spit at his face. Only, I don't have so much practice with hocking and spitting, so the phlegm/saliva concoction I worked up dribbles down my chin, becomes a long line of stretched mucus and gradually settles in a yellow pool on my knee. Rad.

Tough girl, huh? I've dealt with the likes of you before.

Boyfriend pulls his chair beside mine, kicks it with his heel so it spins a hundred and eighty degrees. It stops, and he sits on it backward like so many dudes in the nineties. He leans forward, his face getting closer to mine as he contemplates. The bridge of his nose compresses when he squints at me. There is no torture technique that can best me, he's not as tough as he looks. Then, Boyfriend opens his mouth.

Yous. Yous. Yous. Yous. You-
Alright, I'll tell you everything! Just please, no more Eastern-Canadian talk.

Boyfriend, seeing me crack, feels secure enough to pull a key from his breast pocket. Before I know it, my cuffs are on the table and my wrists are free. What is that table made of, beechwood? Beautiful choice, not for an inquisition room, but perhaps a cozy cottage.

Boyfriend bangs his fist on the table to get my attention. Oh yeah, right.

Why?
Because he's... he's getting so fat.

My hands cover my face. I can't believe I broke so easily. And now, nobody is safe from obesity. Boyfriend puts a hand to his ear. I'm not sure if it's because of my omission, or he's getting so old that he really didn't hear what I said. So I yell.

I SAID HE'S GETTING SO FAT!

He is not. Boyfriend looks down, and by his feet sits a spherical fur ball.
You made me fat. You made you fat. Fat, well, you definitely contributed to that mess. I thought I could save Mutt.

So you hid the dog treats. I nod. But you didn't hide them from the dog. I shake my head. You hid them from me. I nod again.

He looks at me like I just poured vinegar and baking soda in my mouth. My actions made perfect sense. The dog lacks the motor skills to jimmy into my bedside table. He's not the one I worry about. I worry about the middle-aged man who tries to buy affection with treats that give my furry little bastard another roll on his neck and a heart condition. For clarification's sake, by furry little bastard in the last sentence I meant Mutt... this time anyway.

Boyfriend loosens the tie around his neck while he digests the news. Yes, fool. You're the problem. You're turning all the inhabitants of this apartment into wannabe citizens of the United States. Perhaps pump up the fat content some more in our meals; we'll all be super sized and riding scooters in no time. Dream come true.

That's one crime solved. Now, what happened to the ice cream?

Oh no. There was so much. He's going to judge me for taking it down in one sitting. We were supposed to share. There's no way I can tell him the truth.

Yous. Yous. Yous...

Damn it.

Time for tea,

K

Lesson learned

As many of you know, I've been down and out for almost a week now, infected with some nasty disease that I'm trying to kill off. I hate being confined to an apartment where I can be in the bedroom, bathroom, kitchen and living room at the same time. If Tom Petty is right, and he usually is, I belong among the wild flowers. There are no wild flowers in this freaking apartment. There's a plant I keep forgetting to water... not entirely the same thing. I demand freedom! In my exile I have learned a lot. My only touchstone to the world has been Boyfriend, a very dangerous thing indeed. Ladies, Gentlemen and combinations of both, I give you the top three things that have given me insight this week:

1. My being ill turns us into an old couple.
Who knew that all it took was dysfunctional vocal cords and plugged ears? I can't hear him, he can't hear me, I always imagined this being paradise. Turns out it's just aggravating as hell. On the rare moments I have seen Boyfriend during my stint in the joint, this has been the way our conversations go:

Can you pass me the remote? (To give a better idea of my voice, only random syllables make sounds, and more often than not, it sounds like a honking goose in the distance.)
What? (His lips move, but he might as well be talking to me underwater. I hold my breath -- not because I think we're underwater, I'm trying to make my ears pop. Though, if this were insight number three, the underwater thing could be possible.)
Can you pass me the remote? (Honk, honk, honk.)
I can't hear you, what? (Insert sounds of the wharf here.)
What? (I point at the remote on the table beside him.)
What? You want some tea? I'll make you some tea. (For the record, I can't be upset. Tea is always a good solution if you don't know what I want.)

2. Boyfriend is an illusionist
Night one of system breakdown: Boyfriend disappears in the night. Ta da! He reappears in the morning, sleeping on the couch. Boyfriend disappears every day after work too, but somehow, our fridge keeps accumulating more juice, even when I haven't seen Boyfriend. Ta da! Mysterious. Also, while I decompose on the couch, my collection of cups keeps vanishing. I find them clean in the dish rack later on. Honesty time: I'm actually a professional when it comes to ignoring people. Ta da! I have to tip my hat to Boyfriend though, he's done better than usual when it comes to taking care of me.

3. When your medication advises you not to drink alcohol, don't drink alcohol.
This one stemmed from a case of mistaken identity. On day two of the system breakdown I ran out of juice. Rookie mistake. However, good news, there was margarita mix in the fridge and carbonated water too. Put the two together and you have one decent non-alcoholic beverage. That being said, unbeknown to your protagonist, the last time Boyfriend used the margarita mix, he thought it would be a smart idea to put tequila right in the mix bottle, saving him a valuable thirty seconds the next time a margarita craving hit. The thing about being sick, especially when you can't eat, is that you compensate by drinking more. I polished off the margarita mix and soda water pretty quickly, if I'd been able to taste anything, I'm certain I would've walked away after my first sip.

A short while later the transition happens...

I remember watching some sort of movie involving robots. At least I'm pretty sure I did, the idea that I latched onto had to come from somewhere. I got off the bed (the memory is a little fuzzy, though Boyfriend was delighted to fill me in the next morning) and my throat hurt like I'd spent the last hour reaching my hand into my mouth to claw my larynx (possible). I went into the bathroom, not sure why, then wandered to the living room to see Boyfriend on the couch watching sports something. He says I sat beside him, silent for a moment before I started rambling about robots. I was quite convinced, it seems, that robots were on the cusp of taking over the planet, and the moment I was healthy, they were going to wipe out the human race. I was rather stressed about the whole situation. Then Boyfriend says, I stood up, went into the bedroom, and passed out like a fourteen-year-old after a drinking contest.

The next morning when he recounted the strangeness, it didn't make sense until he called me a drunk. At least my plugged ears finally gave me a break so I could listen to the story.

Why am I a drunk? (Honkity, honk, honk)
I saw the empty bottle of margarita mix. That thing was loaded with tequila.

I shook my head insistently and yelled, Virgin, as loud as I could. Shame nobody popped in at that moment. It could have been a great misunderstanding. Also a shame the She-Hulk was down for the count too. I wrote quickly in my notebook, ripped out the page and handed Boyfriend my note:

IOU one beating from the She-Hulk. She'll be in touch when she's ready to brawl. Love you.

Time for tea,

K

Silent Conversations

Over the years, Muse and I have developed an acute ability to have conversations without saying anything, without resorting to the mime game. How you ask? Eyeballs and eyebrows tell you everything you need to know. If we go to a restaurant and somebody sitting in the booth behind us gets into my personal space we'll have a silent conversation where our eyeballs and eyebrows say this:

How do you feel about that man's arm splayed across the booth like that?
Not too great, Muse. If it persists, I may lose it on him.
Want me to deal with him?
Yes, but no. You always look out for me, don't you?
Of course I do! (Even though she doesn't say it, I hear her voice getting a little pitchy in my head. I'm quite sure we both hear it, as we both bust out with laughter over our muted conversation.)

Seriously, I love that girl. This conversation technique is something that I thought Boyfriend would get the hang of over the years too, but no. The best example of his inability for this happened whilst we were in line at Tim Hortons. The weather was warmer, and ahead of us in line was this buxom middle-aged woman in cargo shorts. Now I've been conditioned by the world's entertainment landscape to have very little attention span. As such, I can't simply stand in line and be fine. My eyes wander and I catch something that I really want Boyfriend to notice. This is how Boyfriend reacts when I try to converse with him sans words:

Why are you looking at me like that? I pointedly stare at the woman's calf in front of us then meet Boyfriend's gaze again. This is where he's supposed to give me an eye bulge or something that says, "Wow." I have to repeat the action, stare, and meet his eyes. I help him out by tilting my head and mouthing the word, "look." Finally, he bends his neck and takes it in.

Wow. That's a pretty bad tattoo, hey? I squint at him with a "What are you, stupid?" look and just wait for the lady in front of us to turn around. Thankfully, she's not the in-your-face-biker-lady type that she's built to be, and just ignores Boyfriend. I'm surprised she didn't whip around with a switchblade and cut him for his remark on her botched, who I assume to be Michael Jackson, tattoo. I shove my elbow into his sternum and give him a "Shut the hell up" stare, which is quickly followed by my "Buy me some timbits" gaze.

Muse, thank you for knowing what I'm saying without having to say it. Boyfriend, I've enrolled you in a mime class, it's only the first step. Hope it helps.

Time for tea,

K

It's not how it sounds

I've admitted on many occasions that I am not the domestic type. Especially when it comes to being in a kitchen, interpreting the foreign concept of recipes, or making anything edible. I don't even speak the language, but maybe I should start to learn some stuff, because at one point I was forming some pretty incorrect opinions.

Early on in our relationship, Boyfriend introduced me to his friend, Artois. They're the best buddy types, finding an especially strong bond in good food. Artois and his wife had us over for dinner several times, and it was clear from the beginning that Artois and Boyfriend got on very well.

That being said, there was a time years ago, when Boyfriend was in the kitchen doing his thing. He has this almost choreographed dance when he makes dinner, the movement is fluid: saute this, season that, sip beer, strain, peek in the oven, slice, check the score on the game, whisk, and taste the perfection. It's really something else to watch. That man just needs a frilly apron and he is ready for his own television show. On this particular night, Boyfriend stops in the middle of his routine and looks me dead in the eyes as I watch from my desk, undoubtedly procrastinating on some kind of work I need to do. Boyfriend's eyes sparkle as they do when he has a brilliant idea.

I gotta call Artois.
Now? What for?
We need to have another rub party.

Silence comes out of my mouth. My mind repeatedly ponders the words that just came out of him. I probably just heard it wrong, by my thoughts keep coming back to... like a rub... and tug party? I know. Wrong. Gross. Much too much. We hadn't been dating for a lengthy time. I thought maybe Boyfriend's into the occasional stint with other males. That's not unheard of. But how do I feel about that? Is it a deal breaker because of the dude thing or because of the polygamous thing? Would a part-time bisexual boyfriend be a bad thing? Lots to think about. Maybe he doesn't need a frilly apron. He would look great in one. I'm confused now, how can he not want to take me to the ballet but be into a rub party with Artois?

I bet he could use more rub too. I've needed rub for awhile.
Okay, you need to stop talking.
I thought you liked the rub.
I beg your pardon?
I put it on my meat.
Can we talk about this maybe after dinner?
I rubbed the pork loin.

My hands go immediately to my ears. There's no way I can have dinner now when he's rubbed down our food. I start humming to drown out the sound of any other gross omissions. I'm certain there's panic all over my face, and Boyfriend picks up a large spice container and holds it so I can see that it's almost empty. We've switched topics, it's safe to have conversation again. I cautiously lower my hands.

So? It's empty. Buy some more spice.
This is my rub container. I'm almost out. That's why I need to make more.

I read the label on the container that he's brought closer to my face: "Boyfriend's poultry/pork rub."

Well why the hell is it called rub? You can't blame me for getting the wrong idea.
...Because you rub it onto the meat.

Boyfriend looks at me like I'm stupid. It's a good thing we clarified this before I could call or text the girls. Being a closet bisexual for life would have quickly altered his life's narrative if I'd run away as my plan A strongly urged. Get the facts, kids. Learn the cooking lingo: there's plenty of words/phrases in kitchens that can cause confusion because of how they sound: Shucking, pulled pork, dutch oven, shove it in the bread box, meat grinder, the list goes on. Beware.

Time for tea,

K

You think you can fool me?

Ever since I can remember I've been opposed to onions. We just don't jive. Their texture and taste just make for one gnarly experience for this kid. For some reason, the smell of sauteed onions is delicious, but any vegetable that makes you cry is not worth ingesting. As a child I used to tell people I was allergic to onions so I could avoid eating them. This trick only worked on Boyfriend for a short while until he saw me mowing down some chips and salsa. Ploy over and it was time to come clean and sound like a child as I did so:

I hate onions. I'm sure you're aware that they're harvested in hell.

Boyfriend replies with an exasperated sigh and shake of the head. The man never takes me seriously. He responds the same way when I say I don't like sports, the last eighth of a cereal box, grown-up women in pigtails, washing the dog and the incorrect use of an en dash. He complains that I'm too fussy, to which I reply, I'm not fussy, I just know what I like. Also, I can't fault the salsa makers -- they don't make it just for me so I can deal. Boyfriend though, he knows of my distaste.

Boyfriend, being the sole person allowed to make food in our kitchen, has tasked himself with manipulating my palate to suit what he likes. He's gone to great lengths to finely chop up onions and put them into his culinary creations. I wish I could say it was rare, but it's several times a week that I find onions in my food. As is customary of my people (I'm not sure who my people are, but I'm certain they are out there), I use my fork to do a little edible exploration. I find these bits of disgustingness and scrape them to the edge of my plate, shooting Boyfriend a threatening look as I do so. I don't mind taking minuscule bites in order to spitefully avoid onions; I was the kid that ate peas one at a time, I've been training for this my whole life.

I admit, though. On the occasions when Boyfriend does trick me and I shovel his latest edible concoction into my mouth (that sounds gross), he gets up out of his chair, points in my face and declares with such pride:

You just ate onions, and a lot of them. You can stop being a princess and just eat them like a regular person from now on.

You think so, do you. I think not. To be contrary, I push my plate away, declare I'm full and since I forgot to bring my ninja stars to dinner, I throw cous cous in his face and leave the room. An exit meant for a movie star if ever there was one.

So now, I'm on guard. I'm not paranoid, per se, but I worry that he's snuck onions into everything he feeds me. Did you rub onions on my eggs? There's definitely onions in these fish tacos, I can taste them. I detect notes of onion in my ice cream. He maintains that, no, there are no onions in anything, but I swear he's messing with me. I've even started snooping around to see if there are onions in the apartment before he makes dinner. And yes, in spite of watching him cook for us every night, I question the ingredient list. When he reaches to scratch his head, I yell, AHA! ONIONS! and then he regards me as though I'm unbalanced.

If this is the reason I end up in the loony bin, I'll be pissed. Why are you here? My Boyfriend tricked me into eating onions. At least I think he did. I'm not entirely certain.

Time for tea,

K