TelephOH-NO part un

It's been a good day. That is all.


















Okay. I joke. Not about it being a good day, that is definitely for true. For some reason I can't just leave a mere sentence for you to read. I'm told that is uncool behaviour. And kind of sad. But yes, good day. Slept late. Walked Mutt backward up the street to return a library book. Sometimes it's nice to get a different perspective. Done did some writin' for my book. Got some errands done. Had tea with the Royal Jester. Delicious dinner with Boyfriend...What do you mean who is the Royal Jester? He's my imaginary friend, mind your business. What else happened? I did some readin'. Wrote a letter to my Granny caveman-style, taking a chisel to a flat rock. That took forever. Not sure how the postman will manage with the delivery, but that's not my problem. Had the all-mighty girls' pow-wow with Muse. Aside here: Congratulations to Muse's Hubby for knockin' her up... And to Muse for being brave enough to bear his child. It's always good to catch up with girlfriends. They remind you of things that you've pushed from your thoughts. Plus, I have so many thoughts, sometimes it's hard to keep track. I like to let them roam free, which explains why so many thoughts end up missing. I'll find them eventually. You know how I suffer from misplacement. Now where was I going?

Yes. Things I was reminded of with Muse. We like to travel down memory lane sometimes, and other times we wander up future trail. Today we did both, but screw the future, we spent more time visiting the past. She reminded me of our time together in school, how we were such bad students but managed to get pretty decent grades. Which led me to remember our accounting final when I had to pee really bad, but we weren't allowed to leave the classroom even for that. I wrote that final like I already knew the answers leaving Muse by herself in the classroom to wonder if I was a genius or she was the opposite. The reality is just my tiny bladder. I thought I had an overactive bladder once and went to the doctor to find out and he looked at me funny and said, "Did you listen to your answer when I asked you how much water you drink a day? What goes in must come out." Thanks Doc. Then Muse and I talked about the future (I mean, she is full of fetus, you can't not talk about it) and how things are hopefully going to turn out. Oh please. When does planning ever come true?

The final thing she mentioned that struck me with a memory was a conversation about her phone acting up. Her phone, much like mine, is definitely showing its age. Muse mentioned that it's been kind of an asshole to her by typing extra letters in her texts. There go any grounds I have for ha-ha-ing at any spelling mistakes she sends my way. Her phone crisis, nay, irritation, led me to think of two tidbits about Boyfriend and his phone:

TelephOH-NO Tidbit Numero Un (That's Frenish. A language so romantic even Parisites are envious. That's what people from Paris are called, right?) Hold up. Is that why at Tim Horton's the itty bitty doughnut knobs are called timbits? Because it sounds similar to tidbit? Maybe tomorrow I shall go ask them. Not that the people behind the counter will know, they barely look me in the eye. Still. I need answers.

Where am I now?... TelephOH-NO Tidbit Numero Un!
I may have said in past posts how Boyfriend is particular. No? Yes? Either way. I know with great certainty that he likes simple things (You, with the question marks all over your face: Read my last post, I'm not here to spoon-feed you details of past postings). Simple things like (you know what, forget reading my last post. Get out. Security will rough you up a little while they escort you to the figurative door) a hot summer day, eating the last of my chocolates when the She Hulk is at full capacity, a cell phone manufactured before the year 2000. The last one drives me clinically insane. Literally. Okay, no. Not LITERALLY. Not yet anyways. Almost. One day soon. Boyfriend's cell phone is the oldest, most outdated, nearly useless piece of technology in existance. Honestly, if I gave him supplies to send smoke signals to people he would be much better off. You know the big ol' two hander cell phones from way back when? Boyfriend has one marginally better. Marginally. As Boyfriend does, he likes it (Say Whaaaat?) because it makes no sense to the rest of the human race. About a year ago, his quality communication device bit the dust...this is where you gasp and scream out, "NOOOOOOOOO!"...go on. Do it. For those that followed my instructions, I'm proud of you. For those that just proceeded to read without engaging in audience participation, you are all asses. And for those of you that were in the latter group, but feel no remorse for ignoring my request and being called out on it: go away, you're no fun and I want you out. Let's get back on track. What was Boyfriend to do with a broken phone? A phone he bonded with, spent a tiring two minutes figuring out how to operate. That's time he won't get back. Boyfriend did what every man would do in the same situation: he went hunting. Vegetarians, relax. He went hunting around town for a replica of his formidable, top-of-the-line communication device. Store after store he searched, bombarded by salesmen that tried to get him to upgrade to a touchscreen, something that would go online, something with apps, an actual keyboard, anything. A-no. That was not what Boyfriend was looking for. And then, a beckoning from a Rogers store: they had one! The last one ever made that was on death row, waiting to be sent toward oblivion in an incinerator. Boyfriend ran like never before. This is where the triumphant music gets louder and Boyfriend sprints in slow motion, pushing ol' ladies waddling on the sidewalk into traffic so he, Boyfriend, can make it to Rogers on time to save that last phone from a hideous fate. We get a glimpse of the store clerk holding the outdated phone in his hands while he shakes his head, thinking, "what a piece of crap." The music gets more dramatic, and it seems as though Boyfriend won't make it before the phone gets destroyed. We go to a close-up of Boyfriend's face, he grits his teeth in determination, beads of sweat form across his brow, and his eyes are locked with the camera. And we, the audience, we know he's going to make it. We cheer him on...do it, cheer him on...The very last shot is Boyfriend grabbing that old piece of junk from the salesman's hands and throwing a handful of bills on the counter to pay for it. As he walks out, he says something cheesy, as one does at the end of such a dramatic scene, I'm going to call my girlfriend and tell her the good news. And then as he goes to press the buttons, Boyfriend realizes that he hasn't actually activated the phone, so it does nothing. The final scene is of Boyfriend laughing with joy because he's so happy to have another crappy phone to fulfil the legacy of its twin. Well, maybe it wasn't as dramatic as that, but how do you make a story about Boyfriend replacing a super old phone with the exact same one more interesting? You should've taken it as a hint when you couldn't find a replica at the first few phone stores Boyfriend. You have to upgrade sometime.

You will have to wait for TelephOH-NO part deux. I grow weary (In my twenties and I'm old, how does this happen?). One tidbit is enough for today. Stay tuned.

Time for tea,

K

I'm a loser

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

K