If Boyfriend was a robot...

It's hard to keep up with technology. Sometimes you hold onto an outdated computer and optimistically think that it's still just as good as a seductive new iPad. Who doesn't love a good delusion (I, for one, say, blow me reality, playing pretend is much more fun)? I write this and I look over to the couch, regarding a robot model that I invested in years ago.

My Old Mandroid sprawls on the couch, far behind on upgrades, rusted and soldered together at the hinges. When he moves, the ancient metal makes the sound of slamming the hood on a beat-up car from the sixties. He's in recharge mode, consuming enough football to keep him operating for another week. Pulling his plug seems much too tempting sometimes. This Old Mandroid comes from the industrial era, where there is the expectation that everything is built to last. Who knew that he would last this long? When I got him I was told that he was a model inspired by Rosie from the Jetsons, but he ended up becoming rogue like the robot from Short Circuit. I mean, Johnny 5 had flavour, don't get me wrong, but I was looking for something that I could keep in line. Old Mandroid doesn't do anything I say. Maybe I should have just gotten a Segway.

Last Sunday, in recharge mode, Old Mandroid was in the same position on the couch. Slurping oil from a can and filling his system with the required sports to power him through until Monday Night Football... I should check the warranty, maybe it's not too late to exchange him. I went into the bedroom to avoid watching him fuel up on testosterone. Not my thing and never will be. Eventually, I hear Old Mandroid burst out with a tone of familiarity:

Gordon!

I assume he's found a tin can with a string, and chats away with another robot from the same assembly line. This is my chance to sneak in and change the channel for at least a few minutes. I can't have Old Mandroid at full power going into a new week. His was been recalled because they short out if they reach their battery capacity. I thought of sending him back when the recall was issued, but it's just so much work on my part. There are all those papers I need to fill out, and I threw out the box he came in. Hello, hassle. When I made it into the living room, Old Mandroid's lit up, by that I mean all of his light sources blink on and off, by an appearance of Gordon Lightfoot at the Grey Cup. Old things and old people that are familiar to him make my man robot happy. Old Mandroid starts doing the robot. Curious indeed. I hope he doesn't blow a circuit.

Following Gordon Lightfoot, a band comes on the screen: Mariana's Trench. Old Mandroid stops dancing and his light display ceases immediately.

Mariana's Trench? Does not compute. Who names a band Mariana's Trench?

After, Carly Rae Jepsen appears on the screen. Old Mandroid repeatedly wheels toward and away from the television as though at some point there will be a moment of recognition.

Girl with one song? Does not compute.

I don't need to tell you who performed next. The boy that sent hundreds of thousands of middle-aged Grey Cup fans into an outrage, Justin Bieber.

Does not compute. Justin Beaver. No results found. Does not compute. Doesnotcompute. Doesnotco...com...cooooom...pppuuuuuuuu...Beeeebeeeeebeeeee...verrrrrrverrrrrr

His mechanical voice gets warbley, changing from normal to unnaturally fast, briefly mutes, then comes back in random words that stretch out. Bolts from Old Mandroid's face fly, the pressure in his head shooting them like bullets. The whole robot contraption starts rattling, and electric blue flashes escape his outputs. Tiny light bulbs that glowed with joy moments ago, buzz when they light up, become increasingly brighter before they shatter in tiny explosions. A rusted hinge attaching his left leg to his tin-man torso gives way, and his newly-free limb clangs to the floor in a heap. His weight, unevenly distributed, causes the Old Mandroid to collapse on the ground. He grabs his leg and beats himself in his teapot-shaped head until black smoke filters out of his ears and his remaining lights go out, lulled into destruction with a hiss sound.

Should've gotten the upgrades. Youth culture destroyed him. And everyone said it would be the She-Hulk. Damn fools.

I do what any good woman would. I use my mallet, pound the remaining pieces as flat as I can and cover it up with a throw rug. I grab my iPad and settle on the couch. It's always good to have a replacement ready.

Time for tea,

K

Inch After Ungodly Inch

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

Lesson learned

As many of you know, I've been down and out for almost a week now, infected with some nasty disease that I'm trying to kill off. I hate being confined to an apartment where I can be in the bedroom, bathroom, kitchen and living room at the same time. If Tom Petty is right, and he usually is, I belong among the wild flowers. There are no wild flowers in this freaking apartment. There's a plant I keep forgetting to water... not entirely the same thing. I demand freedom! In my exile I have learned a lot. My only touchstone to the world has been Boyfriend, a very dangerous thing indeed. Ladies, Gentlemen and combinations of both, I give you the top three things that have given me insight this week:

1. My being ill turns us into an old couple.
Who knew that all it took was dysfunctional vocal cords and plugged ears? I can't hear him, he can't hear me, I always imagined this being paradise. Turns out it's just aggravating as hell. On the rare moments I have seen Boyfriend during my stint in the joint, this has been the way our conversations go:

Can you pass me the remote? (To give a better idea of my voice, only random syllables make sounds, and more often than not, it sounds like a honking goose in the distance.)
What? (His lips move, but he might as well be talking to me underwater. I hold my breath -- not because I think we're underwater, I'm trying to make my ears pop. Though, if this were insight number three, the underwater thing could be possible.)
Can you pass me the remote? (Honk, honk, honk.)
I can't hear you, what? (Insert sounds of the wharf here.)
What? (I point at the remote on the table beside him.)
What? You want some tea? I'll make you some tea. (For the record, I can't be upset. Tea is always a good solution if you don't know what I want.)

2. Boyfriend is an illusionist
Night one of system breakdown: Boyfriend disappears in the night. Ta da! He reappears in the morning, sleeping on the couch. Boyfriend disappears every day after work too, but somehow, our fridge keeps accumulating more juice, even when I haven't seen Boyfriend. Ta da! Mysterious. Also, while I decompose on the couch, my collection of cups keeps vanishing. I find them clean in the dish rack later on. Honesty time: I'm actually a professional when it comes to ignoring people. Ta da! I have to tip my hat to Boyfriend though, he's done better than usual when it comes to taking care of me.

3. When your medication advises you not to drink alcohol, don't drink alcohol.
This one stemmed from a case of mistaken identity. On day two of the system breakdown I ran out of juice. Rookie mistake. However, good news, there was margarita mix in the fridge and carbonated water too. Put the two together and you have one decent non-alcoholic beverage. That being said, unbeknown to your protagonist, the last time Boyfriend used the margarita mix, he thought it would be a smart idea to put tequila right in the mix bottle, saving him a valuable thirty seconds the next time a margarita craving hit. The thing about being sick, especially when you can't eat, is that you compensate by drinking more. I polished off the margarita mix and soda water pretty quickly, if I'd been able to taste anything, I'm certain I would've walked away after my first sip.

A short while later the transition happens...

I remember watching some sort of movie involving robots. At least I'm pretty sure I did, the idea that I latched onto had to come from somewhere. I got off the bed (the memory is a little fuzzy, though Boyfriend was delighted to fill me in the next morning) and my throat hurt like I'd spent the last hour reaching my hand into my mouth to claw my larynx (possible). I went into the bathroom, not sure why, then wandered to the living room to see Boyfriend on the couch watching sports something. He says I sat beside him, silent for a moment before I started rambling about robots. I was quite convinced, it seems, that robots were on the cusp of taking over the planet, and the moment I was healthy, they were going to wipe out the human race. I was rather stressed about the whole situation. Then Boyfriend says, I stood up, went into the bedroom, and passed out like a fourteen-year-old after a drinking contest.

The next morning when he recounted the strangeness, it didn't make sense until he called me a drunk. At least my plugged ears finally gave me a break so I could listen to the story.

Why am I a drunk? (Honkity, honk, honk)
I saw the empty bottle of margarita mix. That thing was loaded with tequila.

I shook my head insistently and yelled, Virgin, as loud as I could. Shame nobody popped in at that moment. It could have been a great misunderstanding. Also a shame the She-Hulk was down for the count too. I wrote quickly in my notebook, ripped out the page and handed Boyfriend my note:

IOU one beating from the She-Hulk. She'll be in touch when she's ready to brawl. Love you.

Time for tea,

K

You think you can fool me?

Ever since I can remember I've been opposed to onions. We just don't jive. Their texture and taste just make for one gnarly experience for this kid. For some reason, the smell of sauteed onions is delicious, but any vegetable that makes you cry is not worth ingesting. As a child I used to tell people I was allergic to onions so I could avoid eating them. This trick only worked on Boyfriend for a short while until he saw me mowing down some chips and salsa. Ploy over and it was time to come clean and sound like a child as I did so:

I hate onions. I'm sure you're aware that they're harvested in hell.

Boyfriend replies with an exasperated sigh and shake of the head. The man never takes me seriously. He responds the same way when I say I don't like sports, the last eighth of a cereal box, grown-up women in pigtails, washing the dog and the incorrect use of an en dash. He complains that I'm too fussy, to which I reply, I'm not fussy, I just know what I like. Also, I can't fault the salsa makers -- they don't make it just for me so I can deal. Boyfriend though, he knows of my distaste.

Boyfriend, being the sole person allowed to make food in our kitchen, has tasked himself with manipulating my palate to suit what he likes. He's gone to great lengths to finely chop up onions and put them into his culinary creations. I wish I could say it was rare, but it's several times a week that I find onions in my food. As is customary of my people (I'm not sure who my people are, but I'm certain they are out there), I use my fork to do a little edible exploration. I find these bits of disgustingness and scrape them to the edge of my plate, shooting Boyfriend a threatening look as I do so. I don't mind taking minuscule bites in order to spitefully avoid onions; I was the kid that ate peas one at a time, I've been training for this my whole life.

I admit, though. On the occasions when Boyfriend does trick me and I shovel his latest edible concoction into my mouth (that sounds gross), he gets up out of his chair, points in my face and declares with such pride:

You just ate onions, and a lot of them. You can stop being a princess and just eat them like a regular person from now on.

You think so, do you. I think not. To be contrary, I push my plate away, declare I'm full and since I forgot to bring my ninja stars to dinner, I throw cous cous in his face and leave the room. An exit meant for a movie star if ever there was one.

So now, I'm on guard. I'm not paranoid, per se, but I worry that he's snuck onions into everything he feeds me. Did you rub onions on my eggs? There's definitely onions in these fish tacos, I can taste them. I detect notes of onion in my ice cream. He maintains that, no, there are no onions in anything, but I swear he's messing with me. I've even started snooping around to see if there are onions in the apartment before he makes dinner. And yes, in spite of watching him cook for us every night, I question the ingredient list. When he reaches to scratch his head, I yell, AHA! ONIONS! and then he regards me as though I'm unbalanced.

If this is the reason I end up in the loony bin, I'll be pissed. Why are you here? My Boyfriend tricked me into eating onions. At least I think he did. I'm not entirely certain.

Time for tea,

K

Period or Placenta?

I don't know what the big deal is. When I was in elementary school, boys were all aware of the facts and given a play-by-play on how the system works. Boys love play-by-plays. Frankly, I'm not sure why it comes as a surprise: Girls have periods.

I knew that Boyfriend was one of those in-the-dark homeboys the day I temporarily moved into his place while searching for my own. I just brought the basics: a few clothes, my face, contacts, a samurai sword I use to ward off marauders, and yes, tampons. I unpacked my suitcase, the last to find a temporary home in Boyfriend's place was what most men will have you believe is the most fearful thing in the world. I find morning wood much more unsettling than a box of Tampax...there's a size joke in there somewhere, let me work on it. I'm not sure why boys are so scared of periods and tampons; it's not like they have to watch us cork the bottle, as it were. There I was, crouched and reaching under the bathroom sink to make room for a small box of feminine hygiene products when Boyfriend comes and stands in the door frame.

Whatcha doing? He glances down to the box beside my foot. Oh. He turns to make a getaway before whatever is in that box can touch him and cause him to sprout a vagina upon contact. That's how it works you know. Proven fact. By proven, I mean, illegitimate.

What does it look like I'm doing?

He didn't run fast or far enough, there's an unspoken rule that if you're in earshot you have to reply. Oh! Got it. At least a box of tampons has the size you need. Pow. Outta the park.

I just didn't realize that you would bring...those...here.
You know what? You're right. We haven't considered the alternative. Knock me up so I don't have to bleed from the crotch for a few months, then knock me up again when we have a miniature you running around. Let's just go with that cycle until my monthly one stops altogether. Sure, we'll be ladled with kids neither of us care to have at the moment, but you won't have to put up with tampons. Childbirth is always the preferred way to go; I'm all for having my region crack open like an egg and get sewn back together. If it's period or placenta, I'd go placenta. Brilliant plan, Boyfriend.

I lift my hand up for a high five. Boyfriend, missing my sarcasm, awkwardly presses his palm to mine and then quickly shoves his hands in his pockets. He nervously and purposefully avoids my eye contact.

You're on it right now, aren't you?
You better believe it.
I'm going to take off.
Probably a good idea. I'll call you in a couple days.

Time for tea,

K

The perfect disguise

This short story took place right after Halloween. Boyfriend and I were on the cusp of our fourth year anniversary; as everyone knows, you're entitled to let yourself go after the first anniversary. Before that time, you hide the heinous, actual person you are underneath the perfect disguise. When we started dating, Boyfriend dressed better, shaved every day, wore his hair perfectly coiffed. He would skip out of time watching "the game" (what is this game anyways?) with the boys to chauffeur me around. Boyfriend was quieter back then, as if he knew that too much of his botched Eastern-Canadian turn of phrase was more than enough to get served with a death sentence from this woman. No offense to the population of Eastern-Canadians, I'm sure you're all very nice people. How are yous anyhow? ...Writing that hurts as much as losing a limb, I imagine. Then there was me, perfect makeup, calculated outfits and irrational bitch attitude bound tighter than an Amish chastity belt. Those were the days.

On this particular early November evening, Boyfriend and I busted into our Halloween candy stash. Since our apartment is hot enough to boil water without turning on the stove, we've taken to keeping our chocolate in the fridge. I also like the snap of a frozen Snickers bar when you bite into it, in spite of the occasional flecks of chocolate that fly into the air as a result. Trust me, this information is pertinent to the story. This was one of the rare occasions that we cuddled on the couch (pardon me for steering clear of Tabasco breath and limited cushion space) as we ate our chocolate. One of us, not naming any names, found a delightful low-budget film on Netflix. Something about boats and warships or something dumber than stupid. BAD MOVIE. When Boyfriend's watching a movie like this, or football, or what have you, I let my head fall on his chest and nap. It's spending time together without the agony of spending time together. We'll call that a win for both sides.

Eventually, Boyfriend shakes me awake, complaining that my heavy head has made his arm fall asleep or some nonsense. I sit up, catch his eye, and he smiles like a buffoon at my unimpressed expression.

What?
I just love you.
Uh huh.

I make the executive decision to leave before the She-Hulk wakes up too, and finds him smiling at her like that. New plan: Brush teeth and go to bed.

It takes me a moment to let everything come into focus. You know that haze when you're brutally woken up by an alarm clock or dumb ass. I'm already halfway through brushing my teeth when I look in the mirror. Half my face is dotted with moles; tell the Polka Dot Door to eat its heart out. My face is a constellation-seeker's paradise; there's Cassiopeia on the side of my nose, Orion stretches across my forehead and eyelid, and I do believe that's Perseus over near my chin. It's like the freckles that come a-callin' in the summertime showed up for a winter family reunion and they're all bundled up in thick, dark-brown parkas. Only on the left side of my face. I reach up, scared that this is the skin cancer that will have me losing half my face to scar tissue upon removal. I touch one of the spots that make up Orion's belt, and when I take my finger away, the mole latches onto my fingertip and pulls off my face. I do what any rational person would do, I put the detached mole into my mouth. Milk chocolate. That messy idiot.

As I stalk back to the living room, I pray for Boyfriend. I think the She-Hulk just woke up.

Time for tea,

K

The Good Ol' Hockey Game...

...Is the best game you can name? Really? The folks out there that share this mentality are just lacking in imagination. Let's try together, shall we? Perhaps leap frog is the best game you can name...or scrabble...or that game with the stick and the hoop, though I can't name that one so I suppose that doesn't count. Not that it looks like good fun anyways. Duck, duck, goose because you get to hit people...hit/tap, potato/potato. The point is, any number of these things are better than hockey. I'm going to complain about one more thing and then I will do my best to maintain optimism about a sport that I don't care to familiarize myself with. Why did I have to go with one thing to complain about? It's so hard to choose. Alright. Got it:

Last night Boyfriend watched a show with old dudes in monkey suits. Old dudes and monkey suits, you have my interest for eleven seconds unless you're more than a one trick pony and can make with some magic and bring the panache. This show did not. I asked what this was, it was not from Boyfriend's usual repertoire of sports, news, the whittling hour with Hans Olaf, and action movies with stars who are currently sitting on parts of themselves that went farther south than one ever anticipates. Essentially this show is the Oscars for hockey. Boyfriend called it the Hall of Fame, I think. I call it tedious and dry. Here is my complaint: In the Oscars, the music plays you off if your speech is too long. Bald dude whose name I don't know and whose career I don't care about, you do go on. And on. They should edit that shit for television. No. Wait. I don't care. They had their eleven seconds of my time before I dry heaved and marched out. Complaining over.

This is one of the stories that I know some folks have been waiting anxiously to read; I've retold it countless times, so here it is. The tale of my first and only, ever hockey game. I'm pandering and it makes me She Hulk at myself. That's not a good look on me...She Hulk versus She Hulk, the main event where neither personality survives.

The year was 2010. It was a balmy September afternoon, Wednesday, and a young girl's dreams were about to come true. Not my dreams, I'm sure some kid was going to the hockey arena and she was really looking forward to it. I was not. Her excitement was contagious like an infection. It was a night of pre-season hockey that I will never forget, Vancouver Canucks versus Edmonton Oilers in a head-to-head battle/clash of the titans extravaganza. Vividly I recall our vantage point, Section 310, Row 6, I was in Seat 3. I know you're gaping open-mouthed at your computer screen amazed at how smart I am with sports and how accurate my memory of that night was. What can I say? It was an enchanting evening. Me remembering things, that's an adorable thought. Cards on the table? I found the ticket when I was going through a purse I haven't used in a long while. Cool. Free order of bandara pizza bread from Boston Pizza on the back. I wonder if this is still legit.

The evening began at the Shark Club for dinner. By dinner, I mean a rushed appetizer that Boyfriend ate most of, what an asshole romantic shared plate that was as intimate as the evening would have been if the place wasn't so packed and I had three separate strangers touching me at all times. As I am a doddler by nature, I don't much care to rush, but I swear, 15 minutes before the puck dropped he had me running down the street to Rogers Arena Clearly he was unaware at how difficult it is to run with hands full of a salsa-dripping quesadilla. By the time I handed the doorman my ticket, my palms looked like I had been playing patty cake with a baboon's ass. chasing the promise of visual ecstasy that is hockey.

We passed through the ubiquitous crowd of people clad in Canuck blue. Freaking lemmings. Have you any idea how very long we waited in line for beer? Me either, I'm not sure it would be worse to be in the desert needing that same beer to quench my thirst but with Boyfriend's delightful company, one loses track of time. Now, Boyfriend and I made a deal prior to this lovely night out, wherein he paid for the tickets and dinner, and I would pay for the beer at the game. Sounded like a good deal to me. Beer is cheap. Beer at a sports arena, I learned, is not. When a person such as myself is in a place such as this, she needs all the liquid sports tolerance she can slug back nothing more than to enjoy the experience. She just did not expect it to come at such a price.

We sit in our seats just as the show starts. The lights begin an ostentatious night club display and the television thing lights up with exciting words that flash across the screen, motivating housewives and househusbands to twirl their dishtowels in the air and scream something like, "We just got a dishwasher! We don't need these anymore!" I look at the time clock and think, I just have to survive to the end of this. Optimism time: there are only three acts of this play, not quarters like I originally thought. Push the ceiling as the kids say!...they don't say that? Well they will after this.

Act one of the sports play: the heroine (this part is played by me), struggles with the idea of enjoying an evening at the arena. She has officially given up on optimism and braces for hockey to drain her of her life force. When I say she's given up on optimism, she's going to stop correcting the negativity in this blog post. I can't NOT complain about things. I am She-Hulk, hear me bitch.

I learned something very interesting within the first few seconds of the match: Boyfriend was cheering for the other team. One does not make friends at a hockey game when one's other half is calling the home team a bunch of pussies. How to deal with this whole thing: drink beer. Every time Boyfriend yells at the Canucks or cheers on the Oilers, the circle of people around us scream at us or try to cause us to explode through creepy bulging-eye contact and what I assume are poorly exercised telepathic muscles. I have a solution that makes the situation better, I point at Boyfriend and announce to everyone in earshot that it's him, and only him that feels that way. I live and breathe Canucks -- though, by the time I've implemented this master plan, I'm a few beers in and don't notice that I'm saying Ganucks. No matter. It's not me that they hate.

Now, I'm sure I've mentioned that Boyfriend is a creature of habit. Boyfriend has a tradition when he goes to games at Rogers Arena; about a minute before the period is over he leaves to go to that restaurant/pub dealy they have in there. I'm half in the bag when Boyfriend grabs my elbow and whisks me away. When he walks fast, I need to run to keep up. Count it folks, that's twice thus far he's made me run in the same night. Why do I need to run? I have no intentions of ever needing to make a fast getaway, well, unless the folks in our section turn on us Frankenstein-mob style. We get to the restaurant, sit on bar stools, hammer down a couple more beers, then my hand is grabbed and I'm pulled out in a rush to get back to our seats because the game will start again soon. Need more beverages. We stop and order a couple more for the next third of the game. Only, I open my wallet, and moths fly out. I trained them to do that; I love a non-verbal cue that signals that I'm out of money.

Boyfriend rolls his eyes. Let's be real for a moment here: what did he expect when he tried to dupe me into buying beer all night long? Boyfriend pulls cash from his pocket. You know, Boyfriend, there's enough there for nachos. And CHURROS! My excitement factor gets out of control when I've been sipping the sports tolerance juice.

We get to our seats, arms ladled with popcorn, nachos, beer, candy, a fake gold grill we bought off a gangster wannabe and churros. That'll teach him not to feed me a proper dinner. This is how one does a soccer game in style. Hockey. It was a hockey game. My insincerest apologies.

Act two starts with a score of I don't know what with two teams I can't differentiate. I've long since forgotten the first period and how we're the neighbours everyone hates. Frankly, at this point I don't care. Act two is when the heroine's heart warms to the sport and she begins to cheer. Only in her haze she doesn't know what or who she cheers for, she just screams like a banshee when those around her do. Boyfriend yells something about a penalty, I get my cavewoman grunt on. Our neighbours boo us. The Canucks do something that warrants excitement from the crowd, I do as the Romans do and scream for those in the arena. The hockey neighbours boo Boyfriend for being contrary; seemed like fun, who wouldn't turn on Boyfriend under the same circumstance? Let's face it; I had no clue what was going on. When I spilled a drink I clapped my hands and tried to high five the guy that ended up wearing it. He did not high-five me back.

Just before the inning ends, Boyfriend grabs my arm and he dashes to the pub/restaurant thingmy; I stumble to keep up. This time at the bar goes by even faster. It feels like I blink and we're back in our seats with more drinks in our hand. Act three, score still unknown, not sure if there have been any penalties, the heroine squeals with delight at the zamboni then konks out for the duration of the period.

I wake to the sounds of the crowd when Boyfriend shakes me awake.

Is it over?
Yeah.
Did they live happily ever after?
Who?
Do we ever have to do this again?
Wouldn't waste my money.
Cool.

Somehow we ended up home. I can't say precisely how far Boyfriend needed to carry me, but we both learned a valuable lesson. Hockey and I just can't handle each other.

Time for tea,

K

Women's studies applied to time

In college I took a women's studies class. In hindsight, I'm not sure why. A room full of raging estrogen and one homosexual man isn't entirely my idea of a good time. Actually, it was a good time, that gay guy and I really hit it off; I really saw a future there...I could have been the next Liza. Never too late to fulfil that dream. Calling all gays: report to me immediately for unconditional friendship -- I will sing at your wedding and entertain you with stories of being the toast of the town and Queen of Broadway. Note to self: become the toast of the town and Queen of Broadway, gays don't befriend liars. What was my point? Yes. Women's studies being an easy class in college. The answer for everything was, "the body," I kid you not. Why do women fall victim to the glass ceiling? Their body. Why is it that women are the ones that have babies and not men? Their body. Why is the thesis of your essay about misogyny and all of your supporting paragraphs are random facts about femininity? That's the body of the essay... A+ for me. To be honest, I don't know that I learned anything from that class... except that my gay friend wasn't into me in the romantic sense.

My point here is that in order to get an A in our relationship, Boyfriend really only needs to know one single thing. Just one. Boyfriend has yet to learn that the answer to everything in our relationship is time. I'm a huge advocate for me-time, it mellows me out and in turn, I'm a nicer girlfriend. During long-winded fights, I sometimes need time to get away from his non-sensical recycled points. This break I get allows me to put things into perspective and figure out that a heated debate about non-existent iPhone apps maybe aren't worth the effort. Sometimes, all the time that's needed is a subtle pause. For instance, the other day:

I stared at myself in the mirror, you know how girls do. You know us ladies, we're all pretty faces and no brains and that's why we make less money than men (did I learn this in college or was it something I saw on MTV?). I did the lean-in so my face practically touched my reflection. Okay, I was being narcissistic and trying to make out with myself, sue me. I needed to see if there was any presence of wrinkles, my skin was clear and my trademark you're-an-idiot-smirk was in fine form. I stood up straight and fluffed my hair to see what I was working with. Then I made the mistake of turning to the side and to my horror, saw the slight overhang of a muffin top that was making itself comfortable around my midriff. Le damn. Boyfriend came in to brush his teeth, so I asked him what every girl has asked their significant half at one time or another.

Boyfriend, I need an honest opinion. Do you think I'm getting f-
Yes.
-at? Beg pardon?

He smiles. I've never wanted to decapitate him so much in my life. The head would be the first to go. Don't be gross, I mean the one that does all of his thinking. Seriously? I'm talking about the one that I can't take seriously. Alright stop. I don't mean his penis. I mean the head that perches on his neck just waiting for me to rip it off and punt it like a football. He'd like that. Every man should know that when a woman asks for an honest opinion she's looking for reassurance. No woman wants the actual truth, especially when the question isn't even finished before the answer comes into existence. For the ladies out there who read this, shake their head and say, "Oh no, my relationship is built on a foundation of honesty," you're probably just shacked up with the gents that are either liars or mama's boys. To you I say, God bless ignorance. But Boyfriend, he failed. He must have missed the class on how to feign sincerity when you lie through your teeth. You would think something that affected his ability to continue life would become a second nature to him. Bad Boyfriend. He pressed his luck and took it one step further. As if his cockamamie smile wasn't enough for an immediate outburst of She-Hulk deliciousness, he reached out and gave my overhang a squeeze. What happened next is kind was kind of a blur; fast forward a few steps to the attempted murder. I tackled him like a linebacker and we both ended up in the shower fully-clothed (this isn't a porno after all). For the copycats out there, a word of advice: you can't drown somebody with a shower head alone. Perhaps the issue was lack of water pressure, I'm not sure. The She-Hulk altered her kill plan and lifted the shower head above her head, preparing to bludgeon him like so many cartoon folk do with frying pans. A war-cry filled the bathroom as the She-Hulk brought the pain. She threw her arms down as though she swung an axe, and Boyfriends hands lifted to guard his face from the attack.

The seconds that ensued were possibly the worst of my life. There was no climactic destruction. Boyfriend, feeling brave, peeked through his fingers to see why he wasn't pulverized. The She-Hulk, in a frenzy, continued to swing back and forth with the shower head, it was to her great misfortune that the hose attached to the wall was not so long as to reach Boyfriend's cranium. Well, piss. Boyfriend let go of a laugh, picked himself up from where he cowered in the bathtub, toweled off and sauntered to the bedroom to change. The She-Hulk was left howling in the bathroom, angry at her failure.

The lesson here, Boyfriend, is that moments like this will stop happening if you take the time to pause, disagree with any shortcomings I may or may not have and give me the answer I want to hear. Problem solved. Remember it this way: Take a pause, or I will kill you.

Interesting though that this last She-Hulk experience came about because of an issue with the female body. Maybe that women's studies prof wasn't entirely the type that chased chickens in her free time. It is a fun pastime though.

Time for tea,

K

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

The Non-Wife

Boyfriend and I are in the midst of a great stretch in our relationship. I feel like the blog shouldn't be all She-Hulk and death threats, but a place where I can give appreciation to Boyfriend for his goodness as well as for his ubiquitous list of shortcomings. I learned the word ubiquitous from one Mr. Bill Cosby. Is he still alive? I haven't seen a jello commercial with him in awhile. How is he faring? Googled it. He's living under an alias. His real name is William Henry Cosby Jr. That must be why so many other people think he's dead too. But he's not, and he's tired of the accusations. Allegedly.

I have to give a tip of the hat to Boyfriend for several reasons:

1) He bought me chocolate as if he knew the She-Hulk was having her lady time.
2) He made me tea when I was in the tub the other day, and I only had to demand it twice.
3) He vacuumed the apartment when Fat shred cardboard everywhere. No more cat fiestas at our place.
4) He was considerate enough to get drunk at a friend's place on Saturday night so Sunday morning I didn't have to watch football. That is, until Boyfriend realized what day it was and figuratively sodomized my Sunday morning when he came home. For the sake of the people that I know who read this I'm going to bold the word figuratively. That's a lesson you only learn thrice. Some people don't get metaphors or sarcasm and that's how rumours start and S&M freaks show up at your door. The good news about that instance was one of those fellas was selling Girl Scout cookies for his niece.
5) He lost his football picks (something about betting...?) and searched everywhere to find that piece of paper. This is happy news because it means I'm not the only loser in the house. I later found that paper in a sweater. See? Good things happen when I steal money from his pockets. Positive reinforcement on questionable behaviour? Check.
6) He didn't passive-aggressively point out that laundry needs to be done. Therefore, our dirty clothes runeth over. Literally. That pile has become a mountain that is subject to avalanches. I should put up signs for the snowboarders before they try to go down some of the runs. However, delightful news for me because I haven't done laundry in a week.
7) He's taking us to Vegas for Christmas.
8) This one is the most important of all: He bought me a typewriter. When the world ends and the power is out, I'll still be able to blog last-century style. I'll fashion the posts into paper airplanes and send them off the balcony to come find you. A story of the She-Hulk destroying Boyfriend will give you comfort at the end of the world. You're welcome.

Now, with all of this peace in the house of She-Hulk, I feel like this is a moment to decree a promotion. To myself. I will no longer be just a girlfriend, but will henceforth be referred to as the Non-Wife. Mostly because I'm not wifely and Non-Wife sounds like an awesome title to have. A Non-Wife would never be found barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen. What's a kitchen? This prestigious position will not be taken lightly; I promise to uphold this made-up oath of the Non-Wife:

Never will I clean or cook. I do not own an apron, nor do I intend to. I'm not accountable, rational or fair. I will forever be frivolous, temperamental and ridiculous. A Non-Wife has the right to resist her nurturing, soft qualities and instead be a self-indulgent psycho.

Ah, yes. A period of ease in a relationship needs to be shaken up with a new title. And I got a raise. By raise I mean I've given up on stealing from his pockets and just go right for his wallet. I feel like this relationship promotion should come with a scepter or tiara. No wait. Neither. I want a giant gong. Nothing says relationship success like a giant gong.

Time for tea,

K

Sessions with Fat

I swing my body onto the couch, kicking my feet up  and leaning my head back on the pillow. I eye the clock on the wall with contempt, berating myself for actually showing up. Fat jumps onto the coffee table and sits. With a flick of her paw, the rimless spectacles that were propped on top of her head move downward and perch on the end of her nose.

"It's been awhile since our last session." I'm forever astonished by her cavalier manner.

Yup.

I lift my hand to wipe away gunk that's collected in the corners of my eyes through the day. Fat nods minutely in my direction. "Want to tell me what happened there?"

Confused, I follow the line of her stare and flip my hand over as if I needed the visual reminder. The bruise, now yellowed, surrounds an itchy scab line.

I cut the corner too tightly on my way out of the kitchen and clipped my hand on the edge of the counter. It hurt like a bitch.

Fat snorts as though that is more professional reaction than just letting go of the laughter that builds inside of her.

What's so funny?

"I love dog humour."

Do I need to remind you that there's a name for cat that's synonymous with vagina? C'mon Fat, I'm paying you by the hour.

She hisses. "Excuse me. Sometimes we can't override our genetic predispositions. Let's get back to it. What have you been up to since our last appointment?"

I dunno. Life. Job #1, Job #2, writing another book and editing the first, stalking Russell Brand, trying to get caught up on sleep, yoga, back alley surgeries...I don't want to talk about my last patient, time with friends, time with Boyfriend."

Fat holds up her paw, "Slow down, I need to write something down." I watch her fumble with a golf pencil and notepad with the picture of a local real estate agent. Her clumsiness causes her to drop the pencil multiple times before she sighs and passes me both the pencil and pad. "I don't have thumbs, can you write down what you just told me?"

You really are the worst shrink ever.

I grab them from her, forget what I am supposed to write down and instead doodle a stick figure of an octopus in a cowboy hat swinging a lasso from each tentacle.

"Do you have any gripes this week?"

I look up and see Fat stirring my tea with the tip of her tail. Not cool, Doc. Not cool. I shove her off the table.

Of course I have gripes this week. One, that's the second time your tail has found its way into my tea. Two, the phrase, "take it to the next level" has really got to go. I don't get it and I don't think the people that say it get it either. What is this supposed next level? Idiots. Three, Boyfriend is telling the world I'm a booze can. Four, what is the deal with those people a few blocks away that have a Christmas tree set up inside their house already? They should know that people like me will sneak up to their windows and judge them harshly. Also, their wallpaper is too much, it should have stayed in the 1980s where it belongs. I lost count of my gripes, but my last one is the NFL.

"Let's address the relevant issues. You really need to learn how to let the little things go and remember that you can't control everything. Just because you don't understand them, doesn't automatically make them idiots." When I shake my head to reject her premise, she continues, "Don't you think that you're judged for seeking therapy from your cat." She jumps back up onto the coffee table, reclaiming her spot beside my tea. I pull out my pistol and wave it in front of her as a polite warning. She sidesteps away from my tea.

Nope. I bet everybody's jealous that they weren't smart enough to think of it first.

"Do me a favour. Write delusional disorder on that pad beside that snowflake you drew."

It's an octopus acting like a cowboy. You and your crazy made up words. I write down what my dyslexic mind hears: order more delusionalidis. Sounds like some kind of flower. I should make sure that it's not poisonous for cats, otherwise I'll have to replace a pet and a therapist.

Fat looks at the clock, "We're wasting away your entire session. Boyfriend tells people that you're a booze can. Is there any truth to that?

Not in the literal sense.

I think back to date night, the night before last. Classic American - dinner and a movie. I had a martini at dinner...two martinis...and a couple beer before we left the house, but that's more of a sweet-freaking-Friday-I've-made-it-to-another-weekend celebration. Boyfriend told the waitress that I was difficult and a booze can. I suppose it didn't help matters when I gulped down the first martini and argued with him over the kind of wings he wanted for an appetizer. I didn't want any, but I wanted him to order a flavour that I liked on the off-chance I wanted one. He did not do what I said. He ordered the opposite of what I wanted. Bad Boyfriend Behaviour. The She-Hulk showed up for a visit and spat metaphorical venom at him until her food arrived and calmed her down.

"Do you feel that you possibly overreacted?"

Not in the slightest. Even the She-Hulk needs to go out on the town every once in awhile. And it's not the first time he's made people think I'm a drunk. Anytime we go to the liquor store, he always makes me out to be some bottle-swilling, stumbling, bumbling alcoholic and he's the poor sap that's trying to turn my life around.

"At which point, you She-Hulk," Fat's paws claw into nothingness as she tries to do air quotes.

I didn't really have another option. What was I supposed to do?

"In the past, I believe we have discussed taking the high road. Perhaps this is an idea we should revisit...?" She bats at a housefly that comes into her line of vision, recomposes herself and stares at me again to wait for my answer.

Nope. I told you. I am high road abstinent. For now and forever.

"I would greatly suggest you rethink that conviction. You said something about the NFL, let's discuss that."

I rolled onto my side and stared at her. I heard the quiet crack of porcelain as my face changed from neutral to disdain. The She-Hulk was doing her best to break free; simply hearing those three letters pumped my veins with hate.

The NFL.

I despise the NFL. It's an agent for hell, you know that, right? The ubiquitous games, the meaningless jargon, the endless replays, the soul-sucking mind thieves. Stop time has to be an invention of the devil. Boyfriend's been taken captive by the NFL. Mondays, Thursdays, all day on Sunday. Frankly, NFL, you're welcome to take him...just take him out of my house. Take him to a pub, to one of his boyfriends' houses, just don't flaunt your hold over him in my own living room. I might see you for what you really are, but Boyfriend, he's just not as sharp as me. And last Monday, I imagine the soulless bastards that are part of the man-stealing conspiracy had a great time with that Green Bay Packers/Seatle _______(some-kind-of-bird-mascot)s game. Do you have any idea how many times I watched a replay of the touchdown/not-a-touchdown fiasco? You don't know how many times Boyfriend said, Watch this. Unbelieveable. Fucking idiots. Watch this..." He was on that loop for three days. I can't pretend to care for longer than two minutes and eighteen seconds.

"Have you ever tried taking a genuine interest in what Boyfriend likes?"

High. Road. Abstinent. Don't try to change me.

Fat sighs, pulls off her glasses and sets them on the table. "I think that will be all for today."

Cool. I'm out of here.

"One more thing before you leave?" I look to the front door and back at Fat, and back and forth one more time. "Write She-Hulk-aholic on the notepad there."

Time for tea,

K

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

Tee time

The biggest difference between Boyfriend and me is that he's a boy and I'm a girl. That would make for a lame blog post if I just left it at that, wouldn't it? You can learn the differences between a boy and girl from a book. This blog is for a hoot, not knowledge. Boyfriend and I shared an experience just a couple days ago (yesterday?) that made me realize just how different the two of us can be. Oh no, wait, it was two days ago. I remember, because I went to the gym in the morning. Not just a hat rack here (K taps her temple knowingly with an index finger).

One of the few interests that Boyfriend and I share is golf. He's been into it for aeons (or eons if you will). I decided that I liked it a couple years ago (yesterday?). There's a great amount of satisfaction when your club connects to the golf ball and you knock it into oblivion. What's that? Am I a good golfer? I will have you know that my golf outfit matches my golf shoes which match my golf clubs. Who cares what my abilities are when I look so good? And believe me, it didn't just come together. I somehow offended many a golf shop owner when I asked them for cute clothes, not the lesbian apparel they had on display. Boyfriend doesn't think I know what the word lesbian means. I use it to describe his relationship with Mutt. Lesbian means an adorable idea that doesn't appeal to everyone, does it not?

I've have known for many moons that I'm artsy fartsy. I don't live in the real world, but frankly, it's a lot more fun for me that way. This train of thought has brought me back to my first year in college and I found myself in a biology class. The subject was digestion. What the prof said then was one of the few things of use I learned in college: "I know you're art students because none of you had an interest to know why feces sometimes float." There you have it kids. The mystery of the subjects scientists ponder, solved. I want to say that the reason for floating had something to do with fat content, but if you're curious for an actual answer, google it. If you google it, it means you're not an artist. The facts speak for themselves.

Anywho, believe it or not, there was a break in the Vancouver rain and it was actually somewhat sunny here for awhile...on Tuesday. Boyfriend came up with a brilliant idea: we should go to the driving range and hit some balls around rather than hang around the apartment where one of us busted the others balls. We grabbed our clubs and headed out the door. I have yet to adjust to carrying my own clubs around, so I'm sure I spooked more than a few of our neighbours when my bag banged against the hallway walls. Neighbours, I'm sorry, but frankly I can't feel too bad, especially to the woman who dresses her dogs. Yipes.

We made it to the range, which was actually quiet. Too many people exerted themselves during the weekend of the Masters I suppose. Yeah. I know golf things. Masters means the green jacket dealy, not that I care because Ricky Fowler wasn't playing. Now he has a nice golf wardrobe, so bright and fancy. Also I don't care because based on what I tuned into of Boyfriend's words, they don't let women play at that course. What kind of backward-ass etiquette is that? Everyone is welcome at my golf course that I don't have. BYOB.

Boyfriend grabs some baskets and we both watch as they fill with golf balls.

Ooh. Yellow. Pretty.
There's a reason they're yellow.
I know. I've been thinking about the pink ones I have. They don't match my golf stuff.
Grab your basket.

Now Boyfriend takes his golf seriously. He stretches out, rotating his shoulders and all that fun stuff. I put on my golf glove, which I need to replace. I Cruella De Ville'd the tips with my fingernails. They poked right through the glove. Terrible workmanship. My only prep is to put on my sunglasses. I pick through my clubs and pull out the seven. I don't know why. I still don't know the difference between all the numbers on the sticks.

This is how I take a shot:
I put the ball on the ground.
I stand shoulder width apart.
I shuffle left to right.
I shuffle closer to the ball, then further away.
I end up standing essentially where I started with my feet shoulder width apart.
I wiggle around a little bit to make sure my stance feels right.
I hold my club out and gently tap it to the ball's surface to instill some memory of where it's meant to connect when I swing.
Most importantly, when I pull into a back swing I start to hum.

The humming is effective. I hit the ball much better when I do that and that's not just the opinion of this lady. Believers are out there. There is a theory that humming relaxes me somehow helping with the delivery of my swing. Golf, go figure. Boyfriend sees my technique and offers me tips and I shoo him away with fluttering fingertips. No, no. I'm here for the fun, not improvement. If I care and try to hone this craft I won't enjoy it so much. There's a reason I never keep score when I golf. Boyfriend doesn't get understand.

Boyfriend's technique is slightly different:
He picks a target.
He takes a few practice swings.
He eyes the distance and direction.
He wets his finger with saliva and holds it up to account for the wind.
He stands shoulder width apart.
In a fluid motion, Boyfriend swings backward, then forward with a practiced transfer of weight from back to front.
He whacks the ball way the eff out there.

Wow! That was a good one! When I say this he just looks at me. He winds up and hits another.
Wow! That was a good one!
You don't have to say that every time. Boyfriend hits another ball.
Holy! Did you see that mother fly? Boyfriend shakes his head. My enthusiasm does not amuse him.

When we're both through our buckets of yellow golf balls, I feel great. I had fun, which is my only incentive to do things. Boyfriend though, is already trying to figure out when he can schedule more time at the range so he can improve. Yipes.

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

An ode to my first follower, Erin

I haven't even started the post and you've already been lied to. Yes, this one here is dedicated to Erin, this is no lie. But this isn't going to be a lyric poem. That's what an ode is. If you didn't know that, I've just made you smarter. This is an educational place sometimes. If you would like to make this more of an ode in your head, pretend that it's being sung to you by a cartoon pig dressed like Shakespeare while he gently strums a mandolin. Everybody wins. Okay, it doesn't have to be a pig, but trust me, envisioning this pig will make this a heck of a lot more entertaining for everyone. Hey. I don't call your ideas stupid.

Even before I commence writing I know this will be a short post. But sometimes such is what happens. Not every story can be a harrowing tale of my life being shacked up with my dude (eloquent, yes?). I almost used the word epic instead of harrowing, but I feel epic has been overdone. Epic is finished kids, time to move on to something else. Seriously, keep it up and I'm starting an End Epic campaign, you'll see. Well you probably won't see, it'll likely end up just being me alone mumbling about its overuse while I'm all alone in my apartment. At least that woman in the mirror will support me. Okay, let's end this ramble, I've wasted enough space.

As we all know, I'm a dreamer in two ways: One, I like things that are whimsical and two, I dream about fanciful things every night without fail. And, is law in a live-in relationship, one is required to disclose any and all dreams to their significant other no matter how irrelevant or boring (the dreams, not the significant other). On one of the rare mornings where we both get to sleep in together I catch him within moments of waking to tell him about my dream. I went to a cupcake shop and bought six Tiffany's blue cupcakes with round black sprinkles for $110. Now you're probably thinking that dream me is a sucker for this, but if I won the eating contest and could fit a whole cupcake in my mouth I would have won $5000. Analyze that. My dream is somewhat irrelevant here, this post has to do with Boyfriend's dream.

After I share my nightly visions, Boyfriend shares his. It's not much of a story, more of a sentence.

I had a dream that you cheated on me with somebody you work with.
Huh.

Internally I'm saying, 'that's interesting, you don't know anyone I work with'. We all know that Huh is neither a confirmation or denial, but it takes me a little while to figure out that the right answer was something more like, 'Oh Boyfriend, we all know that's never going to happen'. The point is I eventually realized that he probably needed some kind of reassurance that no others are in the picture. I mean, if his subconscious is coming up with this, maybe on some level there's doubt. Yes, after my shower I will bolster confidence that he is my one and only.

Post-shower, I flop on our couch beside him.

Oh Boyfriend, about your dream. If it makes you feel better, the only person I would cheat on you with at work is Erin.

His brow creases, wondering where the hell this is going. Also Boyfriend's probably thinking I said Aaron, not Erin. It's hard to clarify this verbally, and for some reason I just keep talking.

But she's too young for me. Seriously, she is one lovely lady. If she were cloned in miniature size and sold in stores, she would put Barbie out of business because Erin's a better role model and she's also dynamite with a laser beam (Queen, anyone? Guaranteed to blow your mind? Yes? No? Yes?).

Eventually, Boyfriend gets that I'm kidding, not without making some sort of comment about she and I being lesbians. Well, what Boyfriend doesn't know is that I am sweet on Erin, but in a totally platonic way. Hope I'm not putting myself out there with that last sentence. I'm going to put my topic sentence here near the end: Ladies, clarify when you are talking to your fella. They're not always apt to pick up the difference between Erin and Aaron. They will also credit you with being "in like" with a girl once they figure out which Erin/Aaron you mean. Once your boyfriend calls you a lesbian, even in jest, it steers your relationship into a weird place.

Not sure how your imaginary Shakespearean pig with his mandolin fared with making this into an ode, but a tip of the cap to those of you that tried to make it work. Also, Boyfriend says this reads like I want a piece of Erin. Can't a girl be complimentary to another girl without the accusation? Sheesh...

Time for tea,

K

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

I want to like football, but I can't

Oh Autumn, the best season of them all. Summer, I'm sorry, even though we usually have a good time, you'll always be my silver medal. I just like bundling up and sipping hot beverages from Starbucks better when the sidewalk is awash with successful suicide attempts by colourful leaves. Also, in autumn one needs to wear more clothes, so it's okay to finally let that gut you've been holding in all summer flop over top of your jeans. But Summer, we will always have frappuccinos, that's the one thing you have over Autumn. Plus you burn me, it's an abusive relationship.

I had to call Muse to find out how one spells frappuccino; we've all learned something today.

With all the delicious things about fall (Starbucks, scarves, cute sweaters and new boots), the thing that Boyfriend and I miss each other most on is football. He loves cute sweaters and new boots. I like him better if I think he does anyhow. Moving on. Now that NFL is on we've hit that season where the footing of our relationship gets a little tricky. Side note here, NFL is the point of contention because according to some people, CFL isn't a real sport (and yet he still watches it). I'm just the messenger, don't hold me in contempt if you like the team that wears the corn husk hats.

With football comes the annual... let's call it a debate over the living room situation: what to do about the television. Let me preface this by telling you about Boyfriend's love numero deux: Dudes in tight spandex throwing a pig skin, he loves it. Were they really made of pig skin back in the day? What kind of weirdo comes up with that? Honestly, guh-ross. Anyhow... Boyfriend and football have been together way, waaaaaaaaay longer than he and I have, so I have to learn to share. I can be a reasonable person... sometimes. Right, the television issue: Boyfriend gets the HD NFL dealy thing with all of the games every year, so Sunday is his day to take over the living room. No problem, I can relinquish the remote for one day. You with me so far? This is where it becomes a bit of a situation, one television isn't enough for Boyfriend. He needs two televisions in order to watch ALL the games because it only makes sense if we're paying for the NFL package dealy. He may or may not have used the word dealy. Sometimes he talks so much it's hard to listen so I just throw in my own words. This brings us to the annual argumen... debate where he tries to convince me that we need two tvs for football season and I say no, we're not a sports bar. It's a slippery slope, one day it's two tvs and a stocked liquor cabinet, and the next I'll be coming home to a bunch of neon signs that promote beer, and slutty waitresses in my living room. A-no a-thank a-you. I swear, Boyfriend, if you read this and get any ideas I will She-Hulk so fast you will lose your face. That's your warning. What can I say about our... debate... except that when Boyfriend wants something he will talk in his Eastern Canadian slang until I ungraciously concede before my ears want to burrow inside of my head to get away from it. For the last two years we have come to the agreement that he can have a second television, but it only comes into the living room on Sundays, and Sunday night it goes back into the closet. And idiot that I am, think that this will actually happen. Dear NFL, I hate you so much sometimes.

All in all, there are two main reasons that I can't like football:

1) Boyfriend will love me more if I do. You may think that this would be a good thing. You're wrong. If we spend more time together it will disrupt the delicate balance of our relationship and may lead to our undoing. You see, if I don't see much of him, Boyfriend appreciates our time together which makes him act like a better boyfriend. And less time together means there are less instances where I threaten to knock his front teeth out because he lies about keeping a second television in the living room four months out of the year. Win-win.

2) There are two flaws of football that can't be ignored: it is both stupid and boring.

That's all for today kids.

Time for tea,

K

Why we will never get married

I've probably had to field the question, "When are you two going to get married?" like eighteen thousand times. This is no hyperbole. Family alone accounts for sixteen thousand and seventy six of these inquiries. Honestly, their questions may not always be as straightforward as the above version, but may come out as, "Now that you live together, what's the next step?" or "You went to Mexico and didn't come back married?" No. When we got back from Mexico we were still drunk, but not married. I think that's pretty responsible drinking on our part. Though, Boyfriend did buy me a ring while we were there. There was one that I liked in this silver store, I bartered with the salesman, put the ring on my finger and before walking out said, Boyfriend, pay the man.

We're in no rush. I don't think either of us really care to hurry into matrimony. Especially Boyfriend. I might have said something to screw myself out of a proposal. MIGHT HAVE. As I'm sure you know, women get these ideas into their minds to "test" their boyfriends as it were. We freak them out to see what happens. One of mine was quite typical of all members of my species: bring up the subject of nuptials and watch Boyfriend get super uncomfortable trying to handle the topic with grace... nope, not grace... Boyfriend isn't graceful... he was trying to deal with the conversation without throwing up I think. Maybe I shouldn't have followed him into the men's washroom at that restaurant to have this conversation. I'm kidding, but if it makes for better storytelling, we'll say that it actually happened.

What's the deal? You want to get married one day?
Maybe one day.
Yeah, me too. Whenever that happens I don't want to do that whole big wedding thing though. Not into that at all.
What would you want to do?
Run away and get married on a beach. You?
Run away and get married on a beach.

This is where boyfriend softens, probably thinking, yes, I picked the right girl. I feel like I'm being too easy on the guy. Time to bring out the big guns:

I think it's stupid to throw all that money away on a wedding when you can use it for something much better.
Absolutely.
I want a huge mother of an engagement ring. A BAM RING!
A Bam Ring? What does that mean?
I want it to be so enormous I need the strength of my right hand to lift my left. When I show it to people I want to heft my hand onto a table and have the ring be so heavy that my hand lands with a thud on the tabletop. BAM! When I punch people in the face I want it to leave a huge indent so they can brag to their friends about the gargantuan ring they were hit with. BAM! That's what I want.
That's all you want? Okay.

I know he's being sarcastic, but I also know Boyfriend is the king of finding loopholes. He just hears the words, big ring.

I also want it to be a flawless diamond... and I will be getting it appraised.
Yeah, you'll get your bam ring.

I think the part that he omits is that it will have to be from somebody else because what I want he will never buy. Too impractical. He could probably buy a new boat for the price of the ring I want to boast on my finger. To be fair though, if he did get me this ring, It'd ruin me. I'd probably wreck my back schlepping it around. When I mention this, I'm quite sure he smiled and put a mental check mark in the pro column for the Bam ring.

Three years and no ring, go figure. Boyfriend, you realize if you get me this ring I will call you an idiot. And then hit you with it. BAM! Between statements like this, and the threat of getting the engagement ring appraised, Boyfriend will never come to me on bended knee. Take a lesson ladies.

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