I just got busted. Boyfriend's cuffed me to a chair and he's shining a flashlight in my eyes. I squirm, and in doing so, hear the stitches in my yoga pants give. Oh no.
Why'd you do it?
I do what I've seen on television, I hock and spit at his face. Only, I don't have so much practice with hocking and spitting, so the phlegm/saliva concoction I worked up dribbles down my chin, becomes a long line of stretched mucus and gradually settles in a yellow pool on my knee. Rad.
Tough girl, huh? I've dealt with the likes of you before.
Boyfriend pulls his chair beside mine, kicks it with his heel so it spins a hundred and eighty degrees. It stops, and he sits on it backward like so many dudes in the nineties. He leans forward, his face getting closer to mine as he contemplates. The bridge of his nose compresses when he squints at me. There is no torture technique that can best me, he's not as tough as he looks. Then, Boyfriend opens his mouth.
Yous. Yous. Yous. Yous. You-
Alright, I'll tell you everything! Just please, no more Eastern-Canadian talk.
Boyfriend, seeing me crack, feels secure enough to pull a key from his breast pocket. Before I know it, my cuffs are on the table and my wrists are free. What is that table made of, beechwood? Beautiful choice, not for an inquisition room, but perhaps a cozy cottage.
Boyfriend bangs his fist on the table to get my attention. Oh yeah, right.
Why?
Because he's... he's getting so fat.
My hands cover my face. I can't believe I broke so easily. And now, nobody is safe from obesity. Boyfriend puts a hand to his ear. I'm not sure if it's because of my omission, or he's getting so old that he really didn't hear what I said. So I yell.
I SAID HE'S GETTING SO FAT!
He is not. Boyfriend looks down, and by his feet sits a spherical fur ball.
You made me fat. You made you fat. Fat, well, you definitely contributed to that mess. I thought I could save Mutt.
So you hid the dog treats. I nod. But you didn't hide them from the dog. I shake my head. You hid them from me. I nod again.
He looks at me like I just poured vinegar and baking soda in my mouth. My actions made perfect sense. The dog lacks the motor skills to jimmy into my bedside table. He's not the one I worry about. I worry about the middle-aged man who tries to buy affection with treats that give my furry little bastard another roll on his neck and a heart condition. For clarification's sake, by furry little bastard in the last sentence I meant Mutt... this time anyway.
Boyfriend loosens the tie around his neck while he digests the news. Yes, fool. You're the problem. You're turning all the inhabitants of this apartment into wannabe citizens of the United States. Perhaps pump up the fat content some more in our meals; we'll all be super sized and riding scooters in no time. Dream come true.
That's one crime solved. Now, what happened to the ice cream?
Oh no. There was so much. He's going to judge me for taking it down in one sitting. We were supposed to share. There's no way I can tell him the truth.
Yous. Yous. Yous...
Damn it.
Time for tea,
K
Showing posts with label Mutt. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mutt. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Sunday, October 28, 2012
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
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
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Out of my coma and back on the horse
First blog in a long time and the title is a lie. I'm not on a horse. Oh wait. I needed to double check just to make sure. To my recollection I wasn't in a coma either, but just because I don't remember doesn't mean it isn't true. Or does it? I've gone and stumped myself. Le damn. I know what you're thinking, I took a free class at the YMCA in mind reading so I'm pretty sure it makes me an expert on what's going on inside all of your bean bags. For clarification purposes, bean bag in this instance means brains. Moving on. You're all thinking that the reason I haven't been posting is because my subject matter has run dry. There's no more material. I'm washed up. A has-been. Well you're wrong. Believe me when I say Boyfriend does something every day that I could write about. For instance, and this is a big deal, yesterday he gave up watching the news to enjoy The Breakfast Club instead. That was the moment I fell in love with him. Seriously. The three and a half years before last night were just a way to pass the time. Now you're all wondering if I'm actually serious. Believe me kids, I don't joke about love. I make fun of love, but I don't joke about it. Does that make sense? Did I just stump myself again? Balls.
In all sincerity, there is a reason I haven't been writing to you. I'm one of those people that takes my writing very seriously. There are certain things I need in order to write well:
1) A computer
2) My fun folder with tiny bits of paper scribbled with things that Boyfriend has done to evoke the She Hulk
3) Slabs of meat that I throw to Fat and Mutt to get them to leave me alone.
4) Comfortable clothes
5) My top hat
6) A sledgehammer to smash anything that makes noise. That backwards clock will feel my fury one day. My patience is waning.
7) This one is most important: My mug with the picture of a typewriter that I got from the Bookends. It's my serious writer mug, not to get confused with my television mug, fancy old lady tea cup, cappuccino mug, pre-bedtime tea cup, and pre-pre-bedtime mug. Oh. And the biggun that starts off the day. That mug is a monster. Sometimes I eat cereal out of it.
The thing is, well, my serious writer mug went missing. Gone. Disappeared like a magician's assistant. Which is why I figured that Fat did something with it. She's taken a sudden interest in magic tricks. That wretched, rotund feline. I gave her the shakedown (somewhat similar to the wet-kitty shakedown). I yelled in her face, WHERE IS IT? She stared at me with a sinister look in her eyes. Her mouth parted and her tongue darted out to lick her paw which she then slowly swiped across her brow. I repeated my demand for information and her fangs made an appearance as she said, "meow". That bitch. I slapped her across her furry face, I needed answers! She coughed up a hairball and sauntered away from me.
It was time to get all Dick Tracy up in this tiny apartment. If it wasn't the cat, maybe Mutt saw something. I need witnesses, need to take statements to bring this villain to justice. While I ponder the disappearance of the serious writer mug soft jazz plays in the background. The play list on 8tracks changed without my consent. I reached for my cell phone and dialed the number. I left instructions with Mutt's secretary to have him meet me in the living room. Had I looked down at my heels before I made the call I would have realized Mutt was at my side all along. Well Mutt, you know what's gone missing. Any leads? I got nothing. He looked up, his eyes pleading at me to understand what ails him. Oh crap, you need to go out, don't you? My bad. Let's make it quick, I'm trying to solve a mystery.
I find out real fast that Mutt knows nothing. At least he's not admitting anything. Should have made him give me an answer before I let him loose to do a leg left on those dandelions. Little Bastard. I'll just have to think this one through by myself. Where do we keep the mugs? The upper cupboard. It doesn't make sense that Mutt and Fat could get into the cupboard to take the serious writer mug. There has to be somebody else that has access to it. Somebody like...like...Boyfriend. Fire shot out of my eyes upon realization. Of course. He had it in for my writing all along, but why the mug? What does he have to gain from stealing my precious serious writer mug?
The answer is nothing. He just stacked it with the guest mugs instead of putting it where it usually goes in the cupboard. I still put him in jail though. Oh no wait. Not yet I haven't. Since I don't have access to a jail cell I either have to make one (but my welding's not so good) or frame him for something so he goes to jail. Any welders out there? Give a girl a hand? A cage would look great in the bedroom. Not like a nasty S & M cage. Get over yourselves. It's not like I can lock Boyfriend up in the bathroom. That's where I put the animals when I give them time outs. I need to think this through. I might have stumped myself again.
Time for tea,
K
In all sincerity, there is a reason I haven't been writing to you. I'm one of those people that takes my writing very seriously. There are certain things I need in order to write well:
1) A computer
2) My fun folder with tiny bits of paper scribbled with things that Boyfriend has done to evoke the She Hulk
3) Slabs of meat that I throw to Fat and Mutt to get them to leave me alone.
4) Comfortable clothes
5) My top hat
6) A sledgehammer to smash anything that makes noise. That backwards clock will feel my fury one day. My patience is waning.
7) This one is most important: My mug with the picture of a typewriter that I got from the Bookends. It's my serious writer mug, not to get confused with my television mug, fancy old lady tea cup, cappuccino mug, pre-bedtime tea cup, and pre-pre-bedtime mug. Oh. And the biggun that starts off the day. That mug is a monster. Sometimes I eat cereal out of it.
The thing is, well, my serious writer mug went missing. Gone. Disappeared like a magician's assistant. Which is why I figured that Fat did something with it. She's taken a sudden interest in magic tricks. That wretched, rotund feline. I gave her the shakedown (somewhat similar to the wet-kitty shakedown). I yelled in her face, WHERE IS IT? She stared at me with a sinister look in her eyes. Her mouth parted and her tongue darted out to lick her paw which she then slowly swiped across her brow. I repeated my demand for information and her fangs made an appearance as she said, "meow". That bitch. I slapped her across her furry face, I needed answers! She coughed up a hairball and sauntered away from me.
It was time to get all Dick Tracy up in this tiny apartment. If it wasn't the cat, maybe Mutt saw something. I need witnesses, need to take statements to bring this villain to justice. While I ponder the disappearance of the serious writer mug soft jazz plays in the background. The play list on 8tracks changed without my consent. I reached for my cell phone and dialed the number. I left instructions with Mutt's secretary to have him meet me in the living room. Had I looked down at my heels before I made the call I would have realized Mutt was at my side all along. Well Mutt, you know what's gone missing. Any leads? I got nothing. He looked up, his eyes pleading at me to understand what ails him. Oh crap, you need to go out, don't you? My bad. Let's make it quick, I'm trying to solve a mystery.
I find out real fast that Mutt knows nothing. At least he's not admitting anything. Should have made him give me an answer before I let him loose to do a leg left on those dandelions. Little Bastard. I'll just have to think this one through by myself. Where do we keep the mugs? The upper cupboard. It doesn't make sense that Mutt and Fat could get into the cupboard to take the serious writer mug. There has to be somebody else that has access to it. Somebody like...like...Boyfriend. Fire shot out of my eyes upon realization. Of course. He had it in for my writing all along, but why the mug? What does he have to gain from stealing my precious serious writer mug?
The answer is nothing. He just stacked it with the guest mugs instead of putting it where it usually goes in the cupboard. I still put him in jail though. Oh no wait. Not yet I haven't. Since I don't have access to a jail cell I either have to make one (but my welding's not so good) or frame him for something so he goes to jail. Any welders out there? Give a girl a hand? A cage would look great in the bedroom. Not like a nasty S & M cage. Get over yourselves. It's not like I can lock Boyfriend up in the bathroom. That's where I put the animals when I give them time outs. I need to think this through. I might have stumped myself again.
Time for tea,
K
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Monsieur Cora Pearl; A Dog's Best Friend
I just caught Fat snuggled up to Mutt's teddy bear and it made me think of a time when Boyfriend and I were figuring out how to live in close proximity to each other. Now this bear has been around for a long while and has a rich history living in my house. Well, that might be overselling it, calling the bear's past a rich history, but everyone knows I'm not capable of disclosing the whole truth in this blog because, really, where's the fun in that? It does lead me to wonder how y'all (I just read The Help, so I beg your pardon if the Mississippi accent comes a-callin' to the blog) attempt to separate the fact from the fiction or if you just take what I write with the figurative grain of salt. Never mind, I’m over it and no longer care or remember where I was going for that matter.
So the bear. He's bound to be about a decade old by now. At least I assume it's a he. As there are no sex organs I can't tell for certain, but we'll just say this bear is male neuter, just like Mutt. The bear, let's give him a blog alias...Monsieur Cora Pearl (yes it's a girl's name, get over it), was originally a Christmas gift from my younger brother about a decade ago. He's a tan, old-timey looking bear with a triangle chocolate nose and tiny, black beady eyes that have a story to tell.
Monsieur Cora Pearl's Story:
I knew from the words that boy spoke when he brought me home from the freak show of a strip mall in that tiny town (which smelled like a nearby mining and smelting company...very ritzy) that this was the start of my journey to better places. I sat wrapped tightly in festive paper that adorned me like a straight jacket. I was hidden away for so long I thought that maybe I didn't act as a good teddy bear should and my punishment was this solitary confinement. I started going crazy. I came up with a multitude of plans for escape, but as I am not a character in Toy Story, I lacked the ability to physically come alive. Wait. I shouldn’t know what Toy Story is. How does that work. Never you mind. I was left to stew in my mental hell wishing all the while for somebody to bestow their love on me.
K’s Story:
Following my move to Vancouver, I had the Book Ends (They be twins, my younger sisters) over for a sleepover after I was all settled. We were catching up, having some girl time. I was sitting on the living room floor, as I sometimes do, while they perched on the couch and we talked about boys, parents, I gave them the ten-second-tour (that's literal – bedroom, bathroom, Monsieur Cora Pearl there on the floor please don't touch him, kitchen, and dining/living room. Done.) feel free to do what you like, mi casa es your place too. The only rule is: don't touch Mutt's things. I should make a special note here that even Boyfriend and I DO NOT touch Mutt's things. He's very...well, he's kind of a canine hoarder. As I spin in my chair I can tell you that right now he has collected all of his stuff right beside the cat's post, a mountain of uneaten treats, his stuffed alien dog, his neck pillow (Which he pilfered. Yes, pilfered. It wasn't his. Dirty little thief.) and of course, Monsieur Cora Pearl. Oh Law (that's a combination of Kathryn Stockett and the margarita I'm sipping, not me), when you touch Mutt's things he has a tendency to somewhat freak out. Rule of the house: Leave Mutt's things alone. Do whatever else you damn well please unless it pisses off the She-Hulk. She'll let you know when you cross the line, but that's generally after you cross it so she can smash you.
So the bear. He's bound to be about a decade old by now. At least I assume it's a he. As there are no sex organs I can't tell for certain, but we'll just say this bear is male neuter, just like Mutt. The bear, let's give him a blog alias...Monsieur Cora Pearl (yes it's a girl's name, get over it), was originally a Christmas gift from my younger brother about a decade ago. He's a tan, old-timey looking bear with a triangle chocolate nose and tiny, black beady eyes that have a story to tell.
Monsieur Cora Pearl's Story:
I knew from the words that boy spoke when he brought me home from the freak show of a strip mall in that tiny town (which smelled like a nearby mining and smelting company...very ritzy) that this was the start of my journey to better places. I sat wrapped tightly in festive paper that adorned me like a straight jacket. I was hidden away for so long I thought that maybe I didn't act as a good teddy bear should and my punishment was this solitary confinement. I started going crazy. I came up with a multitude of plans for escape, but as I am not a character in Toy Story, I lacked the ability to physically come alive. Wait. I shouldn’t know what Toy Story is. How does that work. Never you mind. I was left to stew in my mental hell wishing all the while for somebody to bestow their love on me.
K’s Story:
Following my move to Vancouver, I had the Book Ends (They be twins, my younger sisters) over for a sleepover after I was all settled. We were catching up, having some girl time. I was sitting on the living room floor, as I sometimes do, while they perched on the couch and we talked about boys, parents, I gave them the ten-second-tour (that's literal – bedroom, bathroom, Monsieur Cora Pearl there on the floor please don't touch him, kitchen, and dining/living room. Done.) feel free to do what you like, mi casa es your place too. The only rule is: don't touch Mutt's things. I should make a special note here that even Boyfriend and I DO NOT touch Mutt's things. He's very...well, he's kind of a canine hoarder. As I spin in my chair I can tell you that right now he has collected all of his stuff right beside the cat's post, a mountain of uneaten treats, his stuffed alien dog, his neck pillow (Which he pilfered. Yes, pilfered. It wasn't his. Dirty little thief.) and of course, Monsieur Cora Pearl. Oh Law (that's a combination of Kathryn Stockett and the margarita I'm sipping, not me), when you touch Mutt's things he has a tendency to somewhat freak out. Rule of the house: Leave Mutt's things alone. Do whatever else you damn well please unless it pisses off the She-Hulk. She'll let you know when you cross the line, but that's generally after you cross it so she can smash you.
Monsieur Cora Pearl’s Story:
That girl saved me from suffocating. She freed me from that trap I was wrapped inside of while a song called Christmas in Jail, played in the background. It was all too appropriate. We stayed at that house for awhile, though it turns out the girl didn’t live there. We went on a long bus ride to a different house. We lived there for awhile. Some days after she woke up she would make her bed and carefully position me on it, with my back resting against the pillows. I think she put me there so I could keep a lookout; I was always facing the door to intimidate any and all intruders. Most days though, the girl didn’t want to wake me. She left me face down on the floor with the blankets strewn about on the carpet for warmth. She was always considerate like that. There were other teddy bears for awhile, but as the years drifted by and the girl started to catch the crazy, those bears slowly disappeared until I was the only one.
K’s Story:
The Book Ends asked why I gave the warning about Mutt’s things. I’m not a liar when I’m speaking...with the exception of that time I told Muse and Hubby Cupcake that Boyfriend was Mister North Shore 1996. He got a sash and a key to the city if you were wondering.
Monsieur Cora Pearl’s Story:
We’ve been moving around a bit over the last little while. I was misplaced in a moving box for far too long. I thought she forgot about me. I’m feeling more and more unloved. Especially when I was finally removed from the box and saw an alive stuffed cat. She’s kind of a fat bitch.
K’s Story:
After I tell the Book Ends why they should NEVER touch Monsieur Cora Pearl or Mutt’s other things, the sisters get the giggles in unison. I laugh too, because, really? Really? Boyfriend arrives, lets himself through the door and greets us. Hey Boyfriend, welcome to the estrogen-fest. Pull up a chair. Or you could...what are you doing Boyfriend?
Monsieur Cora Pearl’s Story:
We’re at a different house now. We live with a dear old woman that seems to be a future version of the girl. I like her. She makes pancakes. The girl brought home a little monster of a thing, she called it a dog, but I’ve seen enough television to know she’s a liar. I think it’s a rodent. I’m pretty sure, no, I’m eight thousand percent certain. Within the rodent’s first few months, he’s rooted into cupboards and staked claim on a forest green neck pillow. Didn’t even ask if I wanted it, and yeah, I did. By now the girl doesn’t even notice me. She put me in the spare bedroom and forgets all about me. Only living things I see are that spherical cat and monster “dog”. They come in and keep me company once in awhile, but never stay long. That is, they don’t stay long until one day the “dog” comes in looking all different. He’s got a lampshade over his head and he’s acting all ashamed. Says he doesn’t know who he is anymore. Feels like less of a man. Says he likes my company.
K’s Story:
Boyfriend is new to our everyday life together as I mentioned earlier. I don’t know what Boyfriend is thinking when he steps toward Monsieur Cora Pearl and picks her up. He shoots me a mischievous smile. Did I forget to tell Boyfriend the only rule of the house?????
Monsieur Cora Pearl’s Story:
The “dog” and I become best friends. Better than best friends, I think he loves me. I mean, he says he does, but I have to admit that sometimes I doubt his sincerity. It’s nice to be loved, but it does make me feel a little used sometimes. At least it’s attention; the girl just looks at me with disgust now, careful to stay away from me. Like I have some disease. This, this is what my life has become.
K’s Story:
Boyfriend pulls Monsieur Cora Pearl away, in a back swing that makes me wonder if Boyfriend plays tennis. The Book Ends and I stare, frozen, all knowing what’s going to happen with Boyfriend’s swift follow-through. They just heard the story and I think they’re rooting for Boyfriend on this one. As if in slow motion, three sets of eyeballs watch Monsieur Cora Pearl come closer. Boyfriend smiles, delighted that I haven’t made a move to stop it from happening. Monsieur Cora Pearl collides with my face. A synchronized “Ohhhhhh” comes from the Book Ends, while I let out and agonized, AGHHHHHHHH! Monsieur Cora Pearl is Mutt’s hump bear. I’ve seen him go at Monsieur Cora Pearl as though he’s filming a porno. And Boyfriend connects the diseased stuffed animal with the side of my face. This is the absolute worst day of my life. Wait, let me think...yes. This is the worst. The She Hulk boils with anger.
Do you have any idea what that is?
A bear?
The bear that Mutt humps.
Ha ha. What?
Oh God. Disgusting. I’m dying. Give me that bear, I’m going to get you in the face with it.
No, that’s gross.
Obviously it’s gross. Forget the bear, I’m going to kill you Boyfriend. Today is the day you are going to die by my hand. It’s happening.
The She Hulk pounces, her mammoth claws rip into Boyfriend’s chest. One by one she snaps his rib bones as if they’re Thanksgiving wish bones. Every time the bones snap the She Hulk wishes Boyfriend didn’t do stupid, nasty things. She then takes the stake that she was saving as a precaution for the next coming of Dracula – stay on guard, it’s going to happen – and the She Hulk plunges the stake into Boyfriend’s rapidly palpitating heart. Boyfriend dies and the She Hulk tosses Monsieur Cora Pearl on top of him. She sets the apartment on fire as she leaves.
It’s a good thing Boyfriend has as many lives as a cat. I should really figure out how many are left. I don’t want to waste his last few willy nilly. Also, excuse me while I shoo Fat away from Monsieur Cora Pearl. She doesn’t need that nonsense.
Time for tea,
K
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
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Boyfriends: a love story
Hello strangers. My attempts to get away from you have failed miserably, but we all have to agree I had a pretty good run at neglecting to blog. The holidays, they have a tendency to getcha, don't they? Good for nothing time-suckers...I love Christmas. That's not sarcasm, I'm a Christmas nerd. For those of you that contributed to my bounty of tea, tea pots, and tea cups, I thank you. You done good. Some people have creative juices, but my inspirational beverage must be hot and botanical. Heat this up! I'm going to skip over a majority of the Christmas crap that happened around here, you didn't miss much. Important bit of info: Santa brought Boyfriend and I an epileptic for Christmas, so that's awesome. We'll get to that though. Gotta lay the groundwork for this love story, Cinderella didn't begin with the loss of her glass slipper. Slippers, good idea, please hold for one moment. My foot digits seek warmth and comfort.
Let's see...once upon a time in a land of semi-desert, Boyfriend came to see his fair lady, a princess so fair and breathtaking you would hardly believe it. This visit was years ago, in the infancy of their romance, when she and he lived in separate Kingdoms. Boyfriend rode in his chariot for hours holding out in great hope for even a second of the strikingly gorgeous maiden's time. Except that she was expecting him, so really he was scheduled in for a few days of her time and didn't need to hope for it. But times change, and now he finds difficulty leaving the television when the hockey game is on to travel the distance outside to help the princess unload groceries from the car. I know Boyfriend, I was aware of what I was getting into. And I still love you for it...did anybody slip the princess some kind of potion? Yes? Because she be talking crazy. Ew, Mutt, you got your hair into my tea. Mutt, exactly. That's where I was going with this. It isn't a love story about Boyfriend and his poetically beautiful princess, but a love story of him and Mutt. Alrighty. Boyfriend travels the hundreds of kilometres to seek the love of his future princess, knowing that while her love overflows like her champagne glass on New Years, it is the approval of the miser that lives in the castle that he needs to obtain.
Uh, have I talked much about Mutt? Cliff notes if I have neglected to mention him, or a little aside for those of you that don't care to pay attention (by the by, I don't care for those of you that lack interest, go away): Mutt is so ugly he's cute. He's a mix, half chihuahua/half ugly hybrid. And he's a big bastard for a little guy. Don't get into his bubble unless you want your face ripped off. That's pretty much it. I love my grumpy Mutt.
Boyfriend at this point has heard rumour of the miser that lives in the castle, but their meeting had yet to occur. Until this day. Whatever day that was, I didn't mark it on a calendar. It was summer, three years ago...maybe August? July? Really, who cares? Those of you who care, please stop reading the blog and focus on getting a life. For reals. Please strike for reals from the record. Boyfriend crossed the moat and entered the castle where the stunning and vivacious princess greeted him. Wait. This was the first time Boyfriend came over ever. Did he get lost? No...his directions are only bad if I'm the source of them. Oh yeah, in that case, he would have gotten lost. When expected to show up at 7:00 pm, the valiant prince crossed the castle threshold at 2:54 pm the next afternoon. Which is why the flawless maiden greeted him so keenly. She had spent tireless hours wondering if his delayed arrival was due to a run-in with a dragon...that's a kind of gang, right? Oh please. We all know that I'm lying to you.
Prince Boyfriend and the fabulous princess embraced. I wrote you every day. As I you, Prince Boyfriend. Did you get my texts? I know sometimes through the mountains you lose cell service. You didn't get my replies to yon text messages? I texted you back twice. This is a conversation we still have at least once a week. Get a new phone Boyfriend! At this point his ears perk up when he hears commotion from the miser, and Prince Boyfriend looks alarmed. His hand goes to his hip where he keeps his chef knife/sword. Do you hear that? In the distance. Is there a threat to the Kingdom? Dear princess, you are too lovely to chance an encounter with a beast that creates such dreadful noise. It sounds much like the howls and echos that haunt the underbelly of hell. To my noble steed! The mazda I hath borrowed from a friend. Go devastating beauty, I will slay this wretched beast. Dude, that's my dog. C'mon I think he burrowed under the bed. Boyfriend and I go into my bedroom, kneel next to each other on the floor, and lift the blankets to gaze at the miser hiding in the shadows. That's mutt. Boyfriend's eyes dart back to the door, wondering if it's too late to make a run for that mazda. He's harmless, one second, I'll get him. I wiggle closer to him, eventually grabbing Mutt's collar with my fingers and I pry him unwillingly from under the bed and into the daylight that fills the room. I swear, the surprise on Boyfriend's face when he saw the size of my little rat dog was more hilarious than I could describe in words. Mutt at this time is barking and growling and bearing his teeth, that's my little angel for you. You have to earn his love. Boyfriend lifts his hand, thinks about giving him a pat, then thinks better of it immediately. Calm down. He won't want to attack you if you hold him. Though these words come out of my mouth as I essentially throw Mutt into Boyfriend's arms, I'm not sure if they're true. The good news is: Mutt was too surprised to do anything, so instead became frozen in Boyfriends arms with a look at me that said, "Woman, you have gone too far." They parted on mediocre terms after visit number one.
Visit number two with Mutt: Boyfriend swung by my work to grab my house keys. When I was walking home I saw in the distance somebody walking a rather poorly controlled white dog. It was Mutt and Boyfriend, with Mutt either leading the way or trying to outrun Boyfriend. It was too hard to tell.
Between visit number three and moving to the city near Boyfriend they fell in love. It happened so naturally I can't even claim to have witnessed the evolution. I should have kept a scrapbook. Now that Mutt and I have let Boyfriend move in, they've got their own thing going on. It's a dude love fest and I'm the third wheel. I think they prefer when I'm not around. I think Mutt loves him more than me...but I guess Boyfriend is the literal gravy train for that rat dog. Mutt eats better than most people because of Boyfriend. His love language is feeding you right. It must be, because he feeds me pretty good too.
The moment I knew it was true love between Prince Boyfriend and the miser was just a couple weeks ago, right before Christmas. Mutt's been having seizures, he did great shaking the martinis at our Christmas party. Just kidding, we didn't have a Christmas party. Mutt is kind of an alcoholic, but we don't judge each other in our house for our hobbies. Anyway, Mutt's seizures made us schedule a vet appointment with a new pet doc. I had to work, so Boyfriend brought mutt over town in his big redneck truck to go see what was up. They did blood work, updated shots, full physical, and then they asked Boyfriend to collect a urine sample. Poor, poor, Boyfriend. Mutt didn't have to go. Boyfriend called me after the appointment to say what happened, and that he just needed the little miser to lift a leg so he could collect the sample and then the boys could head on home. Mutt peed while Boyfriend and I were on the phone, so he missed catching it in his little container. As the story goes, a couple hours later, Mutt finally did it again and Boyfriend was overzealous and in his great effort to catch the stream, he took a little bit of the golden water to the back of his hand. I'm sorry, but you only do that for people you love. I told you, it's a love story.
Time for tea,
K
Post Script: For those of you that are interested, Mutt is in perfectly good health in spite of being epileptic. Boyfriend and I have to give him medicine every morning, and with our best efforts we've been getting Mutt to choke down his syringe of pink goodness. Yes, two on one isn't fair, but misers are difficult beings to deal with. And the prince, princess and miser lived happily ever after. Until the princess She Hulked and the prince moved to another continent.
Let's see...once upon a time in a land of semi-desert, Boyfriend came to see his fair lady, a princess so fair and breathtaking you would hardly believe it. This visit was years ago, in the infancy of their romance, when she and he lived in separate Kingdoms. Boyfriend rode in his chariot for hours holding out in great hope for even a second of the strikingly gorgeous maiden's time. Except that she was expecting him, so really he was scheduled in for a few days of her time and didn't need to hope for it. But times change, and now he finds difficulty leaving the television when the hockey game is on to travel the distance outside to help the princess unload groceries from the car. I know Boyfriend, I was aware of what I was getting into. And I still love you for it...did anybody slip the princess some kind of potion? Yes? Because she be talking crazy. Ew, Mutt, you got your hair into my tea. Mutt, exactly. That's where I was going with this. It isn't a love story about Boyfriend and his poetically beautiful princess, but a love story of him and Mutt. Alrighty. Boyfriend travels the hundreds of kilometres to seek the love of his future princess, knowing that while her love overflows like her champagne glass on New Years, it is the approval of the miser that lives in the castle that he needs to obtain.
Uh, have I talked much about Mutt? Cliff notes if I have neglected to mention him, or a little aside for those of you that don't care to pay attention (by the by, I don't care for those of you that lack interest, go away): Mutt is so ugly he's cute. He's a mix, half chihuahua/half ugly hybrid. And he's a big bastard for a little guy. Don't get into his bubble unless you want your face ripped off. That's pretty much it. I love my grumpy Mutt.
Boyfriend at this point has heard rumour of the miser that lives in the castle, but their meeting had yet to occur. Until this day. Whatever day that was, I didn't mark it on a calendar. It was summer, three years ago...maybe August? July? Really, who cares? Those of you who care, please stop reading the blog and focus on getting a life. For reals. Please strike for reals from the record. Boyfriend crossed the moat and entered the castle where the stunning and vivacious princess greeted him. Wait. This was the first time Boyfriend came over ever. Did he get lost? No...his directions are only bad if I'm the source of them. Oh yeah, in that case, he would have gotten lost. When expected to show up at 7:00 pm, the valiant prince crossed the castle threshold at 2:54 pm the next afternoon. Which is why the flawless maiden greeted him so keenly. She had spent tireless hours wondering if his delayed arrival was due to a run-in with a dragon...that's a kind of gang, right? Oh please. We all know that I'm lying to you.
Prince Boyfriend and the fabulous princess embraced. I wrote you every day. As I you, Prince Boyfriend. Did you get my texts? I know sometimes through the mountains you lose cell service. You didn't get my replies to yon text messages? I texted you back twice. This is a conversation we still have at least once a week. Get a new phone Boyfriend! At this point his ears perk up when he hears commotion from the miser, and Prince Boyfriend looks alarmed. His hand goes to his hip where he keeps his chef knife/sword. Do you hear that? In the distance. Is there a threat to the Kingdom? Dear princess, you are too lovely to chance an encounter with a beast that creates such dreadful noise. It sounds much like the howls and echos that haunt the underbelly of hell. To my noble steed! The mazda I hath borrowed from a friend. Go devastating beauty, I will slay this wretched beast. Dude, that's my dog. C'mon I think he burrowed under the bed. Boyfriend and I go into my bedroom, kneel next to each other on the floor, and lift the blankets to gaze at the miser hiding in the shadows. That's mutt. Boyfriend's eyes dart back to the door, wondering if it's too late to make a run for that mazda. He's harmless, one second, I'll get him. I wiggle closer to him, eventually grabbing Mutt's collar with my fingers and I pry him unwillingly from under the bed and into the daylight that fills the room. I swear, the surprise on Boyfriend's face when he saw the size of my little rat dog was more hilarious than I could describe in words. Mutt at this time is barking and growling and bearing his teeth, that's my little angel for you. You have to earn his love. Boyfriend lifts his hand, thinks about giving him a pat, then thinks better of it immediately. Calm down. He won't want to attack you if you hold him. Though these words come out of my mouth as I essentially throw Mutt into Boyfriend's arms, I'm not sure if they're true. The good news is: Mutt was too surprised to do anything, so instead became frozen in Boyfriends arms with a look at me that said, "Woman, you have gone too far." They parted on mediocre terms after visit number one.
Visit number two with Mutt: Boyfriend swung by my work to grab my house keys. When I was walking home I saw in the distance somebody walking a rather poorly controlled white dog. It was Mutt and Boyfriend, with Mutt either leading the way or trying to outrun Boyfriend. It was too hard to tell.
Between visit number three and moving to the city near Boyfriend they fell in love. It happened so naturally I can't even claim to have witnessed the evolution. I should have kept a scrapbook. Now that Mutt and I have let Boyfriend move in, they've got their own thing going on. It's a dude love fest and I'm the third wheel. I think they prefer when I'm not around. I think Mutt loves him more than me...but I guess Boyfriend is the literal gravy train for that rat dog. Mutt eats better than most people because of Boyfriend. His love language is feeding you right. It must be, because he feeds me pretty good too.
The moment I knew it was true love between Prince Boyfriend and the miser was just a couple weeks ago, right before Christmas. Mutt's been having seizures, he did great shaking the martinis at our Christmas party. Just kidding, we didn't have a Christmas party. Mutt is kind of an alcoholic, but we don't judge each other in our house for our hobbies. Anyway, Mutt's seizures made us schedule a vet appointment with a new pet doc. I had to work, so Boyfriend brought mutt over town in his big redneck truck to go see what was up. They did blood work, updated shots, full physical, and then they asked Boyfriend to collect a urine sample. Poor, poor, Boyfriend. Mutt didn't have to go. Boyfriend called me after the appointment to say what happened, and that he just needed the little miser to lift a leg so he could collect the sample and then the boys could head on home. Mutt peed while Boyfriend and I were on the phone, so he missed catching it in his little container. As the story goes, a couple hours later, Mutt finally did it again and Boyfriend was overzealous and in his great effort to catch the stream, he took a little bit of the golden water to the back of his hand. I'm sorry, but you only do that for people you love. I told you, it's a love story.
Time for tea,
K
Post Script: For those of you that are interested, Mutt is in perfectly good health in spite of being epileptic. Boyfriend and I have to give him medicine every morning, and with our best efforts we've been getting Mutt to choke down his syringe of pink goodness. Yes, two on one isn't fair, but misers are difficult beings to deal with. And the prince, princess and miser lived happily ever after. Until the princess She Hulked and the prince moved to another continent.
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