Movie pet peeves and parkade assassins

I just spent more than an embarrassing amount of time trying to get something off my computer screen with my finger. Turns out it was just a scroll button for the page I was on. Well, in all honesty, it was this page. It's just in a location that doesn't work for me is all. Sheesh.

I thought today I would dedicate to everyone's favourite cultural medium, the film. Boyfriend and I have great difficulty watching movies together. Mostly because he chooses stupid movies, but also for other reasons. Here you are ladies and gentlemen, the top three movie pet peeves:

Movie Pet Peeve #1
Boyfriend is one of those dude-movie fellas. He seldom ventures out of his comfort zone. Boyfriend needs to have one of these elements for him to want to see a film: explosions, hand-to-hand combat, car chases, historical era where the men have vast empires, Charlie Sheen, action-packed adventure where people die and the plot comes second to special effects. We had to implement that system where we take turns picking which movie to go see in the cinema. The thing is...I kind of cheat with that system. If we decide to go on the classic American date (dinner and a movie) we discuss which films we're interested in beforehand. If he says the name of a film I also happen to want to see, I tell him it's his turn to pick the movie. If he wants to see a flick that I would rather press my face against a hot barbeque grill than watch, I use this lovely phrase: You picked the movie last time, the one with that dude and all the explosions, remember? This is followed by Boyfriend looking wistful while he tries to remember, and not wanting to admit a malfunction in memory, he says, Oh, right. It's your turn to pick, you stunning creature. Well, he may not tack that last part on all the time, but he says it with his eyes. To reward him for falling into my trap, I take him to a movie he absolutely abhors. Something with a complicated plot, nerdy comedy, chick flick, or what have you. Another thing that he forgets is his post-movie statement that comes after I choose a movie: You never get to pick that we'll watch again you evil vixen. Again, that last part he says with his eyes. In hindsight it's remarkably similar to the look that calls me a bitch...

Movie Pet Peeve #2
This pet peeve I was reminded of last night. Boyfriend is a notorious re-watcher of movies. Bravehart and Red Dawn top the list. I've seen Bravehart at least four times with him and Red Dawn I haven't sat through in it's entirety, but seen enough pieces of that flick to tell you what happens. Anyway, the pet peeve isn't the fact that Boyfriend is a re-watcher, but this is what gets my goat (I want that goat back by the way, I only have two): He puts on a movie that's been playing on tv for an hour already, one of which I have never seen before and gives me a very loose synopsis. Two sentences are not enough for me to get invested in a film that's already started. Also, Boyfriend: You can't do this and then get fussy when I ask the bazillion questions that I have. Who's that? is the least of your worries. Exhibit C: Casino was on last night. Never seen it before in my life. Why is Sharon Stone acting like a psycho? Drugs. What kind of drugs? Cocaine. I love De Niro's coral suit with the salmon shirt underneath. Want me to get you a classy outfit like that for your birthday? Please don't. Why is Joe Pesci getting beat in that corn field by baseball bats? You know, every time I see his face all I think is Home Alone. Watch the movie. Why are they getting buried in their underwear? So they can't be identified by their clothes. Well that's stupid. Boyfriend's patience astounds me sometimes, it takes him awhile to give me the look of exasperation that I know all too well. You can tell he's just repeating a mantra through his head: Remember, you can't kill her if you love her. Remember, you can't kill her if you love her.

Movie Pet Peeve #3
My mama raised me to be on time for things. I don't like being late for the movies, most of all because I like to watch the previews. Not for Mr Movie Man's voice, it kind of creeps me out...not in the way birds do, but if I were attacked in an underground parkade I would expect the assassin to have that voice. I just like previews of coming attractions. I like to make a mental list of movies I want to schlep Boyfriend to. And, as admitted in previous posts, I'm a snacker. We need to get there, get popcorn, get settled, and get our previews on. Boyfriend likes to get there just as the movie starts. Point of contention in movie night.

Next movie date will be easier. I ordered ether off the internet, and I'll just prop his body into a wagon, drag him to the movie that I want to go to and by the time he comes to, the movie will be half over and he will know how it feels to have all the questions about who's who and what's going on. As German Hilary Clinton would say, "Ich bin dabei. Und ich bin dabei, um zu gewinnen."

Venting over. What have we learned today Boyfriend? There will be a written test later including an MLA formatted essay. Be ready. Your face to me says that you appreciate that I did laundry. You're welcome.

Time for tea,

K

Mr Fixit

I have to start by giving props to Boyfriend. He bought me a smoothie for each hand. Good Boyfriend.

Sometimes it is best not to notice things. Generally, I live by the rule of not noticing anything. It's for the best because once you pay attention, you're usually one of two things: bored or driven insane which leads to She-Hulking. I RAGE! I DO NOT RIP OFF MY SHIRT LIKE BRUCE BANNER! Bruce Banner, yeah? Don't answer that, I don't care. Not too long ago, within the last few days...definitely within the last week, Muse was telling me about how she started adding up the cost of all of her makeup. That is a terrible game. Her story crept into my head when I was trying to pick out which shoes I would wear to brunch. I saw the massive stack of shoe boxes, and before I knew it, Muse had me wandering down a terrible path. I grabbed my abacus and got comfortable for a long afternoon. Adding up dollars in footwear doesn't bring the money back, it does however make me realize how many awesome pairs of shoes I own. It's never good to know more, whoever invented the phrase, "Knowledge is Power" was obviously a blissful idiot.

In our rinky-dink apartment Boyfriend and I both have our roles. I am the thinker and Boyfriend is the do-er. I conceptualize and he does the lifting or building or repairing or what have you. It's like I'm God and he's Noah. Yes? Maybe I'm mistaken. It would be fun to have two of every animal though. Well, the good animals, yes to baby chickens and no to anything that can rip my arms off my body. Plus, you know when those baby chickens become not-cute, squawking, pecking asshole birds, you can eat them. I suppose the same could be said for an evil gorilla, but that's not guaranteed to taste good. I'm sorry, what is the story of Noah's Ark? Meh, I'm over it.

I've been home a lot more lately, and my eyes have started to drink in their surroundings. I've come to an astounding realization: Boyfriend is Mr Fixit. Boyfriend is a fox. Boyfriend doesn't do the best job of fixing things. For those of you who are less cool than me and others that hail from the same place, the character to whom I am referencing is from Richard Scarry's Busytown. You know, the one with the worm in the green hat who was often an overnight guest at the Cat family's house (not in the sexy way). Whatever. Mr Fixit was hilarious, and you knew even though you never saw it in the books that he was soooooo fired from his job. Mr Fixit is probably that fox diggin' around in your garbage right now. Go look. Get back to me if you find him. He can go on my Ark.

The reason I say Boyfriend is like Mr Fixit is for several reasons. There was the time I decided I wanted the television mounted on the wall, and the only thing Boyfriend successfully used the stud finder for was to run it across his chest and say, Beep, Beep. It works. Apparently it didn't work right...after that. When I decided that I wanted to purchase a television stand and move the TV off the wall and onto that, I saw how many freaking holes were in the wall behind Boyfriend's big screen. I would venture a guess that Boyfriend's original plan when drilling the holes was to spy on our neighbours with the loud grunting noises and oh yeahs. Then, there are the photos I wanted him to hang in a line over the desk. He used a hockey stick as a measuring tape. They look beautiful when my eyes are closed. I wonder if the reason he's always filling my wine glass is so those pictures look straight? Wining not Whining, that's a line from my family crest. Another sarcastically-delightful discovery: Most of our furniture sits away from the wall as if Boyfriend wants to trick me with the size of our apartment. None of our furniture touches the walls. How did I not notice this?? Maybe we actually live in a mansion! It's a shame I'll never move the stuff in order to find out. Tragic. I also have a bamboo whiteboard that came crashing down last week. Another Boyfriend Fixit job, probably used another hockey stick to find the studs in which to hang it. The board is back on the wall on a definite slant. Maybe one of my legs is shorter than the other and that's why it appears on such a crazy angle. I know parallel, and that board is not it. Gee whiz.

Could I do a better job of these kinds of jobs? We'll never find out. I'm the brains, not the brawn. Well, not yet. I have been working out...but that's just to feel less guilty when I binge-eat burritos in my spandex. I should fill my wine glass more often so I don't notice all these things -- and so begins my transformation into an alcoholic. Just remember this when it's time for my intervention: I am not without reason.

Whining is forever, but wining will have to wait. Time for tea,

K

How it becomes his fault: Second installment

Yes. I'm already at the second posting of how it becomes his fault. This time Boyfriend hit me in the face in the middle of the night. How rude can you get? You never hit a woman!

Let me back up a little bit.

Last night (oh yuh huh, this was most recent) Boyfriend hurt me. If he took the garbage out like he was supposed to, this whole thing could have been avoided. Just you wait until you hear this monstrous tale.

In our domestic relationship the chores are divided. He does this, I do that. He cooks, I do laundry. He takes out the garbage, I field the recycling area. (Which is not as fun as it sounds, there have been times where I have literally dug through the garbage to salvage recyclables. You're welcome, Mother Earth.) This is where the problem occurs. Somebody, not mentioning any names or affiliation to me, did not bring out the garbage from the bathroom. Generally this is not a big deal, but we have a little mutt that has been known to rifle through the garbage on occasion searching for treasure. Such an imagination he has. Which is what happened last night. On my way to bed I see a trail of tissue, old makeup, q-tips and whatever other debris from the bathroom garbage that leads across the dinky hallway to our bedroom. Now if it wasn't a mess by Mutt, Boyfriend has some serious sleep-walking issues. I clean it up and put it back in the garbage in the bathroom and clever me, I shut the door so Mutt can't make another mess while we sleep. I grab my water bottle and head to bed.

The thing about bringing a water bottle to bed though is this: at some point your bladder will nudge you awake and say, "Yo, I can make you a helluva lot more uncomfortable, how 'bout you make this easier on both of us and go pee?" I dream a lot, maybe my bladder didn't actually say this, but mostly asleep, I shuffle out of bed and to the bathroom like I do every night. But every night doesn't usually conclude with me being clever and shutting the bathroom door. In the dark and in my haste, I walk right into that wooden monster. I must've been walking with my face sticking way out because that is the only thing I recall getting hit. Ka-pow. Insert various sleepy expletives here. For those of you that knit your brows together on that last sentence, a sleepy expletive is a swear that doesn't exactly round the bases to becoming offensive. Generally it doesn't make sense, much like "ah, dingdong" or "bloody garbage". Because you're sleepy, your gentle curses don't always make sense. Mine at this point is the word "mother". I'd love to explain that one to you, but I can't. Maybe I have issues with my mommy. No, I don't call her mommy, I'm classier than that. I call her Ma. Nonetheless, after my outburst to myself about liquid I go back to bed. Somehow the knock to the face rendered me incapable of remembering to actually enter the washroom. I climb back in bed, roll onto my side and close my eyes. Le damn. I still have not emptied the tank. Now I'm upset for a few reasons: 1) My face hurts, 2) I still have to pee and there's nobody to do it for me, and 3) Boyfriend is sleeping soundly, unaware as to the physical pain and mental anguish he has caused me this eve. Bad Boyfriend.

I'm only left with one rational option here (I suppose rational may differ depending on who you talk to). I reach my hand out, swiftly whack Boyfriend on the thigh, and dive back down to my pillow to pretend to be asleep. I hear him stir, wake briefly, and eventually roll over, back into slumber. I know, don't look at the screen like that with judgement, but it did make me feel better. Sorry, Boyfriend. It wasn't the nicest thing to do. But it wasn't the meanest thing I could have done either. Think about that.

The good news here is that I learned that I have the capacity to take out the garbage. Even if it's not my job. And to be fair I suffered enough. I had to hold it for awhile before Boyfriend was sleeping soundly again and I could sneak out of bed without being discovered for swatting out of anger. Though, in hindsight, he reads this blog so I've outed myself for that malicious deed all on my own... Boyfriend, pretend you didn't read this... you're gorgeous by the way. If you only emptied the garbage the whole thing could've been avoided. Just sayin'.

Time for tea,

K

How it becomes his fault

I'm sure this may be one of several posts with the same or similar titles. I'm bestowing a gift to the fellas that muster the courage to read this entry. Yes, a fantastic tale that will tell you exactly how anything can become the man's evil-doing, despite his lack of involvement. Here is a tiny glimpse into the workings of the female mind:

The crime: Boyfriend broke my books. I knew it once I entered the crime scene. If I know it's not my fault, it has to be his. I just have to figure out how it's his fault and I'm free to act like a jerk about the situation. It didn't help his case that I knew his distaste of reading for pleasure. Didn't need to take fingerprints to say this case was closed.

Let me explain how I solved this heinous attack on literature. A year ago, Boyfriend and I decided that the bare knuckle boxing that we did in our sleep had reached its limit. We needed a bigger bed before one of us required medical attention, so we splurged on a delicious new bed (of the king sized variety, though I prefer to call it an engorged queen) and matching bedroom set. It's big and beautiful and both of us avoid the inevitable slaps that occur in order to move the other out of our personal sleeping space. The bedroom set is heaven... but frankly, heaven wasn't meant for a tiny one-bedroom apartment. There was much rearranging needed to fit all of this fantastic furniture into our Tupperware container of a home. Boyfriend suggested that I sacrifice my book shelf. Please, take the time to gasp here, perhaps take a defibrillator to your chest if necessary. I wept, tears poured down my cheeks like thunderous rain and...let me stop you here, this part didn't happen. A terrible moment, yes, but crying might be a bit extreme. We'll say I dabbed gently at the corner of my eyes with a lace handkerchief as my books were boxed up and put into the closet until a better place could be found for them. That was many months ago, and the rain came down that day just for me (and the fact that it was November in Vancouver...).

While I neglected my books for the ones at the library, I noticed my dog-like cat kept disappearing. She usually comes when called and it's not like there are many hiding places in our little apartment. She found herself locked in cupboards because she snuck inside when we weren't around and we shut her in accidently. Other times, she slithered under the couch. Colour me impressed for this act because she rather resembles a hippo. A few times I found her sleeping soundly under the wine rack. The nosy rotund thing wedges herself into impossible places. But when I called Fat, she's lost her real name and just goes by Fat now, she would lazily meow or casually jaunt over to me.

One day, I come home from work and I look for my spherical fur-ball. Can't find her anywhere. I call, and I hear her, and I follow the sound. It takes me to the heaven-filled bedroom, and I hear her muffled, drunk-off-catnip meow again. I call, she answers. I call, she answers. I'm playing Marco Polo with a feline and for some reason I feel there's nothing wrong with it. I'm cool with being a crazy cat lady one day, somebody's got to do it, otherwise, who do the young kids make fun of? Exactly. You're welcome.

Here's where the story takes a turn. Fat jumps out of the closet, gets a quick pet and wanders away from me. You know that feeling you get when you know something's wrong? That nasty, bile-in-your-throat nervous feeling? I didn't have it, I'm just asking. I was curious though as to why Fat came out of the closet. I was horrified when I saw what happened. At some point during my books' prison sentence, Fat burrowed into one of the boxes and made herself a little nest out of my favourite authors. Covers were bent, pages ripped, grey fur everywhere. Chuck Palahniuk had become a fort. Not cool. I took crime scene photos, made chalk outlines of the deceased, and roped the area off with yellow tape. The other books needed time to mourn.

We all know that last part didn't happen. I did what any good woman would. I She-Hulked. I knew it was Boyfriend's fault instantly, I just had to put the pieces together in order for my case to hold up in court. Let's review the evidence: He pushed me to get rid of the bookshelf saying we didn't have the space. He brought home the flimsy boxes that I lovingly packed my books into. He likes to get the cat stoned off cat nip. Totally his fault. If he hadn't made me get rid of it, my babies would still be standing tall and beautiful on that ol' shelf. Case closed.

And this boys, is how a woman can make you the villain, even if you're not. What I'm saying is you don't stand a chance. I don't know how Boyfriend does it, he must be grateful he's now out of the range of my right hook in that engorged queen size bed. Lucky bastard, but I still hold him in contempt.

Time for tea,

K