One thing I like about Boyfriend is that he's a people person through and through (Please note: this is one thing I like about boyfriend, I assure you there are others, but this is the only one relevant to this post). He's very giving of himself to people, especially family, and it's something that I certainly appreciate. He's a go-the-extra-mile kind of guy, and though there are times that I want to lynch him, this redeeming quality always leaves me allowing his life to continue, at least until he really crosses me.
I understand people have needs, one of Boyfriend's needs is a vacation friend, ideally one that can talk sports or boats (preferably both for my sake). This generally suits one of my needs too, that need to be alone. Not that I'm a wretched old lady or something, I just spend a lot of time inside of my head... that might not be a good thing, but even for you skeptics, there's a lot going on in there that keeps me busy. However, Boyfriend needs that good ol' chum he finds out on the beach or in a pub when I leave him alone for awhile when we go away. I imagine him as that oddball child that actually talks to strangers when we all know from childhood this is a terrible idea. Why is it a terrible idea? Please don't answer, it's a rhetorical question. Allow me to tell you why we are taught as children that we should never, under any circumstance, talk to strangers.
The vacation best friends are those people you forge a friendship with when you're away at a tropical hot spot. It sounds sweet in theory. One thing I have learned from my travels through the years: Vacation friends do not work out as everyday friends, they probably become facebook friends at best. Trust me. I'm not going to lie, part of the reason I go away is to flee from people (screaming See ya suckers as I adjust my rear view mirror). Between friends, Boyfriend, work and the other voices in my head, I like the quiet time one can only find on vacation. Don't get me wrong, I like to go for drinks and dinner with people we meet when we go away, but let the record show that I do not like to spend my whole vacation with people that I will forget about two weeks after returning home. Boyfriend picks vacation friends one of two ways: 1) Out of selfishness, and 2) Poorly. Both of these don't work out. Let me explain.
When he chooses vacation friends out of selfishness:
Our last vacation, Boyfriend went missing. I done lost him, it might have been on purpose, and I might have known to find him at the sports bar in our hotel, but for purposes of this story he was lost. I searched high and low around the hotel, shouted his name and listened as my call echoed down the beach. I attempted a call to 911 to report him missing, but as I don't speak spanish the call did me no good. Or was it the front desk I dialled? Maybe I didn't make that call. No wait. I did none of these things. I was probably sleeping off a margarita or five when Boyfriend made his getaway... No wait. This came after we met his friend at the bar. That makes sense that I needed a nap. Right-o. We're on the trolley again. We were at the sports bar together and Boyfriend starts talking sports to all those that are present in the bar and riddled with testosterone. That's what did me in. I had nothing relevant to say so I left, stumbled back to the room and made the executive decision to nap. We'll say it was an executive decision, I'm not really sure how it all happened. While I'm... napping and poorly hydrated, Boyfriend bonds with one of the sports enthusiasts, his soon-to-be vacation boyfriend. I don't remember his name, nice enough fella, he had a moustache I think. He definitely had glasses... I'm pretty sure. Nonetheless, he and Boyfriend bonded. It just so happens that Boyfriend's boyfriend has a wifey with him as well...kind of a devil of a woman. She was somewhat alright, definitely overbearing, I guess if she were a plant she would be one of those ones with teeth that eat flies... what are those called? Yes, Dionaea muscipula. (Did you even think for a second I was going to go there? I looked it up to sound sciencey for you, this is aka the Venus fly trap. And fyi sciencey isn't a word, please don't use it in real life. And you're welcome for teaching you something new.) She was definitely a huntress too. If Boyfriend and his boyfriend were at the sports bar together, Venus Fly Trap could hunt me out like nothing. Giant flippin' hotel and nowhere to hide. Plus, the margaritas slow you down so you can't run as well as you'd like to, and yes, tripping and falling on your face is an option. She was very particular, very bossy, and had kind of a trucker mouth that she'd use to reference people she doesn't like back in Canada. I use "kind of" to sound less harsh, even though in truth, there was nothing "kind of" about her. I mean she was nice to me, probably because she didn't give me time to interrupt all of her talking. So many freaking words and they didn't stop barking out of her mouth. Here's a clue: when you get the glossy-eyed deadpan stare and your listener is gulping back tequila like she needs it to live you are not as interesting as you think you are. I feel like she and I are in different leagues (if I may take the liberty to guess, I would think this is a baseball metaphor, yes?). You can interpret that however you would like. Thanks to Boyfriend, we were bound to this couple for our whole vacation. I'm pretty sure by the end of our stay we were disliked by everyone else at the hotel because of our association with her. Ladies and gentlemen, let's give a big hand to Boyfriend for picking well for himself and leaving me with Venus Fly Trap. Stop clapping, the tone of that last sentence was sarcastic.
When he chooses friends poorly:
On our first getaway together, Boyfriend started his boyfriend search early. He befriended the dude that sat beside us on the plane...this relationship didn't last too long as airplane boyfriend was looking for boyfriends in the more literal sense and I was like, sorry friend, but this here fella is mine. I mantrapped him so step away, yes, I'm aware he's man-pretty. Please stop ogling him, it makes Boyfriend self-conscious. I would've hung out with this fella if he didn't want a piece of mine. A girl always needs a good man as a girlfriend. I could've helped him pick up other dudes. I'm a great wing-woman. My gay-dar's not so good, but I make up for it in wing-womaning. So unfortunately, airplane boyfriend was more of a peripheral friend at the resort. During our second day there, Boyfriend found a new friend. If there's one thing I can say about Boyfriend's vacation boyfriend search, he does look for couples. Not that I'm a fan of being set up on play dates with wives, I have a thorough screening process for friends at home, but once I'm won over, it's a friends for life situation...unless you cross me. This new vacation boyfriend has a lady too. She's alright, possibly a friend I might try out in real life, but her fella has some...unusual rhythms. I mean, friendly dude, he just says things that are...out there. I chalk it up to the beverage benefits of an all-inclusive. We have a good enough time. They're pretty understanding at giving us our own space, we chill out, rent a boat, every thing's pretty okay when we're together. We find out they live in the same area, and Boyfriend even gives his boyfriend his real phone number to call him when we all go back home. Marvellous. It just so happens that this guy calls Boyfriend, and Boyfriend invites him over to his boat to hang with him. Neat, yes? This vacation friends story ends much like it begins in the airplane. It turns out that Boyfriend's vacation boyfriend may be interested in more than just Boyfriend's boat. To this, I laugh. That is why if one makes vacation friends that is all they should be. If you like them on vacation, chances are in real life they aren't the same. I'm sure there are exceptions to the rule, they're just not the residents of our shoebox apartment.
To all those likable vacation friends in the future, thanks for the laughs. To all those selfishly chosen vacation friends that I will interact with, keep the drinks coming, it's the only way we'll both survive.
Time for tea,
K
Showing posts with label mantrapped. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mantrapped. Show all posts
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Home cookin'
For the record, someone in my house forgot to take out the recycling. Not cool. Get back here and do it. The paper and plastic are piling up and we can't afford the extra space. Okay, we all know that I'm the perpetrator here, but if anybody else would like to empty the blue bins under the sink I won't tell them no. Hello? Honestly, how is there an echo out here in cyber space?
If our hole of an apartment wasn't small enough already, we have a room that I try to avoid, minimizing my living quarters even more. That blasted kitchen. I don't, I can't and I won't cook. I'm one of those people that can't make anything to save her life, but I can do one of two things: make a dinner reservation, or make a call for delivery. This post is prompted by Boyfriend slaving away in the kitchen, making several delicious things. There is something to be said about having one's own personal red seal chef at home. Dinner tonight: shrimp-stuffed mushroom caps, lobster and prawns, asparagus and rice. Eat your hearts out ladies. I mantrapped me a good'un. My only job, while he slaves away in the room I know nothing of, is to stay out of the way. Done and done. I didn't exactly do nothing to get kicked out of the kitchen though. There have been a few instances that led to my banishment...
The first and foremost incident would be during our courtship. Yes, we're calling it our courtship. It was that time in the beginning of our relationship that he was suing me for harassment. Don't worry, after the settlement we made it work in spite of everything. Anyhow, where was I...? Right, back during the initial phases of mantrapping. I decided to be sugary sweet and domestic to prove that yes, one day, I had the capacity to make a good live-in ______ (I'll let you fill in the blank here with any noun you like, it's like a game show you can play at home). I decided to make breakfast for Boyfriend, thinking breakfast was something that one cannot screw up. Prepare for a great surprise, I did not pour him a bowl of cereal. I had eggs, bacon, sausage, hashbrowns and toast on the go. Have I mentioned that I have no business in the kitchen? If I recall correctly, the only thing that came out right was the toast. The rest of the slop was overdone, underdone, and in the case of the sausages both overdone and underdone. I'm not domestic, this is no surprise. I came with a warning label telling Boyfriend that I was a defective _______ (You can use the same noun as before, or fill in another one. It's fun for the whole family! Well, maybe not. I might be overselling it.) In a moment of poetic sincerity after Boyfriend has managed a few bites, he puts his plate down, pulls me into a hug and says, This will be my job. He may or may not have eyed his partially-eaten plate of breakfast slop with contempt.
Boyfriend insists that he doesn't remember this, but without sounding too cruel this is my explanation thanks to one Mr. Billy Joel: Only the good die young. If Boyfriend is still here and not a zombie that means he is neither good nor young. The mind deteriorates as one ages. Point me. Sorry Boyfriend. Blame Billy Joel, he's my copilot on this one.
The second kitchen incident involved me being left alone for a week once when Boyfriend flew to the other side of the country to visit his kinfolk. This was the point in our relationship when he knew how helpless I was in the kitchen, so before he left, he offered to make me some dinners to heat up in his absence. This is by no means an exaggeration. I said no because I'm a big girl that can feed myself (not big as in obese, as I've said before, rubenesque women aren't fond of me). But what we both didn't know is that I was lying. He left, and one night while he was away I thought, I'm going to go into that freaky room where we keep the fridge and rustle me up some grub... from a can. I found some soup in the cupboard and figured I couldn't mess that up. The good news is that I didn't mess it up. That may or may not have to do with my inability to figure out Boyfriend's can opener. It's Schrodinger's cat all over again, until we open the can and find out the result, I both have and don't have the ability to make the can of soup.
It just so happens that while I'm wrestling with this can opener, Boyfriend is at his sister's house talking about how I fare as a cook in comparison to Boyfriend.
There's no comparison. I do all the cooking.
Boyfriend's sister asks a skeptical question, something like, "Really?"
At this point, my frantic text comes in, and all Boyfriend has to do is turn his phone toward his sister and let her read my moronic words:
I can't figure out how to use your can opener.
Yes. I got so angry and annoyed with this everyday kitchen device I text Boyfriend asking for help. If I could've, there would be smoke signals puffing out S.O.S. in my great distress. Believe me, I tried everything to get that thing to work, this included using a knife as a hammer to try to beat my way into that can of vegetable noodle. Boyfriend's sister, if you're reading this, I'm not kitchen smart but I make up for it with street smarts. Okay, no that's a lie. My street smarts rival my kitchen smarts, but... I have to be smart in another way that I haven't figured out yet. The point is eventually I learned how to use that thing (and boy, was I waaaaaaay off), but that wasn't until long after the chinese take-out arrived. And might I say thank god I live in a world where I don't have to hunt and gather my own food. Darwinism would've overtaken me much sooner.
The moral of this post is this: Ladies, for all of your shortcomings, there is a man out there who will make sure all of your basic needs are met. Mantrap him as soon as you possibly can and lock him down. If it weren't for Boyfriend I would be emaciated and/or dead. For this, Boyfriend, I thank you. For other things I curse you, but this isn't one of those postings. You're pretty. Man-pretty if that's a better compliment.
Time for tea,
K
If our hole of an apartment wasn't small enough already, we have a room that I try to avoid, minimizing my living quarters even more. That blasted kitchen. I don't, I can't and I won't cook. I'm one of those people that can't make anything to save her life, but I can do one of two things: make a dinner reservation, or make a call for delivery. This post is prompted by Boyfriend slaving away in the kitchen, making several delicious things. There is something to be said about having one's own personal red seal chef at home. Dinner tonight: shrimp-stuffed mushroom caps, lobster and prawns, asparagus and rice. Eat your hearts out ladies. I mantrapped me a good'un. My only job, while he slaves away in the room I know nothing of, is to stay out of the way. Done and done. I didn't exactly do nothing to get kicked out of the kitchen though. There have been a few instances that led to my banishment...
The first and foremost incident would be during our courtship. Yes, we're calling it our courtship. It was that time in the beginning of our relationship that he was suing me for harassment. Don't worry, after the settlement we made it work in spite of everything. Anyhow, where was I...? Right, back during the initial phases of mantrapping. I decided to be sugary sweet and domestic to prove that yes, one day, I had the capacity to make a good live-in ______ (I'll let you fill in the blank here with any noun you like, it's like a game show you can play at home). I decided to make breakfast for Boyfriend, thinking breakfast was something that one cannot screw up. Prepare for a great surprise, I did not pour him a bowl of cereal. I had eggs, bacon, sausage, hashbrowns and toast on the go. Have I mentioned that I have no business in the kitchen? If I recall correctly, the only thing that came out right was the toast. The rest of the slop was overdone, underdone, and in the case of the sausages both overdone and underdone. I'm not domestic, this is no surprise. I came with a warning label telling Boyfriend that I was a defective _______ (You can use the same noun as before, or fill in another one. It's fun for the whole family! Well, maybe not. I might be overselling it.) In a moment of poetic sincerity after Boyfriend has managed a few bites, he puts his plate down, pulls me into a hug and says, This will be my job. He may or may not have eyed his partially-eaten plate of breakfast slop with contempt.
Boyfriend insists that he doesn't remember this, but without sounding too cruel this is my explanation thanks to one Mr. Billy Joel: Only the good die young. If Boyfriend is still here and not a zombie that means he is neither good nor young. The mind deteriorates as one ages. Point me. Sorry Boyfriend. Blame Billy Joel, he's my copilot on this one.
The second kitchen incident involved me being left alone for a week once when Boyfriend flew to the other side of the country to visit his kinfolk. This was the point in our relationship when he knew how helpless I was in the kitchen, so before he left, he offered to make me some dinners to heat up in his absence. This is by no means an exaggeration. I said no because I'm a big girl that can feed myself (not big as in obese, as I've said before, rubenesque women aren't fond of me). But what we both didn't know is that I was lying. He left, and one night while he was away I thought, I'm going to go into that freaky room where we keep the fridge and rustle me up some grub... from a can. I found some soup in the cupboard and figured I couldn't mess that up. The good news is that I didn't mess it up. That may or may not have to do with my inability to figure out Boyfriend's can opener. It's Schrodinger's cat all over again, until we open the can and find out the result, I both have and don't have the ability to make the can of soup.
It just so happens that while I'm wrestling with this can opener, Boyfriend is at his sister's house talking about how I fare as a cook in comparison to Boyfriend.
There's no comparison. I do all the cooking.
Boyfriend's sister asks a skeptical question, something like, "Really?"
At this point, my frantic text comes in, and all Boyfriend has to do is turn his phone toward his sister and let her read my moronic words:
I can't figure out how to use your can opener.
Yes. I got so angry and annoyed with this everyday kitchen device I text Boyfriend asking for help. If I could've, there would be smoke signals puffing out S.O.S. in my great distress. Believe me, I tried everything to get that thing to work, this included using a knife as a hammer to try to beat my way into that can of vegetable noodle. Boyfriend's sister, if you're reading this, I'm not kitchen smart but I make up for it with street smarts. Okay, no that's a lie. My street smarts rival my kitchen smarts, but... I have to be smart in another way that I haven't figured out yet. The point is eventually I learned how to use that thing (and boy, was I waaaaaaay off), but that wasn't until long after the chinese take-out arrived. And might I say thank god I live in a world where I don't have to hunt and gather my own food. Darwinism would've overtaken me much sooner.
The moral of this post is this: Ladies, for all of your shortcomings, there is a man out there who will make sure all of your basic needs are met. Mantrap him as soon as you possibly can and lock him down. If it weren't for Boyfriend I would be emaciated and/or dead. For this, Boyfriend, I thank you. For other things I curse you, but this isn't one of those postings. You're pretty. Man-pretty if that's a better compliment.
Time for tea,
K
Friday, October 28, 2011
Oh yeah, that's the spot
That's a rather saucy title, isn't it? Well before you decide not to read what follows based on an assumption of what I named this post, please pause. This post is about moving in with Boyfriend, or to be more accurate, Boyfriend moving in with me.
For those of you that want to warn him, tell him not to do it, moving in with a girlfriend is a big mistake, you're too late. This fella's been mantrapped. Unless you have a time machine you can't save him. But to ease your worries for Boyfriend, he's not entering domesticity quietly.
When I first moved here I got my own place. We're not as stupid as we may sometimes appear on paper... but for those of you that do take that freaky leap and go from a long-distance relationship to living together immediately, you've got some brass ones. Boyfriend and I both like what we like the way we like it. This is better achieved when one doesn't have to share living quarters, my couch will go here, the painting will go there, the bedding looks like something a bride from the eighties would have worn, the photos positioned just so, blahblahblah (or etcetera if you prefer). This is the joy of living alone, you don't need to compromise about anything. However, being in our amorous relationship, Boyfriend slept over at my place almost every night. There might have been three nights the year that we lived separate that he spent at his place. Eventually we come to the conclusion that he essentially lives at my place anyways, why not just move him on in? Okay, read this part slowly and ingrain it into your head: Sleepovers and living together are not the same thing by any stretch of the imagination. I becomes we, his stuff and my stuff become ours, and then we're left with a massive pile of stuff. All of it stuff that has to be: a)compromised about and b)moved somewhere. Le damn. Between the two of us, we've got double of almost everything: couches, televisions, beds, dressers, you get the idea (or etcetera if you prefer). We come to some conclusions of what stays and what goes, because we both know that for both of us to be happy we have to go out and buy stuff that we both like eventually.
It sounds pretty rational, yes? Well you didn't get a chance to read the unedited version. In that one things are purposely broken so they don't come into my apartment, a bulldozer ran over his couch, and somehow the cat's tail caught fire, and Boyfriend found the remains of a previous boyfriend in my closet. You're welcome for sparing you the evil side of things. I did, in all honesty, She-Hulk pretty badly when he put up some pictures without asking me my opinion of where they should go. I stand by what I said, but the rampage probably didn't help my case.
When it comes to getting rid of stuff, Boyfriend and I are at odds. If we don't need something, especially if it's something of mine, we get rid of it (the salvation army loves us). If it's broken or unusable, it's gone. If I break my hand, you may as well cut it off, it doesn't work anyways (please don't, I'm just illustrating a point, I'm a big fan of symmetry). I'm quick to sever ties to things I've had for long periods of time, because it's just stuff. Whatever. Boyfriend on the other hand (the one that hasn't been cut off) is more like a... I don't want to use the word hoarder... treasure hunter. He seems to have a multitude of things that can't be given away. So what do we do when I don't let it into the house? We get a storage locker, because we need to keep an extra bed, extra microwave stand and microwave, cupboard thing, and all the other random crap that we can't get rid of. We don't even like to go to the storage facility because our locker is so jammed full of stuff it's intimidating to even think about entering. We've probably bought something brand new that we've tucked away in that locker just to avoid having to go find it in the abyss.
My biggest problem with moving is this: I feel that Boyfriend thinks I'm a dude when we're moving things together. I may joke about father/son time with my dad, but I'm not good at carrying heavy things. It's just not in my DNA, the only thing built into my genetic coding is my like of a good pun. Seriously, ask your family doctor, this is a birth defect. But anyhow, moving stuff with Boyfriend, he's in good shape and he works out, plays hockey, yadda yadda yadda (or etcetera if you prefer). He's good at lifting things. I am, in technical terms, artsy fartsy. If I could move a giant-ass television by reading a book, we would have a mountain of big-screens in the apartment... except not, because if you read my last post this is NOT ALLOWED IN MY HOUSE... unless I get scammed during football season. The point of the lifting deal when it comes to moving is that I try. Boyfriend gives me a look, the one where he doesn't have to say how pitiful I am, though he does anyway. He doesn't understand that I lack the muscle capacity to do it. And somehow I always get pinched, or fingers squished, or scratched, or pull something. It is just not fun for me at all. Not that I think it's fun for Boyfriend, but rather than listening to me complain about moving stuff, why not get your boyfriends here to lug stuff around? There's enough beer for everyone! ...No? I may have brought this to a dark place, sorry Boyfriend. And I'm sorry I called them your boyfriends, I know you don't like that.
This post does have a happy ending though. Aside from where Mutt puked on the carpet, I like our little place now. We've replaced almost everything we wanted to and now we're both satisfied. There's no more nasty ol' lady dining room set by the kitchen. No more doll-size bed. No torn sectional that was beautiful in its heyday. And until we move somewhere bigger, we don't have to reposition or negotiate on any more stuff. It's perfect.
Well, time for tea,
K
For those of you that want to warn him, tell him not to do it, moving in with a girlfriend is a big mistake, you're too late. This fella's been mantrapped. Unless you have a time machine you can't save him. But to ease your worries for Boyfriend, he's not entering domesticity quietly.
When I first moved here I got my own place. We're not as stupid as we may sometimes appear on paper... but for those of you that do take that freaky leap and go from a long-distance relationship to living together immediately, you've got some brass ones. Boyfriend and I both like what we like the way we like it. This is better achieved when one doesn't have to share living quarters, my couch will go here, the painting will go there, the bedding looks like something a bride from the eighties would have worn, the photos positioned just so, blahblahblah (or etcetera if you prefer). This is the joy of living alone, you don't need to compromise about anything. However, being in our amorous relationship, Boyfriend slept over at my place almost every night. There might have been three nights the year that we lived separate that he spent at his place. Eventually we come to the conclusion that he essentially lives at my place anyways, why not just move him on in? Okay, read this part slowly and ingrain it into your head: Sleepovers and living together are not the same thing by any stretch of the imagination. I becomes we, his stuff and my stuff become ours, and then we're left with a massive pile of stuff. All of it stuff that has to be: a)compromised about and b)moved somewhere. Le damn. Between the two of us, we've got double of almost everything: couches, televisions, beds, dressers, you get the idea (or etcetera if you prefer). We come to some conclusions of what stays and what goes, because we both know that for both of us to be happy we have to go out and buy stuff that we both like eventually.
It sounds pretty rational, yes? Well you didn't get a chance to read the unedited version. In that one things are purposely broken so they don't come into my apartment, a bulldozer ran over his couch, and somehow the cat's tail caught fire, and Boyfriend found the remains of a previous boyfriend in my closet. You're welcome for sparing you the evil side of things. I did, in all honesty, She-Hulk pretty badly when he put up some pictures without asking me my opinion of where they should go. I stand by what I said, but the rampage probably didn't help my case.
When it comes to getting rid of stuff, Boyfriend and I are at odds. If we don't need something, especially if it's something of mine, we get rid of it (the salvation army loves us). If it's broken or unusable, it's gone. If I break my hand, you may as well cut it off, it doesn't work anyways (please don't, I'm just illustrating a point, I'm a big fan of symmetry). I'm quick to sever ties to things I've had for long periods of time, because it's just stuff. Whatever. Boyfriend on the other hand (the one that hasn't been cut off) is more like a... I don't want to use the word hoarder... treasure hunter. He seems to have a multitude of things that can't be given away. So what do we do when I don't let it into the house? We get a storage locker, because we need to keep an extra bed, extra microwave stand and microwave, cupboard thing, and all the other random crap that we can't get rid of. We don't even like to go to the storage facility because our locker is so jammed full of stuff it's intimidating to even think about entering. We've probably bought something brand new that we've tucked away in that locker just to avoid having to go find it in the abyss.
My biggest problem with moving is this: I feel that Boyfriend thinks I'm a dude when we're moving things together. I may joke about father/son time with my dad, but I'm not good at carrying heavy things. It's just not in my DNA, the only thing built into my genetic coding is my like of a good pun. Seriously, ask your family doctor, this is a birth defect. But anyhow, moving stuff with Boyfriend, he's in good shape and he works out, plays hockey, yadda yadda yadda (or etcetera if you prefer). He's good at lifting things. I am, in technical terms, artsy fartsy. If I could move a giant-ass television by reading a book, we would have a mountain of big-screens in the apartment... except not, because if you read my last post this is NOT ALLOWED IN MY HOUSE... unless I get scammed during football season. The point of the lifting deal when it comes to moving is that I try. Boyfriend gives me a look, the one where he doesn't have to say how pitiful I am, though he does anyway. He doesn't understand that I lack the muscle capacity to do it. And somehow I always get pinched, or fingers squished, or scratched, or pull something. It is just not fun for me at all. Not that I think it's fun for Boyfriend, but rather than listening to me complain about moving stuff, why not get your boyfriends here to lug stuff around? There's enough beer for everyone! ...No? I may have brought this to a dark place, sorry Boyfriend. And I'm sorry I called them your boyfriends, I know you don't like that.
This post does have a happy ending though. Aside from where Mutt puked on the carpet, I like our little place now. We've replaced almost everything we wanted to and now we're both satisfied. There's no more nasty ol' lady dining room set by the kitchen. No more doll-size bed. No torn sectional that was beautiful in its heyday. And until we move somewhere bigger, we don't have to reposition or negotiate on any more stuff. It's perfect.
Well, time for tea,
K
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Shorts are to Boyfriend as ________ is to me
I'm just going to come right out and say it: I miss being wooed. And for all those that ventured a guess, we would have accepted almost any "s" word for the blank in the title: shoes, shopping, stalking... but the absolute right answer here is Starbucks. The similarity is that both shorts and Starbucks are paramount to our individual lifestyles and both tie into the relationship of the woo-er and the woo-ee (who, for those of you who can surprisingly follow my train of thought here, are the caterpillars Boyfriend and I used to be before we evolved into the brilliant butterflies we are now). I'm quite sure Boyfriend will resent being likened in any way to a butterfly, so we'll say he's evolved into... I dunno... something masculine... a cement truck. A caterpillar to a cement truck. I'm aware that the logic is flawed. Moving on from this car crash of a paragraph.
Back to being wooed. I miss it, and I'm sure that all the attached folks out there do too. So much effort gets put out there, and things that drive you crazy about a person now you thought were adorable way back when. Ah, the ignorance. There is nothing like the rush of trying to hide certain aspects about yourself because you think somebody will like you better for it. Don't judge us, you've all done it too... the getting up through the night to brush your teeth so you wake up with fresh breath, stealing insightful opinions from experts on current events in order to sound smart during conversation in spite of not knowing what you're saying, we've all done something to this effect. Don't shake your head no, you're only lying to yourself. I like to think of this as part of Project Mantrap. It involves any sneaky behaviour a girl employs to get her man. I finally caught one I haven't wanted to throw back yet.
I'm not sure if I've mentioned, but Boyfriend and I began dating while we still lived in different cities. This made it easier to hide our vices: Boyfriend lives in shorts year-round and I have a palate for pricey coffees... daily. No big deal. I only hide it in the beginning because Boyfriend is a huge Tim Horton's fan -- it's his place of worship if a sports bar is closed. Tim's coffee is a close second to beer for him... that's a collosal compliment to their product. Therein lies the problem though, with our very seperate coffee preferences it's like West Side Story and a rumble could erupt between us broadway-style. Boyfriend doesn't sing or dance so this outccome would be worse than some kind of ancient torture device. I have to be on his side here (the initial stages of Project Mantrap), so when I fly in to visit him, we go to Tim Horton's all the freaking time to get our caffeine fix. Cool (you can't hear it or read it, but insert sarcastic tone here). All I'm saying is that it's alright, but seriously, very few hot drinks can trump a cinnamon dolce latte. Yuh huh, it's a proven fact.
While I hide my Starbucks appreciation, Boyfriend hides his legs inside pants for my first visits out to see him. It's a non-issue in the warmer months, but November/December/January? Really? It is later I find out that this is a preventative measure he has taken against my mocking because he knows the judgement I would lay on him if I arrived in winter to see him in shorts (this by no means is the same as Project Mantrap, he was simply trying to spare his ego). His reasoning? He's an east-coast boy that grew up with freezing winters with snow so deep it'd cover your house. I've never been that far east, but who am I to call him a liar? All I'm saying is that winter has a dress code. Put some damn pants on. Side note: You know the wooing stage is over when you use the phrase "Put some damn pants on". Le damn.
One day when I'm visiting him, he and I walk by the Starbucks near his house. I suppose I didn't do a very good job hiding my interest when my face glued to their window and I pressed my palms on the cool glass to stare at the baristas inside making delicious drinks.
You want a coffee?
Uh, sure. We're going to walk by the Tim Horton's anyways, right?
Maybe we should get a drink here. Boyfriend motions to the window we've stopped in front of.
OKAY!
Yelling this in his face didn't do much for the ambivalence I was trying to project, but who cares? The man is in the trap. He's coming around to what I like.
Have you ever seen the face of somebody that's never been to a Starbucks before? They look at the beverage board on the wall and realize, "oh crap I don't know what any of this says." Wish I had my camera, Boyfriend was so overwhelmed. You would think he was trying to read Swahili. He's charming. I think he just goes to Tim Horton's because he hasn't learned the Starbucks language. In one of my college classes we talked about how if you don't like something, it's because you don't understand it. Boyfriend understood nothing here, ipso facto, his distaste was quite obvious. I go to the counter and order my cinnamon dolce latte.
Boyfriend panics, then utters, I'll have the same.
Answer me this, why don't boys like to ask questions? He could've gotten something that he would have liked that way. The girl rings in our order and it comes to $9 plus change.
Ten dollars? Mass confusion which prompts Boyfriend to look at the girl and earnestly ask, Is there Baileys in that coffee?
She gets uncomfortable, says no, and gives him a free cookie to smooth things over. It seems to appease him. We get our drinks and resume our walk.
You want this? Boyfriend extends the paper bag with the cookie inside.
Ginger? Not at all.
Me either.
He tosses the bag into the next garbage bin we pass. It wasn't about the cookie, Boyfriend just wanted to get something other than two drinks for his ten dollars. He's like a little old man when it comes to the value of a dollar. It drives me insane, but now that we live together the man has gotten us some great deals.
The moral here is this: After Project Mantrap is successful and he becomes yours through your intricate system of lies, feel free to drop the pretense. Boyfriend pretends that I don't "waste" money on expensive coffee drinks, and I don't berate him for wearing shorts in February. This entry wasn't about Boyfriend's shorts by the way, I just feel that if I admit things about myself, I should drag him in with me. Fair trade. You just have to gradually ease into being yourself, and before he realizes that you aren't the person he started dating three years ago, he's already locked in. Mantrapped!
Time for tea,
K
Back to being wooed. I miss it, and I'm sure that all the attached folks out there do too. So much effort gets put out there, and things that drive you crazy about a person now you thought were adorable way back when. Ah, the ignorance. There is nothing like the rush of trying to hide certain aspects about yourself because you think somebody will like you better for it. Don't judge us, you've all done it too... the getting up through the night to brush your teeth so you wake up with fresh breath, stealing insightful opinions from experts on current events in order to sound smart during conversation in spite of not knowing what you're saying, we've all done something to this effect. Don't shake your head no, you're only lying to yourself. I like to think of this as part of Project Mantrap. It involves any sneaky behaviour a girl employs to get her man. I finally caught one I haven't wanted to throw back yet.
I'm not sure if I've mentioned, but Boyfriend and I began dating while we still lived in different cities. This made it easier to hide our vices: Boyfriend lives in shorts year-round and I have a palate for pricey coffees... daily. No big deal. I only hide it in the beginning because Boyfriend is a huge Tim Horton's fan -- it's his place of worship if a sports bar is closed. Tim's coffee is a close second to beer for him... that's a collosal compliment to their product. Therein lies the problem though, with our very seperate coffee preferences it's like West Side Story and a rumble could erupt between us broadway-style. Boyfriend doesn't sing or dance so this outccome would be worse than some kind of ancient torture device. I have to be on his side here (the initial stages of Project Mantrap), so when I fly in to visit him, we go to Tim Horton's all the freaking time to get our caffeine fix. Cool (you can't hear it or read it, but insert sarcastic tone here). All I'm saying is that it's alright, but seriously, very few hot drinks can trump a cinnamon dolce latte. Yuh huh, it's a proven fact.
While I hide my Starbucks appreciation, Boyfriend hides his legs inside pants for my first visits out to see him. It's a non-issue in the warmer months, but November/December/January? Really? It is later I find out that this is a preventative measure he has taken against my mocking because he knows the judgement I would lay on him if I arrived in winter to see him in shorts (this by no means is the same as Project Mantrap, he was simply trying to spare his ego). His reasoning? He's an east-coast boy that grew up with freezing winters with snow so deep it'd cover your house. I've never been that far east, but who am I to call him a liar? All I'm saying is that winter has a dress code. Put some damn pants on. Side note: You know the wooing stage is over when you use the phrase "Put some damn pants on". Le damn.
One day when I'm visiting him, he and I walk by the Starbucks near his house. I suppose I didn't do a very good job hiding my interest when my face glued to their window and I pressed my palms on the cool glass to stare at the baristas inside making delicious drinks.
You want a coffee?
Uh, sure. We're going to walk by the Tim Horton's anyways, right?
Maybe we should get a drink here. Boyfriend motions to the window we've stopped in front of.
OKAY!
Yelling this in his face didn't do much for the ambivalence I was trying to project, but who cares? The man is in the trap. He's coming around to what I like.
Have you ever seen the face of somebody that's never been to a Starbucks before? They look at the beverage board on the wall and realize, "oh crap I don't know what any of this says." Wish I had my camera, Boyfriend was so overwhelmed. You would think he was trying to read Swahili. He's charming. I think he just goes to Tim Horton's because he hasn't learned the Starbucks language. In one of my college classes we talked about how if you don't like something, it's because you don't understand it. Boyfriend understood nothing here, ipso facto, his distaste was quite obvious. I go to the counter and order my cinnamon dolce latte.
Boyfriend panics, then utters, I'll have the same.
Answer me this, why don't boys like to ask questions? He could've gotten something that he would have liked that way. The girl rings in our order and it comes to $9 plus change.
Ten dollars? Mass confusion which prompts Boyfriend to look at the girl and earnestly ask, Is there Baileys in that coffee?
She gets uncomfortable, says no, and gives him a free cookie to smooth things over. It seems to appease him. We get our drinks and resume our walk.
You want this? Boyfriend extends the paper bag with the cookie inside.
Ginger? Not at all.
Me either.
He tosses the bag into the next garbage bin we pass. It wasn't about the cookie, Boyfriend just wanted to get something other than two drinks for his ten dollars. He's like a little old man when it comes to the value of a dollar. It drives me insane, but now that we live together the man has gotten us some great deals.
The moral here is this: After Project Mantrap is successful and he becomes yours through your intricate system of lies, feel free to drop the pretense. Boyfriend pretends that I don't "waste" money on expensive coffee drinks, and I don't berate him for wearing shorts in February. This entry wasn't about Boyfriend's shorts by the way, I just feel that if I admit things about myself, I should drag him in with me. Fair trade. You just have to gradually ease into being yourself, and before he realizes that you aren't the person he started dating three years ago, he's already locked in. Mantrapped!
Time for tea,
K
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