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
Showing posts with label Fat cat. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fat cat. Show all posts
Thursday, April 5, 2012
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
Friday, February 3, 2012
Some ideas might make you look crazy, but at least nobody ends up dead
I used to watch a cartoon when I was younger called Animaniacs. I'm not really sure what kind of animals they were supposed to be...if they were even supposed to be anything at all. Not that they're the ones that are the important allusion here. On this cartoon there was a segment with a cartoon mime...was he a mime? I feel like he was. That, or he was some unfortunate cartoon man that suffered from albinism, or he was an albino, if you will. It would be rather insensitive if the cartoon guy suffered from that disorder, wouldn't it? Anyways, the cartoon albino segment was called, Good Idea/Bad Idea. Or something along those lines. They would cut to a black screen with Good Idea scrawled across it bold lettering, a friendly dad-sounding voice...reminding me much of Danny Tanner (Full House anyone?)...would say something like: "Good Idea: Helping a wrinkly old man with a cane cross the street." Then the cartoon albino would trot an old fella safely across the street at and intersection. The black screen would come back with bright writing. "Bad Idea: Helping a leper cross the street." At the end of Danny Tanner's sentence, the cartoon albino helps a nasty ol' leper across the street, contracting leprosy himself, and both lepers fall into pieces mid-way on the crosswalk. The opposite light turns green and the two men are run over by a city bus filled with knitting grannies.
Okay, maybe that exact scenario didn't play out on the cartoon, but I'm trying to give you the essential idea based on what I'm capable of remembering. This post goes back into the archives of mine and Boyfriend's dating history. As you know, like the average household in Canada, our happy home has two working parents, and 2.5 kids. No wait, that's not us. We live in a cramped toaster oven, with our epileptic Mutt and Fat cat. Just goes to show that all your dreams come true one day. Eat your heart out Cinderella. I was reminded to write this post when Fat jumped onto my desk and stuck her face in my tea. Danny Tanner, if you please. "Good Idea: Rescuing a cat from the animal shelter. Bad Idea: Rescuing a dumb cat from the animal shelter." Asshole move Fat. Time out for you. For the record, we believe in punishment in our house. At least I do. The cat gets a time out in the bathroom, where more often then not I forget about her until my tiny bladder exerts its control over me. Mutt is not so good with this kind of punishment. He's a howler. And a scratcher. And a barker. And so freaking ugly. But I love him. When he does wrong I make him look at himself in the mirror. I may have missed my true calling. Should've been an evil mastermind. Well, I'm always looking for new hobbies. I'll let you know how it goes.
Turn your clocks back a few years people. That's where this story happens. Boyfriend had this huge mother of a fish tank that was in his living room at his old place (circa 2009 or thereabouts). In the tank were three unnamed fish, but we shall call them Gross, Grosser, and Uglier Than Mutt. I'm not into brown fish that look like they lived many years within the confines of a sewage treatment plant. If I have a fish tank in my house it's going to be filled with beautiful salt-water fish that look like they flew in from the most exclusive coral reef in the world. I don't want goldfish, I want diamondfish. I want other jewel-toned fish that are teal, sunset orange, sapphire, chartreuse, lavender, macaroni and cheese. That last one might just be a name for the colour of a crayon. God Bless the creative folks at Crayola. I tip my hat to you.
Now I'm not at liberty to discuss the unsolved homicide investigation, but let's just say that due to unforeseen circumstance, Gross, Grosser and Uglier Than Mutt did not get to make the move with Boyfriend to our apartment. They...well, them ugly fishes are no longer with us. Let's just leave it at that. As you know, Boyfriend and I moved in all his stuff that weighed upwards of forty million pounds (that's how heavy it felt to me anyways), including the fish tank. I, for one, feel it was rather insensitive of Boyfriend to hang a vacancy sign on the fish castle that was inside. CSI hadn't even cleared out when he did that.
The weeks went by with great debate. What was going to happen with this fish tank. I SAY A-BYE-BYE. We don't need no fish tank. Boyfriend, as you know, is a doer. He doesn't like to leave things unfinished. He finds a friend who's shopping around for a home for his dear fishy friend. The conversation with Boyfriend and I goes something like this:
A friend of mine needs to get rid of his fish. We have that empty tank...
What KIND of fish is it? I don't want ugly fish.
It's not...ugly.
What would you call it instead of ugly? Homely? With character? Dull? Endearing in its own way?
It'd be a great conversation piece.
Which means what? It's deformed? Missing an eye so it has an eye patch?
No. It's a piranha. It's tropical like you like.
No piranhas in our house.
Why not?
You know how stupid Fat is. She'd be stoked to go fishing and then she'd lose a paw trying to snatch some freaky sushi.
...
Point Me. Extra points for finding Fat stuck inside the empty fish tank a few days later. She somehow got inside, but couldn't figure out how to exit. It brings me great joy that I know the limitations of her intelligence. At least she didn't think it was some kind of fancy litter box.
We didn't end up getting rid of the fish tank. It's in the hallway and we have two new pets in there. A lobster and a shark. Don't worry, the lobster's in a lobster trap so the shark can't get it. Heaven forbid we put fake animals in danger. For those of you that visited our place prior to our getting these new animals: you remember the former resident that moved into the castle after CSI deemed the ugly fishys' demise a triple suicide, the lizard. Yeah...he wasn't real either. He's also loose in the apartment, so please try not to step on him if you can help it. "Good Idea: Having pets that aren't piranhas. Bad Idea: Having pets that aren't real so friends refer to you as the crazy people with fake pets."
Time for tea,
K
Okay, maybe that exact scenario didn't play out on the cartoon, but I'm trying to give you the essential idea based on what I'm capable of remembering. This post goes back into the archives of mine and Boyfriend's dating history. As you know, like the average household in Canada, our happy home has two working parents, and 2.5 kids. No wait, that's not us. We live in a cramped toaster oven, with our epileptic Mutt and Fat cat. Just goes to show that all your dreams come true one day. Eat your heart out Cinderella. I was reminded to write this post when Fat jumped onto my desk and stuck her face in my tea. Danny Tanner, if you please. "Good Idea: Rescuing a cat from the animal shelter. Bad Idea: Rescuing a dumb cat from the animal shelter." Asshole move Fat. Time out for you. For the record, we believe in punishment in our house. At least I do. The cat gets a time out in the bathroom, where more often then not I forget about her until my tiny bladder exerts its control over me. Mutt is not so good with this kind of punishment. He's a howler. And a scratcher. And a barker. And so freaking ugly. But I love him. When he does wrong I make him look at himself in the mirror. I may have missed my true calling. Should've been an evil mastermind. Well, I'm always looking for new hobbies. I'll let you know how it goes.
Turn your clocks back a few years people. That's where this story happens. Boyfriend had this huge mother of a fish tank that was in his living room at his old place (circa 2009 or thereabouts). In the tank were three unnamed fish, but we shall call them Gross, Grosser, and Uglier Than Mutt. I'm not into brown fish that look like they lived many years within the confines of a sewage treatment plant. If I have a fish tank in my house it's going to be filled with beautiful salt-water fish that look like they flew in from the most exclusive coral reef in the world. I don't want goldfish, I want diamondfish. I want other jewel-toned fish that are teal, sunset orange, sapphire, chartreuse, lavender, macaroni and cheese. That last one might just be a name for the colour of a crayon. God Bless the creative folks at Crayola. I tip my hat to you.
Now I'm not at liberty to discuss the unsolved homicide investigation, but let's just say that due to unforeseen circumstance, Gross, Grosser and Uglier Than Mutt did not get to make the move with Boyfriend to our apartment. They...well, them ugly fishes are no longer with us. Let's just leave it at that. As you know, Boyfriend and I moved in all his stuff that weighed upwards of forty million pounds (that's how heavy it felt to me anyways), including the fish tank. I, for one, feel it was rather insensitive of Boyfriend to hang a vacancy sign on the fish castle that was inside. CSI hadn't even cleared out when he did that.
The weeks went by with great debate. What was going to happen with this fish tank. I SAY A-BYE-BYE. We don't need no fish tank. Boyfriend, as you know, is a doer. He doesn't like to leave things unfinished. He finds a friend who's shopping around for a home for his dear fishy friend. The conversation with Boyfriend and I goes something like this:
A friend of mine needs to get rid of his fish. We have that empty tank...
What KIND of fish is it? I don't want ugly fish.
It's not...ugly.
What would you call it instead of ugly? Homely? With character? Dull? Endearing in its own way?
It'd be a great conversation piece.
Which means what? It's deformed? Missing an eye so it has an eye patch?
No. It's a piranha. It's tropical like you like.
No piranhas in our house.
Why not?
You know how stupid Fat is. She'd be stoked to go fishing and then she'd lose a paw trying to snatch some freaky sushi.
...
Point Me. Extra points for finding Fat stuck inside the empty fish tank a few days later. She somehow got inside, but couldn't figure out how to exit. It brings me great joy that I know the limitations of her intelligence. At least she didn't think it was some kind of fancy litter box.
We didn't end up getting rid of the fish tank. It's in the hallway and we have two new pets in there. A lobster and a shark. Don't worry, the lobster's in a lobster trap so the shark can't get it. Heaven forbid we put fake animals in danger. For those of you that visited our place prior to our getting these new animals: you remember the former resident that moved into the castle after CSI deemed the ugly fishys' demise a triple suicide, the lizard. Yeah...he wasn't real either. He's also loose in the apartment, so please try not to step on him if you can help it. "Good Idea: Having pets that aren't piranhas. Bad Idea: Having pets that aren't real so friends refer to you as the crazy people with fake pets."
Time for tea,
K
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