The Good Ol' Hockey Game...

...Is the best game you can name? Really? The folks out there that share this mentality are just lacking in imagination. Let's try together, shall we? Perhaps leap frog is the best game you can name...or scrabble...or that game with the stick and the hoop, though I can't name that one so I suppose that doesn't count. Not that it looks like good fun anyways. Duck, duck, goose because you get to hit people...hit/tap, potato/potato. The point is, any number of these things are better than hockey. I'm going to complain about one more thing and then I will do my best to maintain optimism about a sport that I don't care to familiarize myself with. Why did I have to go with one thing to complain about? It's so hard to choose. Alright. Got it:

Last night Boyfriend watched a show with old dudes in monkey suits. Old dudes and monkey suits, you have my interest for eleven seconds unless you're more than a one trick pony and can make with some magic and bring the panache. This show did not. I asked what this was, it was not from Boyfriend's usual repertoire of sports, news, the whittling hour with Hans Olaf, and action movies with stars who are currently sitting on parts of themselves that went farther south than one ever anticipates. Essentially this show is the Oscars for hockey. Boyfriend called it the Hall of Fame, I think. I call it tedious and dry. Here is my complaint: In the Oscars, the music plays you off if your speech is too long. Bald dude whose name I don't know and whose career I don't care about, you do go on. And on. They should edit that shit for television. No. Wait. I don't care. They had their eleven seconds of my time before I dry heaved and marched out. Complaining over.

This is one of the stories that I know some folks have been waiting anxiously to read; I've retold it countless times, so here it is. The tale of my first and only, ever hockey game. I'm pandering and it makes me She Hulk at myself. That's not a good look on me...She Hulk versus She Hulk, the main event where neither personality survives.

The year was 2010. It was a balmy September afternoon, Wednesday, and a young girl's dreams were about to come true. Not my dreams, I'm sure some kid was going to the hockey arena and she was really looking forward to it. I was not. Her excitement was contagious like an infection. It was a night of pre-season hockey that I will never forget, Vancouver Canucks versus Edmonton Oilers in a head-to-head battle/clash of the titans extravaganza. Vividly I recall our vantage point, Section 310, Row 6, I was in Seat 3. I know you're gaping open-mouthed at your computer screen amazed at how smart I am with sports and how accurate my memory of that night was. What can I say? It was an enchanting evening. Me remembering things, that's an adorable thought. Cards on the table? I found the ticket when I was going through a purse I haven't used in a long while. Cool. Free order of bandara pizza bread from Boston Pizza on the back. I wonder if this is still legit.

The evening began at the Shark Club for dinner. By dinner, I mean a rushed appetizer that Boyfriend ate most of, what an asshole romantic shared plate that was as intimate as the evening would have been if the place wasn't so packed and I had three separate strangers touching me at all times. As I am a doddler by nature, I don't much care to rush, but I swear, 15 minutes before the puck dropped he had me running down the street to Rogers Arena Clearly he was unaware at how difficult it is to run with hands full of a salsa-dripping quesadilla. By the time I handed the doorman my ticket, my palms looked like I had been playing patty cake with a baboon's ass. chasing the promise of visual ecstasy that is hockey.

We passed through the ubiquitous crowd of people clad in Canuck blue. Freaking lemmings. Have you any idea how very long we waited in line for beer? Me either, I'm not sure it would be worse to be in the desert needing that same beer to quench my thirst but with Boyfriend's delightful company, one loses track of time. Now, Boyfriend and I made a deal prior to this lovely night out, wherein he paid for the tickets and dinner, and I would pay for the beer at the game. Sounded like a good deal to me. Beer is cheap. Beer at a sports arena, I learned, is not. When a person such as myself is in a place such as this, she needs all the liquid sports tolerance she can slug back nothing more than to enjoy the experience. She just did not expect it to come at such a price.

We sit in our seats just as the show starts. The lights begin an ostentatious night club display and the television thing lights up with exciting words that flash across the screen, motivating housewives and househusbands to twirl their dishtowels in the air and scream something like, "We just got a dishwasher! We don't need these anymore!" I look at the time clock and think, I just have to survive to the end of this. Optimism time: there are only three acts of this play, not quarters like I originally thought. Push the ceiling as the kids say!...they don't say that? Well they will after this.

Act one of the sports play: the heroine (this part is played by me), struggles with the idea of enjoying an evening at the arena. She has officially given up on optimism and braces for hockey to drain her of her life force. When I say she's given up on optimism, she's going to stop correcting the negativity in this blog post. I can't NOT complain about things. I am She-Hulk, hear me bitch.

I learned something very interesting within the first few seconds of the match: Boyfriend was cheering for the other team. One does not make friends at a hockey game when one's other half is calling the home team a bunch of pussies. How to deal with this whole thing: drink beer. Every time Boyfriend yells at the Canucks or cheers on the Oilers, the circle of people around us scream at us or try to cause us to explode through creepy bulging-eye contact and what I assume are poorly exercised telepathic muscles. I have a solution that makes the situation better, I point at Boyfriend and announce to everyone in earshot that it's him, and only him that feels that way. I live and breathe Canucks -- though, by the time I've implemented this master plan, I'm a few beers in and don't notice that I'm saying Ganucks. No matter. It's not me that they hate.

Now, I'm sure I've mentioned that Boyfriend is a creature of habit. Boyfriend has a tradition when he goes to games at Rogers Arena; about a minute before the period is over he leaves to go to that restaurant/pub dealy they have in there. I'm half in the bag when Boyfriend grabs my elbow and whisks me away. When he walks fast, I need to run to keep up. Count it folks, that's twice thus far he's made me run in the same night. Why do I need to run? I have no intentions of ever needing to make a fast getaway, well, unless the folks in our section turn on us Frankenstein-mob style. We get to the restaurant, sit on bar stools, hammer down a couple more beers, then my hand is grabbed and I'm pulled out in a rush to get back to our seats because the game will start again soon. Need more beverages. We stop and order a couple more for the next third of the game. Only, I open my wallet, and moths fly out. I trained them to do that; I love a non-verbal cue that signals that I'm out of money.

Boyfriend rolls his eyes. Let's be real for a moment here: what did he expect when he tried to dupe me into buying beer all night long? Boyfriend pulls cash from his pocket. You know, Boyfriend, there's enough there for nachos. And CHURROS! My excitement factor gets out of control when I've been sipping the sports tolerance juice.

We get to our seats, arms ladled with popcorn, nachos, beer, candy, a fake gold grill we bought off a gangster wannabe and churros. That'll teach him not to feed me a proper dinner. This is how one does a soccer game in style. Hockey. It was a hockey game. My insincerest apologies.

Act two starts with a score of I don't know what with two teams I can't differentiate. I've long since forgotten the first period and how we're the neighbours everyone hates. Frankly, at this point I don't care. Act two is when the heroine's heart warms to the sport and she begins to cheer. Only in her haze she doesn't know what or who she cheers for, she just screams like a banshee when those around her do. Boyfriend yells something about a penalty, I get my cavewoman grunt on. Our neighbours boo us. The Canucks do something that warrants excitement from the crowd, I do as the Romans do and scream for those in the arena. The hockey neighbours boo Boyfriend for being contrary; seemed like fun, who wouldn't turn on Boyfriend under the same circumstance? Let's face it; I had no clue what was going on. When I spilled a drink I clapped my hands and tried to high five the guy that ended up wearing it. He did not high-five me back.

Just before the inning ends, Boyfriend grabs my arm and he dashes to the pub/restaurant thingmy; I stumble to keep up. This time at the bar goes by even faster. It feels like I blink and we're back in our seats with more drinks in our hand. Act three, score still unknown, not sure if there have been any penalties, the heroine squeals with delight at the zamboni then konks out for the duration of the period.

I wake to the sounds of the crowd when Boyfriend shakes me awake.

Is it over?
Yeah.
Did they live happily ever after?
Who?
Do we ever have to do this again?
Wouldn't waste my money.
Cool.

Somehow we ended up home. I can't say precisely how far Boyfriend needed to carry me, but we both learned a valuable lesson. Hockey and I just can't handle each other.

Time for tea,

K

The impossibility of it all

I know many things for certain. This is what I'm sure of at the moment: my new pedicure looks super fantastic, everybody likes all the same things I do because my taste is impeccable, and PMS is a free ticket to get away with anything. Suck it, testosterone.

But maybe I'm not so sure of my opinions anymore; Boyfriend shook up my confidence on all three that are listed above. Right now, he's accusing the sports broadcaster of stealing his opinions, so that should tell you why I'm upset that Boyfriend's altering my perception.

Shattered Perception #1
 I came home today to show off the seductive canvases that are my toenails...that's never a sentence you think you will write, but here we are. It's like I never expected to ever use the phrase, "Get your tongue out of your ass," but Mutt has a disgusting fascination with his own anus. I digress. I traipse into the apartment and do Rockette-style kicks as I enter the living room. Boyfriend doesn't take his eyes off the football game.

Uh. Hi.
Hey.

His eyes stay glued to the dudes in spandex. Not only has his missed the sight of my smashing feet, he also ignored my high kicks with chorus line precision. I wasn't a ballet dancer until I was eight for nothing. Well, that's a lie, it was for nothing. I caught sight of my can-can spectacle in the mirror, it was more in the style of my four-year-old nephew doing karate. I stop immediately, though I still think it counts as a grand entrance. No matter. When determined, I can make him notice things. I leap onto the sectional and lie down. I prop myself up on my elbows and give him the Non-Wife stare. Not being locked down by ring and by name has the advantage of an easier exit if I get sufficiently pissed off or neglected. I just need him to see the "pay attention to me or else" look on my face. Nothing. So I do what any rational woman would: I inch my feet closer and closer to him. He's not blinking. I briefly fret and wonder if maybe he died since our salutation and I was too self-involved to notice. Boyfriend eventually takes a sip of beer. He's fine...but not for long.

If only he acknowledged me when I came home, my feet wouldn't have worked their way up to his face and gripped his nose between my big toe and the others. Trust me when I say, holy flip out. How was I supposed to know that he wouldn't acquire a foot fetish while I was out today? My apologies, Boyfriend, for trying to be involved with any new interests that I imagine you collect throughout our time apart. It's called growth. Also, I've learned a valuable lesson about putting feet in your face, it's a no-no.

Shattered Perception #2
Recently, I changed my shampoo and conditioner. Boyfriend's been so busy doing old man things (building ships in bottles, muttering about news reports, combing his moustache and the like) I really didn't expect him to notice. Please note: Boyfriend doesn't have a moustache; I like fluff filler, deal with it. Like I posted last week, we're in a good groove right now, so we cuddled up on the couch to watch a movie. Cute, right? Well, that being said cute is not our thing, and any cuteness will not last. I curl up beside him on the couch and rest my head on his shoulder. This is how a lazy night with the other half is meant to be spent. I hear soft sniffs and I wonder if perhaps Boyfriend is showing the first signs of a seasonal cold. I hope he doesn't because I don't deal well with man-illness. As a Non-Wife I'm not patient and nurturing. He lifts up his left hand, the defensive/She-Hulk side of me goes on alert. If he ruins this sweet moment by wiping a drippy nose on his hand and potentially wiping that nasty hand on me that's it. I will end him. His hand comes up, but doesn't leave my field of vision. Instead, it swoops forward, palms my face like a basketball and he pushes me away from him. All I can do is go with the motion and I flop on my side like a rag doll (not of the Aerosmith variety).

You asshole. What's your problem?
Your hair stinks. What is that, dog shampoo? She-Hulk powers activate.
You thought it was WHAAAAAAAT? I will have you know that this is Shampure.
He responds with silence.
Aveda, you damn fool.
There is a gradual pause before Boyfriend speaks, Is that some foreign language for dog shampoo?
She-Hulk attack.

I was right; PMS will let you get away with anything, attempted murder included. Since this is true, it has to mean that I'm right about everything else too. Self-confidence, as well as relationship balance, restored.

Time for tea,

K

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

The boyfriend grocery list

Let's be real, I'm no expert on grocery lists when one goes to purchase food. This posting is about the grocery list of items or qualities that your ideal mate has. You know, back before the ball and chain, when you feel like you have the luxury to sculpt your own personal statue of David, complete with attributes and impressive... salary. I was thinking about what I used to have on that list way back when, and where Boyfriend falls on that list of things I was sure I wanted in a dude. Ah youth. Was I ever that young? Well here is the list, the edited version because the original had way too many things on it:

1) Must be able to cook
We're all aware of my shortcomings in the kitchen. Boyfriend gets a big check mark with this one. I have my own personal chef, I'll never go hungry again. Unless I do end up killing him as I threaten to do every now and again when he acts out of turn. I'll have to think that one through before I take him out with a blunt object to the back of the head.

2)Has tattoos
Boyfriend gets a participant ribbon for this one. He does have a fear of needles, so even considering getting one counts for something. One time we were going to get him a tattoo, but he got sunburned really bad, like florescent lobster red. Can't exactly tattoo his epidermis when that's going on. Now that I think about it, there's nothing hindering him from getting a tattoo now...

3)Has piercings
If a fella can rock a nose ring, I'm all over it. I also like a dude with pierced ears. Needless to say, Boyfriend does not have them. He's of the generation where if a fella has his ears pierced, it means he likes seamen. My sincerest apologies, as I'm Canadian my people have a tendency to put ehs into sentences where they don't belong. You know what I mean. I think it means that a guy has a thing for pirates.

4)Wears a suit for his job, and on the weekend chills out man-style in sweats to watch the game.
Okay, half marks for Boyfriend on this one. I also didn't know what it meant to date a guy that loves sports. There is now a reason I avoid the apartment on football Sunday... and Monday night football... and the football on Thursday... and any night NHL is playing... or CFL... baseball... whenever that boat race around the world thing is playing.

5)Has curly dark hair
This is the chart topper. Since I was a wee lass I've been into the dark, curly hair. I don't know why, but I think it's the cutest... scratch that... most rugged, testosterone-laden, attractive physical quality in a man. Seriously, ask around, that's been the one constant on my list. No blonds, thanks.

6)He's tall
Okay, Boyfriend is taller than me. Not by a lot, but he is, so check.

7)He challenges me
Ladies, there is a difference between winning and victory. I don't like to just be handed a trophy, I like to earn it. I know I'm not always right, but the reward is so much richer if I'm victorious over something I'm being an asshole about. I do not care however, for those times where we enter the ring and I get K.O.'d. Not cool Boyfriend.

8)He reads
Ha. Boyfriend doesn't read.

9)He knows when to leave me alone and doesn't get emotional
This kind of overlaps with the sports thing. His sport time is my me time. No clingy, tell me about your feelings kind of stuff here. Extra points to Boyfriend for never being a wussy, crying makes me uncomfortable. If we have something to discuss we duke it out MMA style like any respectable couple would.

10)Likes the theatre
Boyfriend does. I know now that Boyfriend does not like the ballet. You learn quickly how he feels when you ask if he wants to go to the Nutcracker and he immediately protects his junk. Dance is a no-no, but theatre is a big yes-yes. Especially if it's that little theatre near our apartment: you get to bring your wine, beer, shooters or what have you that you purchase in the lobby into the theatre with you and it's stumbling distance home. Also, if any people from said theatre are reading, you might want to post clear signs that say you can bring your beverage inside with you. Our first visit there we were pounding back drinks during intermission because we didn't know. Ah Rent, good show.

11)He's funny
Half points because he bombed at the weekly open-mic night in our living room last week. Practice your material and come back next week Boyfriend. I only heckle to make you try harder next time. And lose the plaid blazer, it undermines your credibility as a comic. I've just given myself a terrible idea, WE SHOULD ACTUALLY START DOING THIS! Oh wait, we'd have to schedule around sports and work. I guess we don't need to sleep every night.

12)He buys me presents just because
Boyfriend definitely gets points here. He has bought me so many pineapples! ...That was a lackluster reaction from you, I guess I should've prefaced it for my love of pineapples, in spite of when I overindulge and they make my tongue swell, they're freaking delicious. And he's bought me a hammock, a candle holder, various treats, he's even talking about getting me a muzzle, but says I'll have to share with the dog. Oh wait, that's not awesome at all. He bought me flowers once, only once probably because my reaction was to look at him with scrutiny and ask, What did you do?

13)He likes pets
He better like the pets, I've seen him and Mutt napping together. I think things are getting serious between them.

14)Drives a cool car/motorcycle
Well... one of the first vehicles of Boyfriend's I rode in was his work van. You're probably thinking, okay, so? Well his work van is the kind of van you're warned about as children, an unmarked white van with no windows along the sides. It didn't help that when he picked me up from the airport he said there were puppies and pineapples inside. For the record, there were neither puppies nor pineapples back there. And now he drives a big ol' redneck truck. Emphasis on big ol' redneck.

15)Likes to travel
The fact that he's hoping to retire so I can cover the cost of his tour of the world should speak for itself here. I neglected to specify on my list that I would like to travel with him. Faux pas me.

16)Doesn't wear pink
I have nothing against men in pink, but I do not find it attractive. Plus, I look good in pink, it's my cross to bear and I don't want any competition. I also wouldn't want Boyfriend finding more boyfriends on airplanes during his tour of the world because of wearing pink. But I think the spiciest colour Boyfriend wears is forest green, so we're okay in this department. Oh, my bad, that's Packer green, Packer green. I repeated it for emphasis.

All in all, I think Boyfriend scores pretty good on the list. I mean, it's definitely a pass. I'm not really sure how to mark it, so we'll call it a B+. That's respectable, right? I'll bump it up to an A if I come home to margaritas tonight. Okay, you have until tomorrow Boyfriend.

Time for tea,

K

Sick days

Well. It's November. Not sunny, lovely autumn November either. It's rainy, miserable Vancouver November. I'm fearful for my pretty boots that aren't waterproof. Thanks a lot rain. Though I admire you for keeping things green, I feel that you and I have spent enough time together in the last couple decades. I jumped in a multitude of puddles in the past and ruined plenty of shoes consciously.  Though it was fun, please help a sister out and don't wreck my other shoes. I sacrificed footwear for the rain gods, there's photographic evidence. Please, rain, go away.

This post is not about shoes, but I do have beef with the weather. Not beef as in cow, you know what I mean. For some reason, disease thrives in miserable weather and it found me. Came into my house it did. And, as it works out, disease found Boyfriend too. I would like at this point to stand on my soap box and declare that I did not make him sick. We had different kinds of sick, isn't that right Boyfriend? If you want to keep blaming me you'll have to regurgitate your stomach contents unwillingly. When that happens I may apologize, but your cough and cold symptoms have me skeptical that I passed disease onto you. I'm just stating facts.

It's interesting though, how very differently we handle illness. When I was sick, Boyfriend couldn't get far enough away from me. I think he was very close to purchasing me a plastic bubble to contain both myself and my germs. Oh no, that might be me accidentally giving him ideas again. For the record, I will donkey-kick you if it even crosses your mind to get me one of those Boyfriend. He would call through the apartment to ask how things were going. When I first got nastily sick, he hollered from the living room, Are you sick?

Really? Is this question actually coming from your mouth? Our walls are thin, buddy, you and the neighbours both know exactly what's going on, lots and lots of verbing.

I'm really trying quite hard not to be too graphic for your sake here, reader, instead of the word vomiting we shall use verbing. You're welcome. Whenever he braved getting close enough to me, the sweetest move he made was a quick bro-hug and a european air kiss a foot away from my cheek. This does not make a lady feel loved fellas. Makes me feel that I've had radical surgery to my face and Boyfriend doesn't know how to be with me any more, like I've mutated or something. Not romantic in the least. Not that viruses are romantic, but honestly, I wouldn't even mind wearing a face mask if it meant we could be in the same room together. No wonder he hardly gets sick.

Then, when Boyfriend is sick I can't run away from him. Not to say that I would want to run away from him, I would want to fly away from him on a jet plane. Running doesn't get you far enough away. In actuality, I'm very kind when he's not feeling well. I went to the store to get him some juice and neo citron (which he says puts him to sleep, so he only drinks it before bed), I cared to ask if he had any last wishes if he were unfortunate enough not to make it through the night, I got him some of my special tea (the kind I've been rationing because I can't find it anywhere anymore! Sadness!) and, most importantly (get your hands ready to catch your jaw when it drops) I watched a hockey game with him tonight. The whole thing. I got bamboozled by his pitiful feverish face. I even know who was playing. Vancouver and...le crap...Chicago. Chicago? Yes. Took me a second but I remembered. Okay, I may have slept through the first period (be proud I understand that it's not innings or quarters, I know things) and woke up with lock jaw, and second period I was busy playing on my phone, and third period I was doing something I'm quite sure, maybe staring off into space. Possibly solving the mysteries of the universe, le damn if I can recall though. The point is I was there, I heard all of the mumbles of nice goal and such from the bundled up Boyfriend, who, I should also announce was wearing fleece pants. If you're just tuning into my blog you might want to go back a few posts to read about Boyfriend's relationship with shorts, fyi I don't date freaks that spend all their time in their underoos. Anymore. We all make mistakes. What I mean to say is that I care enough to be with Boyfriend when he needs me, even if his needs are just a buddy to watch the hockey match with. I can be a good girlfriend, I'm not all She-Hulk and memory loss all the time.

My cat is making love to a box of office supplies... not sexy love, she's just rubbing up against it. Not rubbing up against the box in a sexy way, but it's making her both happy and satisfied. Not happy and satisfied in the "I need a cigarette, that was great" kind of way. I feel like there's no winning with what I mean to say here.

After the game, Boyfriend asks for some tea. I hear, it's time for neo citron so I can go to sleep. I'm entirely wrong, but who can blame me for what I think I hear? I watched a hockey game, I need some time away from TSN and whatever other sports stuff is on tv. Boyfriend gets his neo citron, and this lady gets her couch back. Everybody wins!

Time for tea,

K

Vacation Friends

One thing I like about Boyfriend is that he's a people person through and through (Please note: this is one thing I like about boyfriend, I assure you there are others, but this is the only one relevant to this post). He's very giving of himself to people, especially family, and it's something that I certainly appreciate. He's a go-the-extra-mile kind of guy, and though there are times that I want to lynch him, this redeeming quality always leaves me allowing his life to continue, at least until he really crosses me.

I understand people have needs, one of Boyfriend's needs is a vacation friend, ideally one that can talk sports or boats (preferably both for my sake). This generally suits one of my needs too, that need to be alone. Not that I'm a wretched old lady or something, I just spend a lot of time inside of my head... that might not be a good thing, but even for you skeptics, there's a lot going on in there that keeps me busy. However, Boyfriend needs that good ol' chum he finds out on the beach or in a pub when I leave him alone for awhile when we go away. I imagine him as that oddball child that actually talks to strangers when we all know from childhood this is a terrible idea. Why is it a terrible idea? Please don't answer, it's a rhetorical question. Allow me to tell you why we are taught as children that we should never, under any circumstance, talk to strangers.

The vacation best friends are those people you forge a friendship with when you're away at a tropical hot spot. It sounds sweet in theory. One thing I have learned from my travels through the years: Vacation friends do not work out as everyday friends, they probably become facebook friends at best. Trust me. I'm not going to lie, part of the reason I go away is to flee from people (screaming See ya suckers as I adjust my rear view mirror). Between friends, Boyfriend, work and the other voices in my head, I like the quiet time one can only find on vacation. Don't get me wrong, I like to go for drinks and dinner with people we meet when we go away, but let the record show that I do not like to spend my whole vacation with people that I will forget about two weeks after returning home. Boyfriend picks vacation friends one of two ways: 1) Out of selfishness, and 2) Poorly. Both of these don't work out. Let me explain.

When he chooses vacation friends out of selfishness:
Our last vacation, Boyfriend went missing. I done lost him, it might have been on purpose, and I might have known to find him at the sports bar in our hotel, but for purposes of this story he was lost. I searched high and low around the hotel, shouted his name and listened as my call echoed down the beach. I attempted a call to 911 to report him missing, but as I don't speak spanish the call did me no good. Or was it the front desk I dialled? Maybe I didn't make that call. No wait. I did none of these things. I was probably sleeping off a margarita or five when Boyfriend made his getaway... No wait. This came after we met his friend at the bar. That makes sense that I needed a nap. Right-o. We're on the trolley again. We were at the sports bar together and Boyfriend starts talking sports to all those that are present in the bar and riddled with testosterone. That's what did me in. I had nothing relevant to say so I left, stumbled back to the room and made the executive decision to nap. We'll say it was an executive decision, I'm not really sure how it all happened. While I'm... napping and poorly hydrated, Boyfriend bonds with one of the sports enthusiasts, his soon-to-be vacation boyfriend. I don't remember his name, nice enough fella, he had a moustache I think. He definitely had glasses... I'm pretty sure. Nonetheless, he and Boyfriend bonded. It just so happens that Boyfriend's boyfriend has a wifey with him as well...kind of a devil of a woman. She was somewhat alright, definitely overbearing, I guess if she were a plant she would be one of those ones with teeth that eat flies... what are those called? Yes, Dionaea muscipula. (Did you even think for a second I was going to go there? I looked it up to sound sciencey for you, this is aka the Venus fly trap. And fyi sciencey isn't a word, please don't use it in real life. And you're welcome for teaching you something new.) She was definitely a huntress too. If Boyfriend and his boyfriend were at the sports bar together, Venus Fly Trap could hunt me out like nothing. Giant flippin' hotel and nowhere to hide. Plus, the margaritas slow you down so you can't run as well as you'd like to, and yes, tripping and falling on your face is an option. She was very particular, very bossy, and had kind of a trucker mouth that she'd use to reference people she doesn't like back in Canada. I use "kind of" to sound less harsh, even though in truth, there was nothing "kind of" about her. I mean she was nice to me, probably because she didn't give me time to interrupt all of her talking. So many freaking words and they didn't stop barking out of her mouth. Here's a clue: when you get the glossy-eyed deadpan stare and your listener is gulping back tequila like she needs it to live you are not as interesting as you think you are. I feel like she and I are in different leagues (if I may take the liberty to guess, I would think this is a baseball metaphor, yes?). You can interpret that however you would like. Thanks to Boyfriend, we were bound to this couple for our whole vacation. I'm pretty sure by the end of our stay we were disliked by everyone else at the hotel because of our association with her. Ladies and gentlemen, let's give a big hand to Boyfriend for picking well for himself and leaving me with Venus Fly Trap. Stop clapping, the tone of that last sentence was sarcastic.

When he chooses friends poorly:
On our first getaway together, Boyfriend started his boyfriend search early. He befriended the dude that sat beside us on the plane...this relationship didn't last too long as airplane boyfriend was looking for boyfriends in the more literal sense and I was like, sorry friend, but this here fella is mine. I mantrapped him so step away, yes, I'm aware he's man-pretty. Please stop ogling him, it makes Boyfriend self-conscious. I would've hung out with this fella if he didn't want a piece of mine. A girl always needs a good man as a girlfriend. I could've helped him pick up other dudes. I'm a great wing-woman. My gay-dar's not so good, but I make up for it in wing-womaning. So unfortunately, airplane boyfriend was more of a peripheral friend at the resort. During our second day there, Boyfriend found a new friend. If there's one thing I can say about Boyfriend's vacation boyfriend search, he does look for couples. Not that I'm a fan of being set up on play dates with wives, I have a thorough screening process for friends at home, but once I'm won over, it's a friends for life situation...unless you cross me. This new vacation boyfriend has a lady too. She's alright, possibly a friend I might try out in real life, but her fella has some...unusual rhythms. I mean, friendly dude, he just says things that are...out there. I chalk it up to the beverage benefits of an all-inclusive. We have a good enough time. They're pretty understanding at giving us our own space, we chill out, rent a boat, every thing's pretty okay when we're together. We find out they live in the same area, and Boyfriend even gives his boyfriend his real phone number to call him when we all go back home. Marvellous. It just so happens that this guy calls Boyfriend, and Boyfriend invites him over to his boat to hang with him. Neat, yes? This vacation friends story ends much like it begins in the airplane. It turns out that Boyfriend's vacation boyfriend may be interested in more than just Boyfriend's boat. To this, I laugh. That is why if one makes vacation friends that is all they should be. If you like them on vacation, chances are in real life they aren't the same. I'm sure there are exceptions to the rule, they're just not the residents of our shoebox apartment.

To all those likable vacation friends in the future, thanks for the laughs. To all those selfishly chosen vacation friends that I will interact with, keep the drinks coming, it's the only way we'll both survive.

Time for tea,

K

That's right, I am beautiful

I guess this post starts with a letter I got in the mail. Well, no, that's misleading. ICBC doesn't write you letters. A letter is something handwritten that contains well wishes and tales from foreign lands. ICBC sends you informative information that has dire circumstances if you don't comply with their wishes, mail that makes you shout expletives when the seniors in the building are right beside you also checking their mail. Sorry old neighbours. That might be rude, my sincerest of apologies to you wrinkly, but friendly, folks. Unlike when I get letters in the mail and squeal with delight, clap my hands and jump up and down with excitement, the mail in my hand makes darkness close in and mournful violins play in the background. Hold on that's not accurate, that's just my imagination. There's always that moment when you get mail from places like this and your brain races, you think, oh God, they found me. I am so busted. Le damn.

Upon opening the letter and not seeing any sign of a skull and crossbones on the paper...no wait, that means it's poisonous (of all the things I can say for ICBC they do send you very crisp notices which as of yet have proved not to be poisonous)...I actually read the words they have typed for me. Oh good, I have to get my licence renewed, they haven't caught me. Cool. Those beads of sweat on my brow appeared prematurely. Worst case scenario and I get busted I tell them I thought it would be a fun surprise. Surprises are never painted in a bad light.

Anywho, getting back to it, I tell Boyfriend the time has come. The beautiful photo of my current driver's licence is going a-bye-bye. I wait for his tears, but none come. Maybe he doesn't hear me. So I yell in his face:

I HAVE TO GET A NEW DRIVER'S LICENCE. THE OLD BEAUTIFUL PHOTO IS GOING AWAY FOREVER.

Signature deadpan Boyfriend face here. Nothing. The appropriate response is a response. If we're being honest the appropriate response is the response I want you to have, not necessarily the one you desire to emote. Remember, me before we. Nothing. Would it kill him to appease me? Is it possible I've used up his entire supply of appeasement? That doesn't fare well for our chances if that's the case. Some days, Boyfriend, digging your grave doesn't seem like it would be a chore. Am I wrong?

The day comes for me to renew my licence. For the record, the people that work there have no sense of humour. Does a frowning face make people take you more seriously? No. Because people like me get determined to make you smile, and that just made it awkward for both of us. You're welcome. Then the picture gets taken. I hate the new no smile rule. Everyone in BC now has a photo that makes them look like a POW in a picture that's used to provide proof of life. I should be holding today's newspaper up by my face and mouthing the words "send help".

Please, take another one.

She takes another one. I look at it on the screen.

Please, take another one.

I peer at the screen and wince.

Eeeee. Please, take another one?

It gets to the point where I'm pissing her off. There's no way to look good in a picture that you're not allowed to smile for. Not going to happen. Who do I write an angry letter to in order to change this? My teeth give me character! Why do you think they use dental records to identify bodies that have burned beyond recognition? Exactly! Let the people smile.

Yeah, I guess that photo is okay.

I didn't even really look at the last picture. I just saw the face of the ICBC woman that just said "we're done here". Even after all we shared. How rude.

ICBC sends me another piece of mail very quickly. I pluck it from the mailbox between my thumb and index finger like it's diseased and wonder which of the two evil things it could be. Of course, it's the new licence. Another thing I can say besides I like their crisp paper, they are prompt with getting new licences to the people. I thank you for this ICBC, but nothing else. Not unless you do me anymore favours. The picture isn't... so bad. I look as I imagine myself the moment before the She-Hulk takes over. I look less like a victim and more like a villain. I guess that's slightly better than a lateral move.

Why was I so stupid as to get Mutt that pig foot thing? Hoof. It's a hoof. He's gnawing on it right now and the smell is distracting. Nasty, nasty thing. The hoof, not Mutt. As I've told you he makes the circle. So ugly he's adorable.

I text Boyfriend about the new arrival via mail. I think... no, wait, I KNOW he's a little bitter he didn't get to the mailbox first so he could pay me back for what happened yesterday. The cliff notes of that episode: A package from the NFL store arrived yesterday that Boyfriend has been waiting three weeks for. I'm the only one home when it arrives so I do what any girl would do in my position: Use it for extortion. I hide it. Don't look at me like that, let me explain how this is rational. I was hoping that I could trade him his NFL thingmy for the spa day that I want for my upcoming birthday. It's logical. Except that things never go according to plan. I get called a jackass and I still don't have any confirmation of a spa day. He's impossible.

When Boyfriend gets home he looks at me with expectation.

Well, where is it?
What?
You showed me the old licence enough times I could draw it from memory. Where's the new one?

Somehow he has figured out the new one isn't quite the caliber I hoped, but, being a good girlfriend, I show him the licence that I had already hidden in my wallet.

He scrutinizes the black and white photo of me, turns the licence over in his hands and after his careful examination he says... wait for this one...

Huh. Except it's also kind of a Hmm. Huhmm.

The written expression can't do it justice. Fyi gentlemen, this is not a compliment. Nor is it an insult, you might say. That's wrong, it is an insult. If the words are not what a lady wants to hear it is definitely an insult, even if huhmm isn't a word.

Back to the conversation:

What does that mean?

I'm not shrill yet and I'm not She-Hulking. This is a proud moment for my people. This is the part where my voice becomes shrill:

What do we say when I show you things like that?

I gently take the licence from Boyfriend's hands. Gently take/snatch with intent to mutilate, potato, potato.

You're beautiful, honey.
Thank you. It's like pulling teeth sometimes.

He goes and starts taking the tags off a dark, long sleeved shirt.

Hey, is that a new shirt?
Yup.

He folds it up and puts it on the desk. This is opportunity for payback if I ever had one, so I imitate him best I can.

Huhmm.

He just walks away from me. I guess one of us has to be the grown up.

Time for tea,

K

I want to like football, but I can't

Oh Autumn, the best season of them all. Summer, I'm sorry, even though we usually have a good time, you'll always be my silver medal. I just like bundling up and sipping hot beverages from Starbucks better when the sidewalk is awash with successful suicide attempts by colourful leaves. Also, in autumn one needs to wear more clothes, so it's okay to finally let that gut you've been holding in all summer flop over top of your jeans. But Summer, we will always have frappuccinos, that's the one thing you have over Autumn. Plus you burn me, it's an abusive relationship.

I had to call Muse to find out how one spells frappuccino; we've all learned something today.

With all the delicious things about fall (Starbucks, scarves, cute sweaters and new boots), the thing that Boyfriend and I miss each other most on is football. He loves cute sweaters and new boots. I like him better if I think he does anyhow. Moving on. Now that NFL is on we've hit that season where the footing of our relationship gets a little tricky. Side note here, NFL is the point of contention because according to some people, CFL isn't a real sport (and yet he still watches it). I'm just the messenger, don't hold me in contempt if you like the team that wears the corn husk hats.

With football comes the annual... let's call it a debate over the living room situation: what to do about the television. Let me preface this by telling you about Boyfriend's love numero deux: Dudes in tight spandex throwing a pig skin, he loves it. Were they really made of pig skin back in the day? What kind of weirdo comes up with that? Honestly, guh-ross. Anyhow... Boyfriend and football have been together way, waaaaaaaaay longer than he and I have, so I have to learn to share. I can be a reasonable person... sometimes. Right, the television issue: Boyfriend gets the HD NFL dealy thing with all of the games every year, so Sunday is his day to take over the living room. No problem, I can relinquish the remote for one day. You with me so far? This is where it becomes a bit of a situation, one television isn't enough for Boyfriend. He needs two televisions in order to watch ALL the games because it only makes sense if we're paying for the NFL package dealy. He may or may not have used the word dealy. Sometimes he talks so much it's hard to listen so I just throw in my own words. This brings us to the annual argumen... debate where he tries to convince me that we need two tvs for football season and I say no, we're not a sports bar. It's a slippery slope, one day it's two tvs and a stocked liquor cabinet, and the next I'll be coming home to a bunch of neon signs that promote beer, and slutty waitresses in my living room. A-no a-thank a-you. I swear, Boyfriend, if you read this and get any ideas I will She-Hulk so fast you will lose your face. That's your warning. What can I say about our... debate... except that when Boyfriend wants something he will talk in his Eastern Canadian slang until I ungraciously concede before my ears want to burrow inside of my head to get away from it. For the last two years we have come to the agreement that he can have a second television, but it only comes into the living room on Sundays, and Sunday night it goes back into the closet. And idiot that I am, think that this will actually happen. Dear NFL, I hate you so much sometimes.

All in all, there are two main reasons that I can't like football:

1) Boyfriend will love me more if I do. You may think that this would be a good thing. You're wrong. If we spend more time together it will disrupt the delicate balance of our relationship and may lead to our undoing. You see, if I don't see much of him, Boyfriend appreciates our time together which makes him act like a better boyfriend. And less time together means there are less instances where I threaten to knock his front teeth out because he lies about keeping a second television in the living room four months out of the year. Win-win.

2) There are two flaws of football that can't be ignored: it is both stupid and boring.

That's all for today kids.

Time for tea,

K