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

Fish face

I was putting some dishes away yesterday and it reminded me of a time about a year ago that Boyfriend crossed the line in a horrendous way. In hindsight, I'm pretty sure I could have sued Boyfriend for what he did. Oh you'll read it and you'll agree. And this one is one thousand percent his fault entirely, not just me figuring out how it was his fault. Be warned. It's heinous.

Where to start? Boyfriend gave me fish face. Well that wasn't much of a reaction from you. Maybe you don't understand what I mean. He cut off a fish's face, gift wrapped it, and gave it to me as a girlfriend of the year present. With a bow. I should've known something was up because this man doesn't wrap anything. Ever. We had to go nine rounds in a boxing ring in order for him to wrap my Christmas presents last year. Trust me when I say that reconstructive surgery on my jaw was worth it. Okay, this whole paragraph is wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Except the fish face part. That was real. But I don't mean it in the way I said above. Let me start over. This is the story of how Boyfriend gave me fish face. Last summer, Boyfriend bought enough salmon to start his own farm. He filleted (I'm pretty sure this is the right word, but my bad if this proves to be incorrect) and vac-sealed them into their own nice little plastic packages. The dude is like a one-man assembly line. I'm surprised Santa hasn't abducted him to work as an elf in one of his sweat shops. Santa would probably have to tell people he has a pituitary gland problem to explain the height, but such is life. Boyfriend does good work. Yeah, the filleting. One more side note, I know this is pronounced fill-ay, but I keep getting flashbacks of Ma at a gas station saying fill it up. Fill it. Fill it. Back to my kitchen that I'm not allowed to go in: Boyfriend gives a ton of this fish away and we still have enough to fill [it (Oh my god, I'm a loser and I don't mean in the sense of my last post. One more time for the kids in the back: fill it. It's like a nervous tick resounding in my head, I swear.)] our freezer. And by freezer I don't mean the one that's part of the fridge. That's where my ice cream goes. I mean a freezer freezer. Fills it to the brim with fish. I think, cool, I like salmon. We're going to eat like queens! ...King and a queen. We're going to eat like a king and queen. No plural on the feminine noun there. My bad.

The thing about salmon is that salmon have those little tiny bones. They don't make for fun eating if you chomp down on one of those suckers. Plus, it's kind of a downer for omnivores and carnivores alike because bones make you remember that what you're eating used to be an animal. Or celebrity. Anyways, Boyfriend, being the skilled master of the kitchen he is, magically does away with these bones. Seriously, he does an amazing job. Not sure why this didn't raise any questions before I walked into the kitchen that awful day.

As per our usual routine, I'm as far away from the kitchen as possible while he's slaving away. I feel like this particular time I was in the bedroom, not that it's important, but I feel that it's necessary to illustrate that I needed to enter the kitchen to see what was up. We'll say I was admiring my shoe collection, because likely that is what I was doing, when Boyfriend yells, Your tweezers work great. I get a visual in my head of Boyfriend in the bathroom mirror plucking some unsightly hairs from his face. I say face even though for a split second I envisioned another area of his body being introduced to my tweezers. I stop what I'm doing and start toward the bathroom when I catch sight of him in the kitchen. Obviously I didn't hear him right.

What did you just say?
I said your tweezers work great.

Confuse me? I enter the kitchen and see him hunched over a salmon fill it (you know what I mean), with my tweezers in hand, gently coaxing a small bone out of the fish. This is more horrifying than getting a gift wrapped fish head.

What are you doing?
How do you think I get the bones out?
Dude. I use those on my eyebrows. Those touch my face.
You never complained that I used them for this before.
If I knew you used them before I would have She-Hulked long ago. I am going to annihilate you. You gave me fish face. How did this become a good idea? What the...you can't be serious... Boyfriend... run. Get away from me before I lunge at you and take you outside and beat you in front of the neighbours (I didn't this time).
I always wash them before I put them back.

Boys, special attention here please: DO NOT EVER DO THIS. Nowhere is this okay. In no instance ever is this acceptable behaviour. You know what this is? The triple B. BBB. Bad Boyfriend Behaviour. And the punishment is a good ol' fashioned beat down from the frenzied fists of your beloved. Even writing this and remembering how angry I was I kind of want to go into the bedroom and smother you in your sleep right now Boyfriend. Be thankful I'm a sucker for your pretty face... your chiseled, manly face. If you're awake to read this tomorrow I would appreciate a thank-you for letting you live another day. You gave me fish face, c'mon. And just because I had two pairs does not mean that one is reserved for your fish friends. Unless they have a unibrow there will be no sharing tweezers. That would be like me using your brush on the cat... wait... I did that to somebody before. I know I was busted doing it, but just for good measure and a clean conscience, whoever's hairbrush I used to groom my cat, I'm ever so sorry, but karma gave me fish face, so...

This concludes the story of how Boyfriend acquired his kitchen tweezers. Wait, that wasn't what the story was called, but it is the ending. Now whenever I see them I cringe. And, I suppose this would be the happily-ever-after or life lesson part of the post: We now have a rule in our house. We ask before we use each other's bathroom stuff, don't we Boyfriend? Please don't ever let me catch you using my tampons.

Time for tea,

K

I'm a loser

It's true. I am. Big time. I am a big loser. It's out there now and whoever you are reading this, you finally know the truth. I lose everything, including sports, but that's not the kind of loser I'm talking about today. I suffer from severe misplacement. It's generally the usual subjects that go missing: keys, phone, USB sticks and purse. Other times it's other things like the cat, a sweater that I donated a million years ago and finally decided I want to wear, and my mind with all of the wonderful ideas inside (sometimes these ideas are lost too, and lame, juvenile ones are left in their places. I'm a magician of sorts!).

My go-to move when things go missing is obviously to call Boyfriend and point the finger at him verbally. We all know if I know it's not my fault, it's his. If something is missing, he moved it. This became the go-to move a long time ago when I started finding weird things in my closet. Boyfriend is one tidy man, and if I leave something out of place with my sloppiness, he puts it in my closet so it's out of the way. Fondue pots stacked on top of lap tops on top of purses on top of coats on top of the cat on top of a book I'm reading on top of who knows what else. In theory, my go-to should be to check the closet first, but I'm set in my ways, so this is generally the phone call that is made:

Hi. What's going on?
I've lost my _______. Where did you put it?
Where did you have it last?
I don't know. Where did you put it?
Maybe you should have put it where it's supposed to go and you could find it now when you need it.
Is it in my closet?
I don't know.
Like actually don't know, or don't care to tell me?
I don't know. You'll find it.

This is the part where I angrily sigh, tell him I gotta go, then proceed to rip the apartment apart to find what I'm looking for. This doesn't help me for two reasons: 1) Now the apartment is a mess 2) If I leave it a mess, I'm sure to find all of it jammed into my closet later. How will I get to my coats with couch cushions and a coffee table in my way? Le crap. In my defense, I saw a story on the news awhile back about so-called messy people. Like Hoarders messy. They were asked to find something in their heaps of stuff and they could do it in seconds. It might have been a super mess, but it was an organized super mess. Or wait. Was it the news or was it a funky dream? Either way, we shall state it as fact.

The usual missing objects are usually on hand but I don't realize it. It's the pockets in everything. They confuse me and I forget where I stash my keys or phone. Pockets, though practical, are bad. Another time I found a USB stick stuck behind a drawer in my jewelry box. (Yes I have a jewelry box. It's from my Granny! The fact that it only has junk jewelry is a non-issue.) I don't know how it ended up there, but if we were playing hide-and-seek, it would have won like a year ago. And when the cat's missing, she'll just bellow until we find her.

The thing is, it drives me crazy to lose stuff, and yet I can't stop it from happening. I think it's getting worse actually. So what does one do to make oneself feel better about oneself? That's right. Level the playing field. Sometimes I "misplace" Boyfriend's things just to let him know what it's like to be on the other end. It sucks to be the loser. Though, sometimes I forget where I hide things, so it's kind of a dangerous game. See Boyfriend, there's always a logical reason for everything I do. This explains my affinity for hiding things. I swear, sometimes you think I'm right out of my tree.

I wonder though, how much worse this problem will get as I age. I already know crazy's comin' for me at some point. It looks like the happy kind of crazy so I'm cool with that...but what happens when I misplace my medication? Not the boring ones like the stuff that keeps you regular or puts you to sleep, but the important ones that at least level you off so you can kind of stay on your rocker. Best you can hope for Boyfriend is to either die first or get put in a different home. A secret one, because I'm sure future ol' lady, crazy me will find you and haunt you asking you to find things for her...wait. Is that much different than we are right now? Dang, forgot I was making oatmeal. One second please.

The question remains though: How does one stop being a loser? I think it's impossible. I'm also in that club of people that has to stop talking on their cell phone so they can find their missing cell phone. Maybe there's no hope. Maybe crazy will catch me sooner rather than later and I can give up the right to have to care about this trivial stuff because somebody will take care of it for me. Yes. That's the plan. I'm Boyfriend's problem now, but those of you going into the mental health profession, this is your warning.

Now that I'm full of oatmeal, time for tea,

K