Doing it Garfield Style

Garfield had it right. Mondays can suck it. Sleeping is euphoric. Lasagna reigns supreme. Screw kindergarten. Everything I need to know I learned from a fat cartoon cat.

Last Monday was a drag. And not the sassy kind like Nina Flowers. I can't really pin down why it was a unimpressive other than the fact that it was Monday. Send me back to bed because hiding from Monday beats facing it...plus we just bought these delicious new pillows. Who wouldn't want to curl up in bed when St. Peter opens the bedroom door for you? Come to think of it, that man never goes home. Hope he doesn't have an ear to the door after dark. Pervert. I'm actually writing this post from bed because tomorrow is another Monday and I'm bracing for it. Total honesty? I'm writing this post from bed because it's Football Sunday and I'm tired of getting confused and thinking that Boyfriend is talking to me and not the padded dudes on the field. Believe me, I've tried to explain that those coaches, players and refs can't hear him, but he insists on telling them what he thinks. I've told you before, he just doesn't get how technology works. Poor old man Boyfriend.

Back to the story. Last Monday, Boyfriend decided that to make us lasagna for dinner. I freaking love lasagna, perhaps more than Boyfriend; thankfully they're a package deal so I don't have to choose between them. He went to the store and picked up all the groceries to make the pasta...except the pasta noodles. Of course, this oversight wasn't acknowledged until he'd already started cooking this, mixing that, sprinkling his seasonings and whatnot.

Uh oh.
What?
You have to go to the store.
Why?
We don't have any lasagna noodles.
You can go to the store.
I can if you watch what I've got going on the stove.

We all know that I'm not going to watch whatever's happening on the stove. I could try, but I recently ruined Pillsbury ready-to-bake cookies, so I flop off the couch, grab my keys, and in my schlubby Monday state, stomp over to the corner store. I must have been muttering aloud because the very nice asian man that owns the place interrupted me to say, "We just have cheddar." I don't know what he heard me say, but I was talking to myself. Which, might I add, is completely different than shouting at a television. I didn't want to seem rude so I picked up a box of lasagna noodles and said: If you're out of that, I'll just take this. He offered me a lop-sided uncertain smile with my change. Neither of us had anything else to add to the conversation that didn't appear to make sense to either side.

When I got home I flung the box on the counter.

These are the wrong kind.

She Hulk attack! Before the rage works into the muscles and causes them to explode in green fury, Boyfriend cocks his head to the side and says: Just kidding. Bad joke. Non-joke really. The anger subsides and I stomp into the living room again.

I build myself into a cocoon on the couch, determined to trap myself there for the rest of the evening. The good news was, it worked. The bad news was, it worked.

In my comfort, I was on the brink of sleep, in that weird realm of sleeping but not sleeping. The lines of reality blur in this state and you can never be sure of what's real and what's not. Especially when the television is on, those cartoons can mess you up real good. The oven door slammed shut with satisfaction when Boyfriend filled it with lasagna. Even the oven loves that pasta. It's so good inanimate objects desire it. Lasagna can work it.

While we waited for the oven to have its way with our dinner (not in the sexy way, but how do you think that would work?) Boyfriend sat on the coffee table with a box in hand. While out he came across this box filled with various dog treats for mutt. I passively watched as he opened the box and opened the packages of treats inside. My eyes flick to the television then back to Boyfriend. His fingers dig out a treat from the package he's holding and Boyfriend regards it, then smells it, I glance again at the television and back at Boyfriend just in time to see him nibble the corner of the treat. I will never get used to this. Boyfriend - and I love him for this, I do - tests out any new treats we give Mutt. He will never give anything to Mutt that he wouldn't eat himself.

Have you had these ones before? He takes a bite and lets the treat sweep across his palate. Yeah, we've had these before.

Boyfriend rips into a small box, and bites into what looks like spinach wrapped in phyllo pastry.

These spinach ones are great, try some.
Uh. No.
They're actually pretty good. He tosses a treat to Mutt who gobbles it up like he's just discovered the joy of eating.
I think I can hold out until dinner, but thanks.

Boyfriend shrugs, as if I don't know what I'm missing and puts the treats away. I pull a blanket up and over my head. Was that a dream? Not a dream? Wake me when the lasagna's ready.

Time for tea,

K

Oh Piss

One side of my family has a saying that I never really thought about until now. Check the title, that's the legacy my kinfolk have left me with. We say, Oh piss. It's one of those things you just say when something bad happens. Not even something bad, sometimes it's just said in an effort to pretend that you're listening to Boyfriend drone on about boat this, NFL lockout that, something about Tim Horton's changing their style of hot beverage lids. Oh Piss is the go-to thing to throw out there when you don't know what to say or you don't want to be an asshole and swear in public. That's just rude. Therefore, may I suggest to all of you that this is a phrase you're going to want to keep in your holster. My Ma utilizes the classic, Oh Piss, Bro keeps it simple with just, Piss, and I class it up with, Well, Piss. What? It's classy. Goes great at any event with lace doilies and crumpets. It is most proper to say, Well, Piss, and dab the corners of your mouth with a kerchief. Prove me wrong.

In every relationship there will be a time where you realize, Well, Piss, the honeymoon period is over. My defining moment took place on a sunny vacation last year. You know, the kind of getaway where you reconnect as a couple, take the defibrillator to your relationship and revive the honeymoon stage for at least a couple more months. It's a proven fact.

For the math freaks out there, please solve for x:

Relationship(Booze + Vacation + Sunshine) = x

I sincerely hope that none of you are actually solving this equation...it's not real math. The fact that I have to tell you this is just embarrassing. Please read no further and remove yourself from this post. We'll see you in the next post providing you don't bring your dumb-assery with you. A-thank-you.
For the rest of you, the answer is, well, piss. Seriously. This is a post about urination. My Boyfriend pissed all over our vacation (not literally, but literally in some sense). Ignore the contents of the parenthesis in the last sentence. Perhaps it's better if I explain.

Sometimes after a hot day in the sunshine, a couple needs to escape to the privacy of their hotel room. Stop. Don't be presumptuous, I'm not talking sexy stuff here. You nasty folk. I'm talking more about the wind-down phase of the day. I like to draw a bath and chill out before bed, usually with tea, but vacations have a way of changing parts of your daily routine. It was some kind of adult beverage that I brought to sip while I pondered the day. Aside: yes, I ponder and spend a great deal of my time pondering too. Well, no, more let my imagination take the helm and entertain me as my brain deserves a break too. You go imagination, you’re a good time. Moving on. What tends to happen when one is in the sunshine all day drinking much more than they should of aforementioned beverages is there is a certain side effect that comes with brightness. Direct light makes you want to hide away in the shadows and slink around like the Phantom of the Opera. Well, piss, that could be fun. Screw this post, grab a mask to cover your hideous faces and I'll meet you at the theatre. Aside: it amuses me that people actually read this blog. I should warn you again of the content of this post just in case you missed the previous heads up: this is a story about peeing. If you continue to read this you're as foolish as I am for writing it.

Let's try the story from the top, my imagination jumbled me up pretty good. I was in the hotel room bathtub with the shower curtain drawn to hide the light's brightness. My original plan was to drink in the tub with a soft candle glow to keep it classy, but one never thinks to bring candles on vacation. Well, piss. There I sat, pondering about bird attacks on humans or something else of rich importance when I heard Boyfriend stumble into the room. I remembered back to the moment our flight landed in paradise, some back-alley doctor met us at the airport. He bellowed, "Clear" and struck us both in the chest with battery-powered paddles before sprinting away yelling, "No refunds" over his shoulder. We both felt different after that encounter. It's always sad when mental institutions shut down and they set their patients free on the streets. I thought maybe that instance was Boyfriend's motivation to come into the bathroom, so we could have a heart to heart while he lovingly fed me fresh pineapple. Frankly, I thought this was a likely guess.

Now, the layout of this bathroom comes into play here. If it were set up differently, I'm certain I wouldn't have been as traumatized. If you stood in the doorway of the bathroom, the sink was straight ahead, immediately to the right of the door was the toilet, and directly beside the toilet (less than a half-foot separation, keep this in mind) was the bathtub where I kept busy inventing any number of neat things in my brain. As always when a clever person takes a bath, they sit facing the faucet. The tub's faucet shared a wall with the bathroom sink. Brace yourselves.

I pulled back the shower curtain, expecting some delectable pineapple, and instead I got an eyeful of Boyfriend's urethra. Well, no. That's incorrect. The urethra is on the inside (you’re welcome for this knowledge). What I did see, while I looked up from where I lay in the tub, was Boyfriend's...golden water shall we say, streaming from his man bits into the toilet bowl inches from my head. ROMANCE OVER! No matter how loud you scream, throw the shower curtain back into place and pour the contents of the shampoo bottle into your eyes, you can't unsee this vision. Minor note: This is one of very few instances where shouting Piss! over and over again does not help the situation. Man pee near my face was never something to which I aspired. The trauma from that experience did it. The Honeymoon era had officially flat lined.

True-ish story.

I would love to say that now is time for tea and take my leave of you, but there's something more I need to get off my chest. Boyfriend, pay attention. Seriously, don't just gloss over these words and pretend to read, usually I find that cute. You know what? I'm just going to read it aloud just to make sure you understand where I'm coming from:

I would willingly sacrifice half my living room in our fingernail-sized apartment for a second bathroom. For the men and women out there that successfully share a bathroom, I fear you. I really and truly do. The opposite sexes were not meant to share this space. Not only does he infringe on valuable real estate for my makeup, candles and the boats that I play with in the bathtub, but he picks the worst time to have to pee. Now when Boyfriend has to relieve himself while I'm in the shower, he just comes right on in and does his thing. I feel like this would be less of a problem if our bathroom light didn't hit him from behind and splay his silhouette across the shower curtain. That's right, pal, we have no secrets! I might not hear it when the shower is running, but damn if your shadowy outline doesn't give away your style. I don't know that style is the right word, but perhaps that shake thing that guys do when they're done has a variety of techniques. I don't know. This post is an official request for you to stop. Piss in a plant please, I'm killing them anyway.

That being said, just because boys have the ability to pee more freely than women does not mean they should. Again, Boyfriend, I saw you at the golf course sneak off to empty the tank. I can catch grasshoppers and see things I don't want to at the same time. When I showed you the jumpy friend I caught you said he was pissed off. To which I say he was pissed off because he was pissed on. The next point is K for the win: How would you feel if I bought a She-Pee and just relieved myself wherever I wanted? Google She-Pee. Never in my life have I ever had to go so bad that I need one of those.

Well. I just reread what I wrote, and I can't say that this is the most flattering post I have done, but they can't all be gold. This one was golden water. Well, piss.

Time for tea,

K

Post Script: My apologies. Apparently I mean NHL in the first paragraph. Of all things to take offence about...

Effective Communication is Knowing the Difference Between What is Said and What is Meant

Boyfriend found his way back to the homestead. I figured in all that time apart his old-man brain would have become a bit fuzzy and forgetful. The next time I have this window of opportunity I should perhaps just leave town myself, pack up Fat and Mutt and just run like hell. Somewhere he would never think to find us, where would that be? Greenland. Definitely Greenland. France is far too obvious and if I have to explain why, you just don't get me at all. I do like croissants...but that's beside the point.

Before he departed, our eyes met and I reached for his hand. I grabbed it and in a quick movement twisted it behind his back and made my firm demand, Bring me back some saltwater taffy. What I meant was, Bring me back some saltwater taffy or the She Hulk will greet you upon your return with a chef knife and jar of pickle juice to splash into the resulting wounds. At this point, Boyfriend was sobbing, saying, Anything you want, just please let me go. Well, not sobbing. Laughing because Mutt was licking his feet, but I'm sure he was still intimidated by my kung fu grip. He knew what I meant with my demand. It's called good communication, gladiator style.

What is not good communication was what happened next. I bent his arm some more and said, I want another present too. What I meant was, Get me another surprise present that isn't stupid. For those of you that are reading along, the literary device used in the previous sentence is what is known as foreshadowing. Let's read along to see what happens.

When he came through the door after a week and a half out at sea, or mining, or whatever he was doing, he thrust a bag of saltwater taffy into my hands. Love that stuff, junkies can keep their crack, all I need in this life is saltwater taffy. Really, why aren't I fat? I Must be coming back in my next life as a whale or sumo wrestler. Meh. Worth it. Two points to Boyfriend for coming through with my sugary addiction. Minus a point and a half for bringing home bad flavours. Fruity, Boyfriend, I like fruity, next time pick flavours that would compare with a pride parade. That's a compliment by the way. Also, LOVED the pride parade. We should have them every day. How fantastic would life be if every day was the gay pride parade? Best life ever and enough glitter for everyone! I'm going to need to set up a meeting with the mayor, I'm sure he's got some pull and can make that happen, yes?

Where was I? Ah, Boyfriend's mystery gift. Brace yourselves, folks, it doesn't get much worse. I should have known to run when Boyfriend chuckled as he pulled my surprise present from his suitcase. My instincts are always right, always run when you feel you should, I'm coming Greenland! No, set fire to the apartment and then run because whatever he bought is going to ruin my life and home anyways. Boyfriend pulled out this plastic-coated card stock from his luggage and flicked it onto the bed so I could read it. New Rule: A present that makes Boyfriend giggle is NOT considered an official gift for me. That's the first clue to realizing whatever it is will cause emotional outrage. I must remember to always keep a lighter on or near my person so when the instinct hits I can flick the Bic and take off.

The card has, I need to pause to calm down for a moment as the She Hulk stirs at the thought of it, a mass produced painted picture of a giraffe necked chihuahua that takes over most of the card stock - could it be any more awesome? Yes (If you don't pick up on the sarcasm here you are banned from the blog, banned!), hold your breath and wait for it kids, the caption on the picture reads: BEWARE GUARD CHIHUAHUA ON DUTY. Oh, apologies, that's a misquote; there's an exclamation point after beware. Wow, best gift ever. It would be improved ten-fold if the little rat-dog in the picture sang like those plastic-mounted fish. Boyfriend really gets me. Surprisingly I fought the strong urge to rip this monstrosity into forty-two hundred pieces and believe it or not my angry hands didn't wrap around Boyfriend's throat either. Woop woop for restraint. I must confess, it's only restraint because I thought the whole thing was a joke. My real gift was still in the suitcase, because he's smart enough to get me something that doesn't entirely suck. Eyes of prey watch as Boyfriend unpacked every last thing in his suitcase and put it back to its appropriate spot in the apartment. He's one of those weirdos that doesn't throw his bag on the floor upon arriving home and two weeks later finally remembers that the skirt he's been looking for the last few days is still packed in that bag with several other things that need to be reintroduced to a laundry machine. This is an official triple B situation kids: Bad Boyfriend Behaviour. The bad gift thing, not the missing skirt thing. The missing skirt thing wasn't a real thing. It's sad that I have to explain that to you.

That reminds me of the time I tried to correct Boyfriend's behaviour by attaching electrodes to his temples and wiring him to a sparking electrical outlet. Oh no, wait. That hasn't happened yet. That's what my therapist suggests in order to ease the tension in our relationship. She says that this will open the floodgates of communication. Well, maybe not the electrode thing specifically, but I knew what she was saying, I can read between the lines. My cat is so smart and I only have to pay for her time with tuna. Who says you can't buy good therapy with canned fish?

If you will indulge in a moment of honesty, not fake honesty like I usually insert into the blog, Boyfriend and I are terrible communicators. We're still learning how to share our feelings with each other. Apparently, I feel that sometimes you should shut up and I feel like unless you want to watch football you should leave, are not legitimate feelings. Sometimes I feel like I underpay with that tuna. She says we're a work in progress. I say my therapist is morbidly obese. Sorry, I feel that she's morbidly obese, especially when I pick her up and I feel the squishiness of her rolls. You're fat, bitch. Sorry, that was the She Hulk.

When it comes to communication, I'm not the only one guilty of omitting exactly what I mean to say. For instance, when Boyfriend says, Is that right, eh? during a conversation what he means is, Whatever information you are telling me right now I'm going to tell everyone I know and quote it as fact. Usually that one has to do with stories about people in the sporting world, ways to repair boats, statistics on diseases that befall house pets that will inevitably kill the owners, stuff like that. I also know that when he says, That's weird, he means, I don't understand what you're saying but it offends me, and we'll be going another few rounds in our never-ending fight.

So when I say, I don't want to marry you or have your babies, clearly that's not what I mean. Lord knows we're not upfront with what we mean. Obviously I mean, I'm happy with where we're at right now. I'm not sure how he got all, That's weird, about it. The gloves come up, and long story short, we both end up crying in the corner licking our wounds. What? Our therapist is a cat, we're bound to start grooming ourselves like that. Boyfriend says he heard that from a very reliable source.

It pains me to say that we ended up having a conversation. One of those real ones full of whining and statements like, "We have a problem, we need to fix it, let's work as a team and find a solution, wah wah wah..." Not that there's anything wrong with that. It's just not our flavour. Feelings, bleh. The conversation did make me think of why I said that I didn't want to wed or procreate with Boyfriend right now. Genuine honesty coming out again, please don't vomit: I don't actually know what I want right now. I'm cool right where we're at. I'm sure somewhere down the line I'll get some sort of inclination one way or the other but right now, ah light bulb...I meant to add right now to the end of the statement I don't want to marry you or have your babies. My bad. Alrighty, That's weird was definitely warranted. 

Another part of why I said what I said is that I don't want a BAM engagement ring that has a damn chihuahua photo etched into the diamond and and engraving inside the ring that says, "I like stupid things."

As for babies, do I really want a kid that has the same sense of humour as Boyfriend? OF COURSE NOT. NOT NOW, NOT EVER! Oh geez, I couldn't even begin to imagine a miniature version of Boyfriend. He'd be all full of words that aren't real and into sports and boats, has a keen old man interest in the weather and would prefer I read updates on political campaigns instead of Dr. Seuss at bedtime. The last part is the biggest crime of all. A world without the Lorax or lines like "I'll hunt in the mountains of Zomba-ma-Tant | with helpers who all wear their eyes on a slant" is not a world that I want to live in. Seriously, take a read of If I Ran the Zoo. Man, I need a kid to read to.

As with every story there must be a silver lining. Here's this one: The end result of our discussion about "feelings" and "time together" is that we're actually going to work on spending time together. This is especially happy news for you. More time with Boyfriend means more adventures for the blogs. Happy day. Boyfriend and I survived a conversation about how we need to say what we actually mean and we both came out of the arena alive. Eat your heart out Spartacus.

Time for tea,

K

Breaking News: BOYFRIEND IS GONE

Time to go track down your bookies, folks, who had the second week of August? It finally happened: Boyfriend left me. For a man, well, two men. I came home from work and his golf clubs were gone. He and his fellas made a break for the border while I was making a living. Asses. The nerve of them to go on vacation without me. Super not cool. Don't fret, dear readers. There will be a massive beat down by the She Hulk on his eventual return. Hope he doesn't read this post before he chances coming back, the pulverization of Boyfriend is going to be a surprise welcome home gift.

It's been freaking hot and I'm feeling like a pig at a luau in this apartment. Therefore, Mutt, Fat and I have come up with a brilliant idea to escape the heat. We've put a swimming pool in our pod of an apartment. By swimming pool I mean filled the bathtub with cold water that we sit in whilst wearing swim caps. Mutt has his life jacket on too, it's fluorescent green. It's fine to write the blog here though, lane swimming doesn't start for another half hour so I have time to jot down something for you.

In a very uncharacteristic move, I'm going to dedicate this post to the things about Boyfriend I've been missing this week. Here, for you foolish people that waste your precious time reading my blog, is my list of things that have left a vacancy in my heart for the last few days:

1) The pillow fights
...Not the sexy co-ed variety. Ours is more of a constant battle to claim the one pillow in our apartment that is actually good. I have found that I don't sleep as well if I haven't tuckered myself out with the eventual claim of malicious victory. It brings me great satisfaction to whip that pillow out from under him while he's sleeping. Haven't had a decent night's sleep in almost a week.

2) The compliments
By this I mean both giving and getting compliments. A Sunday morning just isn't the same with the ego boosts. For example:
You look so cute when you're reading the paper.
Why's that? He says, peering over the top of the newspaper.
Your mouth is generally shut.
I think the same thing when I see you reading a book. This is where we smile lovingly at each other and when our eye contact breaks I call him an ass and he calls me a bitch. We're really quite precious.

3) Dinner at 9:00pm
Boyfriend treats me right and cooks a veritable five-star feast for us every night. However, feasts take forever to prepare and Boyfriend has no concept of time. No wonder I have weird dreams every night. Speaking of food, I do have to give Boyfriend appreciation for always making sure that I'm fed. He made sure I had dinners ready for his time away. If all I have to do to make Chicken with mango salsa is throw it in the microwave I am all over it. Good job, Boyfriend, for taking preventative steps to avoid coming home to an emaciated woman.

4) Wine in the evening
I miss those nights where I'm being She Hulky and Boyfriend smiles at me with adoration, excuses himself to go to the kitchen, and returns with a glass of wine that he sets on the table in front of me with a love post-it attached. The notes usually say something sweet like, "Keep it up and I'm throwing you over the balcony". I'm joking, clearly. I assume if it were to come to it, he'd push me over the balcony. You can't throw something you can't lift, and if he keeps feeding me the way that he does, that will never happen. I'll sumo-push him over the balcony first with my huge gut. Sumo She Hulk style, how hot would that be?

5) How he pays attention to the little things
It's no secret that I'm a loser, especially since I did a whole post about it. The number of times I have lost my keys and cell phone this week is just ridiculous. Also, if anybody sees my Frisbee please let me know. It' s regulation size.

6) Somebody to share the triumphs and misfortunes
This week's triumph: I successfully microwaved chicken. I made a freaking dinner for myself! I don't know what all the fuss is about. I whipped up a gourmet meal in less than two minutes. It must just be a natural talent.
This week's misfortune: Our downstairs neighbour who I suspect is a lesbian with a prescription for medicinal marijuana is moving out. She was the best downstairs neighbour ever, and super relaxed about us making noise upstairs, which also fuels my theory. We need a new stoned lesbian to move in. Please fill out an application immediately for a rinky-dink apartment that will boil you alive in the summer. Straight folks need not apply. Too many breeders in this building as is. Not that being a breeder is a bad thing, but for some reason kids think I'm cool and then they cry when I say no and cuss them out. I can't break any more hearts.

7) Mutt and Boyfriend's relationship
Boyfriend's disappearance doesn't just affect me, but Mutt too. He's been a mopey dingus ever since Boyfriend ran away with the circus. Sorry. I mean his boyfriends. Perhaps, though, Mutt is just depressed because I don't put gravy in his food. Out of spite as well as out of caring. The vet says he's getting fat, and no more gravy. I care, so no gravy. Boyfriend says that Mutt's got enough problems that gravy is one of the only good things in his life and he needs it. He even goes so far as to tell me that he's left demi-glaze in the fridge specifically to put on Mutt's food. I don't like people telling me what to do, so I don't do it because I'm spiteful. Also, what's the difference between gravy and demi-glaze? Looks like the same stuff to me.

8) Him doing the dishes
Well, yeah. I hate dishes. He's going to have to come home soon because the filthy plates and cups are piling up. That'll keep him busy for awhile. That, or he'll nag me to do it. Simple solution: Threaten with the She Hulk and dishes will be done in no time.

9) Sharing things
I always wondered why I went through face wash so fast. It turns out Boyfriend was using it too. Only, he was using it wrong. In his head, a bottle in the bathroom that has a dispensing pump means whatever is in said bottle is hand wash. You're buying me a new one, Boyfriend. Learn to read labels.

Most of all, I miss Boyfriend because without him my superiority complex suffers. Oh, and I have feelings and I miss him because of that too...

Ew. Fat starting drinking the water in our swimming pool. Everybody out.

Time for tea,

K

The Subtle Art of Buying and Selling

Since I consider myself a good bestie I'm going to force all of you to read a note of congratulations. A hearty, well done you old sods! to Muse and Hubby Cupcake for the first addition to their clan. Since he's my second nephew, the baby's blog title will be Nephtwo. Take note for mention of him in the future and pardon my sounding all too human here, but he's one freaking cute miniature concoction of their DNA. Lucky for Muse, Hubby Cupcake and Nephtwo, Boyfriend doesn't dabble in the Black Market...No Boyfriend, that wasn't an expansion pitch for your make-believe business. Check the power point, productivity rose in the last quarter, you don't want to burn yourself out by growing your empire too quickly.

Boyfriend, and I'm not certain if this is a compliment of his work ethic, is a man that brings his work home with him. Well, sort of. His Monday to Friday job has him buying and selling all sorts of edible dealys, the likes of which I have no idea what they are...seasoning this...minced that...sea plant samosa with a creme de florentine parsnip concoctable tapas. Exactly. That very well could have been something he's said at some point I don't rightly know. Now he doesn't bring his food-associated work home with him so much as the actions of buying and selling. Let me tell you some things.

Boyfriend should rent himself out as a thug problem solver. That should be his outside-of-business business. When he finds out that somebody wants to unload something of theirs Boyfriend will ask everyone in his 1980's rolodex (he's very high-tech) if they or somebody they know needs an old karaoke machine, used tennis racket, leftover dinner from The Keg, what have you. Boyfriend tasks himself to unite buyer with seller. I would like to issue a formal apology to whoever ended up with that partially-eaten prime rib. I wasn't as hungry as I thought I was, and Boyfriend sold off our microwave and stove. I had no way to heat it up.

As recently as last week, Boyfriend found a solution to a problem that arose. I should have known something was up when he met me at the door after work wearing an ill-fitting plaid suit and exuding Red Bull enthusiasm shouting, What can I do to put you in a car today? Looking back I'm not sure why I didn't regard this as strange behaviour. Boyfriend's boyfriend was hoping to sell off his PT Cruiser
...for a very reasonable price...well maintained...pristine some might say...It's the deal of the century.
Uh. No.
Why?
Because no. That's why.
To which his retort is to put more grease in his hair, draw on a pencil-thin moustache and restart. What can I do to put you in a car today?

One of my favourite Boyfriend shyster instances has to be the incident with the beer fridge. For a few years Boyfriend and I had a beer fridge in addition to our regular fridge in our runt-of-the-litter apartment because...well, I hate to say it was necessary because that just sounds bad. Oh wait, I have a reasonable explanation: We had a beer fridge because it was proportionate to the size of our apartment like our real fridge should have been. Made it look more normal. Fast forward to the day the temperature of the beer fridge busts and freezes the beer inside. Cut to Boyfriend sobbing and crying to the heavens as his beer is not readily drinkable, the rain outside was far too appropriate to the moment. Garbage! I shout and insist we immediately find it a graveyard. But no. Boyfriend looks at it and sees opportunity.
It's not a fridge, he insists, It's grown into a freezer.
It's not a freaking caterpillar doing a presto-chango into a butterfly. You're way wrong, fool. That mechanism be broken fo' sho'. Get it out now, we already have a freezer. Beer fridge bye-bye. Maybe I'm crazy, but Boyfriend doesn't seem to hear any of the words I've said protesting it's continued presence in our home. Am I some sort of mute that imagines hearing her own voice? I need to test out this mute theory...
Chaffed monkey danglers.
What?
Nothing.
Old theory shot to hell. New theory: Selective listening. New theory much more likely. Boyfriend gets on the horn instantly, crowing about this deal of the century. Yes, a real horn, like one of the ones they use in the Swiss Alps. I'm not sure why he needed to add lederhosen to the mix, but whatever makes it feel more natural for him. No big surprise, but of those he has called so far, nobody wants a busted-ass beer fridge as a freezer. Nobody especially wants to PAY for such a thing. That's the kind of stupid idea a cartoon baboon comes up with. Eventually Boyfriend gets to the end of his contacts list and of course, none were interested. Boyfriend sits in silence, concentrating ultra-hard, and I actually see the idea come to him. His hunched back straightened, and his furrowed brow rose in the delight one has when they solve a humongous dilemma. Dramatically slow, Boyfriend's head turned in my direction.
No.
You can ask Muse and Hubby Cupcake if they want it.
I already said no, the decline occupied the space before your idea was verbalized.
I had to cause a little brain damage to find that idea and remove it from his head. To those people that laughed when I found those forceps in the hospital, who's the foolish thief now? Boyfriend's idea was pretty gnarly too. I kept it in the jar until it snuffed itself out. Then I poured gasoline in the jar and threw in a lit match for good measure. Can't take too many precautions when it comes to Boyfriend's brilliant ideas.

Speaking of Muse, another time I received a telephone call from Boyfriend, it was business of course. As usual, when I saw it was him calling I second-guessed answering. The number of times it's been a call informing me of a boat for sale that he wants my dad to buy has made me a little gun-shy when it comes to answering his calls. Just before it goes to voicemail I answer.
Hi.
I found somebody to buy Muse's car.
She's not selling her car.
Somebody I know is looking for a car just like hers. You should call her and see if she wants to sell it.
She doesn't.
I swear you told me that she did.
Nope, you're wrong.
I could get her the deal of the century.
It's a leased car.
I'm sure we can work something out.
Bye.
And people wonder why I hesitate when it comes to answering his calls.

Does anybody out there want Boyfriend? I'll give you the deal of the century.

Time for tea,

K

The Lobster Opera

Muse likes to remind me of the story of mine and Boyfriend's first New Year's Eve together. She only knows the amorous version of the tale. She knows the classy story. Not to say that the classy tale of said New Year's is fraudulent...it was just missing the ending. The version Muse knows is that Boyfriend cooked us a romantic lobster dinner and we had free-flowing champagne which saw us into 2009 with clinking glass flutes filled with the bubbly. The part of the story that I left out when I told Muse originally was the next morning where I literally kicked Boyfriend out of the bathroom so I could revisit that beautiful, rich dinner – it's not as delicious on the way out. That lobster climbed up and out of my esophagus like a freaky masticated survivor. Boyfriend and I also share the same affliction when it comes to hearing or seeing other people spew – it's a domino effect and causes both of us to choke back our own heaves. While I locked him out of the bathroom I swear I heard him clawing at the door and dry heaving. I'm not just writing this to share the grossness, but I feel like this moment is a true depiction of our relationship. Boyfriend tries to class things up and I puke all over his attempt...sometimes metaphorically, but in the case of New Year's 2009 and my 25th birthday, quite literally.

That being said, this post has to do with being classy, lobsters and the overestimation of my ability to do cruel things. Not long after the New Year's verb-fest (pick whichever verb appeals to your that is synonymous with vomit), Boyfriend made us lobster again...take two if you will. This time he asked if I wanted to share in the murdering and put them into the boiling pot of death. Sure. Yeah. I can totally do that. This won't be what sends me to hell, is it? If I'm heading downward, I want the reason to be something fabulously evil. Perhaps some sort of cruel behaviour involving two-way mirrors and those knarly fetal pigs used in high school dissections that are preserved in formaldehyde. I haven't entirely figured out the details that will be my ticket to hell. Though, if you read that book Damned by Chuck Palahniuk, you'll find we're all going to hell for a lot less. Some sort of circus-inspired evil doing for the price of my eternal soul? Sold.

I picked up the first little lobster beasty. It squirmed in its armour trying to break free of my grasp. When that proved futile, it turned to look at me. "Put me down you vile wench!" It yelled at me, throwing me off with its asian dialect and a statement that didn't suit his manner of speech. I tell you, that was enough. I set the lobster back on the counter, raised my hands and backed away slowly. Boyfriend took care of him, and I had great gratification when Boyfriend cracked open the shell of that horrific Atlantic bastard and put the lobster meat on my plate.

Yeah...uh, Boyfriend takes the shells of my lobster and crab because I would starve otherwise. Also, I'm mean when I'm hungry, so really, this is a survival tactic for Boyfriend.

A few months later the Eastern-Canadian side of Boyfriend beckonned him again. It was lobster time. I guess this is the equivilent of PMS. Boyfriend needs to have lobster several times a year or he gets bitchy. Always afterward he complains about being bloated. Men. Sheesh.

This time when Boyfriend asked if I was ready to put the lobsters into the pot I was definitely ready. I'd been practicing with Fat. If I could wrestle an obese cat into a stovetop pot of water, a lobster with tied pinchers would be SUPER EASY. I suppose I should mention that the stove wasn't on when we practiced or PETA will be charging through with Pamela Anderson and Ron Jeremy leading the brigade.

Sidenote: Worst superhero name ever...SUPER EASY. Man-slut powers activate! Or woman-slut powers...I'm for equal opportunity. No. That's a lie. Women best men all the time. Glass ceiling my ass.

Anyhow, I found myself in the position to end a life. I eyed up my lobster foe. I'll kill you, you nasty little sea rat. Then I'll eat you. I'm going to do it this time. For real. Into the bubbly tomb of death you go. I grabbed the tiny monster in my hand and lifted him off the counter with malicious intention. At this time I would like to give a tremendous pat on the back to me, by now I'd done better than the last time. I brought him over to the cauldron, remembering what Boyfriend said: Put them in head first so they die faster. Alright, cool. The nice person in me hesitated over the pot which let the lobster enjoy the relaxing sensation of the steam. Free sauna, you're welcome. However, it's a good thing I didn't plunge him right in like Boyfriend told me. The squirmy creature opened his tiny lobster mouth and a deep verbrato filled the kitchen. His opera was in its original italian, and though I don't speak the language I was enraptured. I killed the overhead lights and called for a spotlight on the melodious creature. When he sang, his voice carried through the octaves with ease – clearly a practiced talent. Tears sprang from his beady eyes when he sang for his lost love – in spite of the language barrier I always rely on presumption to steer me in a direction that sounds right. It doesn't matter if it actually proves to be right, as long as it COULD be correct. As the performance came to a close, I watched through my opera glasses while his tethered claws rose with his voice to punctuate his final note. I threw long-stem roses in his direction as he bowed, accepting my frenzied applause.

What are you doing? Boyfriend came into the kitchen and seized the lobster that was still in my hand and suspended above the pot. He plunged Opera Lobster into the boiling pot head-first, and we watched him turn from that murky dark colour into a brilliant red. As I had my first bite of Opera Lobster one word fell from my lips, Bravissimo. If that's wrong, I don't speak italian. Shut up.

At least, that's how I'm going to tell the story of The Lobster Opera to Muse. What really happened is the lobster freaked out from the steam and started shrieking, the kind of screaming sound that haunts my dreams. I freaked out and threw him in the sink and ran away. I hoped he wouldn't get out of that makeshift gladiator arena until Boyfriend checked on my lack of progress and punched his clock for me. Like I said, metaphorical verbing (again, anything that means yak goes here...and not yak like the animal).

Time for tea,

K

Even the She-Hulk goes green

Well. Not a happy realization this morning. I woke up with the old people. Clarification might be needed here. I didn't wake up with old people, that would be some kind of crazy bedroom situation that...yipes. Just yipes. What I mean to say is that I woke up at the old folk witching hour if you will. I was well rested and out for a walk with Mutt, not cognizant of the time. Eventually I noticed that everyone we passed by were of the silver-haired clan. Abandoned toys were scattered across lawns, as though the young ones raced inside, knowing that the time of day did not belong to them. The wrinkle faces would be about at this hour. And I walked among them this morning, that idea scared the hell out of me. Mutt and I ran home, raced up the apartment steps, slamming our door behind us and bolting the lock. I dragged the dresser into the hall and barricaded the door. We made it back safe, they couldn't initiate us into their tribe if they couldn't get us. I ran to the mirror, just to check that there were no liver spots, nasty chin hairs or cataracts. No symptoms were apparent. I must have been infected with their early-morning air though, Mutt and I put on aprons and baked some bread, did laundry, dishes, dusted the hard candies in the gaudy glass bowl on the side table, cleaned the bedroom, and vacuumed. I'm not used to being so productive. Lunch was served at 9 a.m. and Mutt excused himself to nap after the meal while I decided twas time to write another blog since it's been over a week now. Old people like me live in the moment and don't procrastinate. No wonder Boyfriend is always up to something.

I've also deduced something else about old people: going green is a learned behaviour. I've met some biddies that think it's just a hoax and refuse to believe it. Everything goes in the garbage and that's that. Consume and throw away, the circle of life. Boyfriend works hard to understand the concept of saving the planet, but I still find myself digging through our garbage like a raccoon finding plastic containers to put in the right receptacle. Also, if I'm lucky in my rooting I come across dinner scraps that are perfect for a snack. I do like to nibble.

I care very much for the Earth. I mean, until life is possible on another planet, Earth will remain my number one. However, the consumer in me does like new things. And you know if you lived on Saturn, that planet would treat you real good. I'm pretty sure standards would be higher for recycling on Saturn because that planet is too evolved for garbage dumps and waste. When something is past its prime, including household couches and old clothes, the objects will just dissolve into some sort of organic matter that you can compost in your alien plant garden. Ah yes, I'm good to the Earth so I can be rewarded with an alien plant garden on Saturn. Living the dream people. Don't piggyback on my dreams. Just be good to our planet long enough to see me off.

Boyfriend makes my efforts all the more trying. I suppose I make his life difficult for being pro-green...and by being myself. I need to remember to charge my cell phone so I can videotape that moment that my actions actually make him snap. Any day now.

I think Boyfriend's biggest point of contention is that I don't tell him what I'm doing to go green, so he's ignorant to my efforts. The biggest one that makes the steam come out of his ears is my propensity to unplug electronics. We don't waste power in this mud hut. If I see something that's not in use, I unplug it in order to conserve. Awhile ago he insisted that we needed a new toaster. Ours was broken. He also went on to complain about how we just got that toaster and it was still under warranty. Couple things, Boyfriend: 1) I've had that toaster longer than you and I have been together, get your facts straight. 2) Try plugging it in. That's my special trick of getting it to transform bread into toast. Abra Cadabra!

Another thing I like to unplug are what are referred to as vampire cell phone chargers. Boyfriend has one for work and one for his personal cell phone (aka the one that belongs in a museum). There was a solid week where he couldn't understand why neither one would hold their charge. An important aspect of charging one's cell phone is by making sure the cord is plugged into the outlet as well as the phone. He was not a happy old fella when he found out the reason they wouldn't work was because of my interference. Wish I could say I was sorry, but let's get real, the She Hulk doesn't apologize. Sorry you don't care about the planet as I do. That's the best you get. No, wait, I've got one better. Sorry you can't grow intelligence. Sorry your kind still drag their knuckles on the ground when they walk. Evolve damn it! Darwin had it right...

Boyfriend insists that I refrain from this unplugging behaviour. I insist that Boyfriend acknowledge my decree to do what we can to save the planet and one day the She-Hulk will run away from him and start her new life on Saturn. It helps get her point across when she grabs Boyfriend by the throat with one hand and lifts him off the ground to shout the message into his face. In our home, we call this positive reinforcement.

The moral of today's story is to remember not to get old, and that if you don't care for the planet, the She Hulk will get you. She won't show you the same leniency that she shows Boyfriend.

Time for tea,

K

When the apartment is small you take a big fight to the streets

I used to get uppity when Boyfriend told people how we've never had a fight. Sir, please. The She-Hulk raged at this utter and complete lie, until one day she realized something. Boyfriend, and it pains me greatly to say this...oh God, I think I'm having a brain aneurysm (what's a brain aneurysm?)...Boyfriend is right. We've never had a fight, we're still having the same fight we started having the day we met. The fight has just never concluded but includes many tangents and offshoots, so it gets confusing sometimes. I know for certain that we've gone beyond the usual nine rounds, but neither of us will take that knock-out punch. It's a constant swing and a miss on both ends. Such a shame that both of us have to win or die trying, which is what it might just come to.

Also, don't get a brain aneurysm. An estimated one out of 15 people in the States get them and they can result in a stroke or death. Or other things too, but I've already forgotten both the facts and my source, so...just don't get one, okay? Except for the people that I hate, get as many freaking aneurysms as you please. If you get one for Christmas, that's from me. The sucker that just wanted his two front teeth for the holidays was a damn fool. Wishing with a vengence is much more fun.

I know that a big problem that Boyfriend and I have is a lapse in communication. Well, no. That statement is true and it isn't at the same time. That's right, the best of both worlds because it removes the possibility of me sharing falsehoods with you. Or maybe not. I'm pretty sure I lie all the time in the blog (By the by, it's my blog and I'll do what I please). Well, not lie, but make the story better with false truths. Boyfriend and I have moments where both of us are mute about what drives us out of our heads. This makes the other crazy because we have yet to hone our telepathy skills. I try to transmit my thoughts with such high concentration I don't know how he doesn't clue into what I'm thinking. Especially when my eyes bulge out of my head and I mouth the words of my thoughts...with the audio aid of the words themselves. I shake my head. Triple B. Bad Boyfriend Behaviour. Open your ears and shut your mouth, man.

Boyfriend and I had a very rational argument the other day. It was one of those Jekyll and Hyde days for the weather, and Boyfriend and I took Mutt to the dog park. We keep going in hopes that when it comes time to take Mutt off-leash, he'll run away from us and never come back. Dumb ass. Anyhow, Boyfriend and I sat on the park bench overlooking the ocean. Between Boyfriend pointing out nice boats and the polite interruption to sip tea from the english china we toted along,we argued in friendly conversational tones like this:

I'm excited that summer's coming. I'll be down at the boat all the time. (Boyfriend takes a short sip of tea)
Good, because the two of us in our small apartment is going to make me kill you. (I adjust the brim of the hat I usually only wear to the horse races)
Yeah, you're getting on my last nerve too. (Boyfriend sets his teacup on the saucer and flashes a charismatic smile)
There are times I think about never coming back home. (I offer him a refill from the teapot and he graciously nods his head)
Me too. That's enough thank you, I need room for milk and sugar. Two lumps please.
Proves we're meant to be, doesn't it? (Two small splashes from the sugar cubes come from his teacup)
It sure does. (Boyfriend takes the dainty spoon to stir in the sugar, we catch each other's eye and smile sweetly)

There are also times where we are not so rational. The example that comes to mind is a time we walked to the movie theatre. It's no secret that I like to meander. Boyfriend knows this, and yet, he persisted in walking faster than me. The She-Hulk appeared in a flash and later went on to ransack a village. Believe me when I say you do not want to be the woman yelling like a banshee in front of a 7-11 about her asshole Boyfriend walking in front of her down the street. Nobody will take your side and they will all avert their gaze when you pass.

The point is, when Boyfriend and I argue, we need to bring it outside. Our pea pod-size apartment is just not large enough to accommodate all our words and humongous egos and attitudes. We're like good farmers and keep our fight free-range. That means if it ever gets sold in stores, we can charge more for it. Always good to keep an eye out for ways to supplement the income.

The fight is on pause right now because Boyfriend made me laugh this morning. I mocked his computer skills and his serious retort was, Hey! I'm a Googler now.
Time for tea,

K

Love Language

I was introduced to the idea of love language some time ago. It's the manner in which one expresses their affection. Sometimes this is harder to deduce than you think.

There are the couples out there who just put it all out there, being disgustingly affectionate and eating each other's faces without caring that my face is squished between theirs because it's rush hour and the bus is full. Thanks for the inclusion, old people. Boyfriend tries that mushy crap in public I introduce his nose to my knuckles. At least he doesn't succumb to his emotions and cry like a little girl. Kudos, Boyfriend. Kudos.

There are other people who show their love by purchasing gifts. No Boyfriend, we don't count the time you bought that giant bag of basmati rice that would feed Hong Kong for a year. Yes, I know it's my favourite. Maybe I should clarify; Some folk buy fun, frivilous gifts or treats for their significant other(s)...we don't judge here, go polygomy!...These gifts could be: a spa day, quality chocolates (No, Boyfriend. I'm not planning on eating the chocolate rabbit from Easter. Now is as good of time as any to tell you they blow more than a birthday party clown whose parlour trick is making balloon animals.), a luxury automobile, fancy coffee, or even pineapple. Boyfriend gets points for the pineapple BUT NOTHING ELSE. Wow. That might have been a little over the top. What I mean to say is: Boyfriend gets points for trying, but he's not winning any tournaments in this catagory. That's a compliment if I ever heard one.

Another love language is the repairman technique. Do not confuse this with the Mr Fixit method. The repairman technique is when you show your feelings by fixing problems/situations. It can be something as unsexy as fixing that bubbling toilet. That's not a hint Boyfriend, we'll get the landlord to deal with it. Again, though he tries, Boyfriend does not score well in this catagory. While you're reading this, Boyfriend, don't touch my things. I don't care that you claim to know how to sew, I know you're basing that assumption off of finding that minature sewing kit in the junk drawer. We also own a screwdriver, but that doens't make me a mechanic.

Boyfriend is one of those folk who speaks many love languages. His biggest is inclusion, he shows love by inviting every family member, friend, neighbour and freak on a leash to every event ever. Romantic dinner? Bring that hobo we met on the walk to the restaurant! Big anniversary? Call Grandma and ask if she wants to spend the weekend at our place! Couple's vacation in Mexico? Those people from the plane seem nice, let's spend every second of our vacation with them! It's too bad the rooms don't have bunk beds. I love that he's a people person, but at times it can evoke the She-Hulk. I'm selfish. I love me-time.

The point is, there are many love languages out there in the world. None that I've listed so far are mine. I don't do the smarmy love poems, picnics at dusk while a string quartet plays in the background. I'm too much of a control freak to feel wooed by Boyfriend putting a photo or art on the wall that I've been meaning to hang (I will TELL you where it goes then watch you hang it. Stuff doesn't go on those walls willy-nilly, you clown. Learn this lesson, damn it!). The only movement that stirs inside of me when I see man-tears is disgust. No, no. My love language is sarcasm and insults. That is how you know I care. For instance, recently I walked into the living room to see Boyfriend reading the paper:

You're really cute right now.
Because I'm reading?
No. Because your mouth was shut.

Boyfriend must have cruised the book store for my love language translation guide (How to Speak K's Love Language, you can find it at that book store with the books). Yes, book store. Not the app store. If you read this blog, you know why Boyfriend doesn't shop there. If you're lost, perhaps pissing off entirely is the best option for you. Don't be lazy! Read the blog from the beginning. Where was I? Asses. Made me lose my place. Ah, yes. Boyfriend is still working on the pronounciation and nuances of my love language, but he's well on his way. Last night I was singing in the kitchen:

Can you shut up?
What? (Excited, my head pops around the corner from the kitchen to the living room where he sits)
I said can you get me an ice pack for my knee?
That is not what you said. (I can't help but smile) Boyfriend?
Yeah? (He looks like he does before the She-Hulk emerges)
I love you.

Somebody from Disney needs to read this post. That last part is a love story if I ever heard one.

Time for tea,

K

Judgement Free Zone

For the Doubting Thomases out there (minor aside: Doubting Thomas is a biblical reference, who knew? Thomas the Apostle. I learn something every day.), the universe has given Boyfriend and I clues that we do fit together. Either he and I have some crazy imaginary network of synapses that connect our brains or we're both the same kind of off-kilter. I'm cool with either...unless imaginary synapses have the capacity to be affected by brain damage. I'll need a helmet in that case.

For some reason that the world cannot grasp, telephone books are still distributed by the city every year. Unless you're a strongman from the 1980s whose parlour trick is ripping them in half, there is no reason on the planet to still have one of these cement blocks in your house. Yet, the city persists in gifting these monsters to us every year. I use them as portable steps to reach the cupboard over the fridge. We can officially call off the search, I found my martini glasses. Yes, thank God for those damn books. I don't actually know what we do with ours. I feel like I leave ours with the pile of newspapers in the lobby. Moving on. Our apartment manager, the vandal that he is, always leaves those huge mothers right in front of our doors where this ol' gal trips over them in the morning during the daily rush to work. Starting off the morning with an ungraceful face plant is not my idea of a good time. It turns out, however, that my idea of a good time is rather asinine.

One of the apartments in the hallway was clearly vacant, as their big ol' telephone directory hung outside their door for many days. I got a brilliant idea that struck me as great fun for reasons I cannot explain because I do not know myself. The next time I pass that sad book laying face up on the carpet, I prop it up against the door. On the following trip down the hall I move it back down to the floor and open it up to expose the pages. The trend goes on, every time I pass by the book gets rearranged. It satisfies the crazy in my head. I don't tell Boyfriend about this. He couldn't be more judgemental if he wore a powdered wig and carried a gavel. A couple days into the fun, the telephone book is sloppily balanced on the edges of the pages, the spine lifting upward as though the book is making an attempt to crawl away from the daily abuse. I did not leave it like that. My back groans as I pick the book up and delicately balance it on the doorknob. Leaving the apartment a little while later I notice that the fat directory is now on the ground casually leaning against the door frame, as though it has been waiting for me to show up again.

Strange. The whole thing finally begins to strike me as especially funny since I'm not the only loser getting a kick out of displaying the phone book like a mannequin. Eventually, the creativity on the sides of both myself and my secret opponent wane, reaching expiration one day after work when I saunter by and the book has completed its final illusion. The great disappearing act. I shuffle along, a touch melancholy because this game (that isn't a game) is over. Well, we had a good run. I slump in the desk chair when I get inside our place.

What's wrong with you? (Boyfriend finally dares ask the question when the bomb squad has assessed the situation and given him the go-ahead)
Nothing. (Woman answer)
Doesn't seem like nothing.
Well, I know if I tell you you'll think I'm stupid.
I would never think you're stupid.
Oh please. We both think the other one is stupid all the time.
True. What's up?
Well there was this phone book down the hall... (I can't look at him while I start, but then get rudely interrupted, as is his way)
That was you?
Not just me! (Since I'm a woman I get overly defensive here for reasons I cannot explain because I do not know myself)
I didn't want to tell you that I was moving that book. I thought you'd think I was dumb.
You are dumb. But I'm dumb too.

I fell in love with him all over again that day. Okay, that might be subject to hyperbole. It's just nice to know that I'm not the only fool living in the confines of these walls. Besides, by the next night balance was restored as I threatened his life for reasons I cannot explain because I do not know myself.

Time for tea,

K

Verbal Abuse

A few months ago I got into a conversation with a dufus. It wasn't Boyfriend...not that time anyhow, but this fellow's loudmouthed dufus exterior did lead me to draw a couple parallels to Boyfriend. Anyhow, New Dufus and I get into a conversation about Boyfriend. After a few minutes, New Dufus knits his eyebrows together as if trying very hard to comprehend something far beyond the grasp of his understanding. What is it, New Dufus? In an earnest, serious tone he asks, "How has he put up with you for so long?" Couple things, New Dufus: 1) Mind your business, and 2) I think you mean to ask how I put up with him sometimes. I assure you, our relationship would be entirely harmonious if I had the incredible fortune to be deaf. The man verbally assaults me with his language on a daily basis.

The following is a list for Boyfriend of the words/phrases/incorrect pronunciations of his that rattle the monkey cage inside my head. It's only a matter of time before that cage busts open and those freaky apes run rampant. I can't be held responsible. Don't let those primates get out, Boyfriend. I'm writing this because I care, and you need to realize that your good looks won't last forever. That's why I'm giving you a crash course in charm school.

Vernacular faux pas #1
Festis is not a word, no matter how much you insist that it is. Stop calling me that. I agree, it does sound like some sort of infected vermin, but the fact is, it's not real.

Vernacular faux pas #2
It is pronounced chi-pote-lay. Not chi-pole-tay. You can't use chipotle if you can't say it properly.

Vernacular faux pas #3
When you say, help yourself to some [insert some kind of food here: pasta, chili, curry, etc.], there's all kinds, you actually mean you have a shit tonne of one kind. Just because there is lots does not mean that you've concocted several breeds of whatever the hell is cookin' away in that pot. This particular faux pas warrants an asterisk because it makes the pulsing blood in my temple knock my skull around.

Vernacular faux pas #4
The phrase, Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick, simply must stop. It's contagious and I've even slipped up and used it on occasion. I've filed the paperwork to make this faux pas a violation that comes with a hefty fine. The only time it will be allowed without punishment is an instance where you see Jesus bouncing down the street on a pogo stick. This is your first and final written warning.

Vernacular faux pas #5
Yous. It looks as moronic as it sounds. Yous is not a word. The plural form of you is you. It's like the word fish. You are like fish. I are like fish too...for to eat. It is more than acceptable to say, how are you? Say it, How are yous? and you sound like you have a speech impediment.

Vernacular faux pas #6
I know that the thing for kids to do is make words shorter, because...long words are hard? Don't want to overextend ourselves with supplementary syllables now, do we? I must ask, nay, beg of you to stop calling the barbeque a Q. That is a letter, and not even my favourite one, though I am biased to the letter K. My signoff name by the way is not the same thing. Get over yourselves.

Vernacular faux pas #7
During a serious conversation, you saying, Seriously though... is nonsense.

...Well. Boyfriend just caught me off guard with an impromtu compliment and now I can't finish bitching about his east-coast nonsensical language. Couldn't have saved the charisma for after my ranting list, Boyfriend? How am I supposed to get anything done when you interrupt and throw me right off course? Brutal. The train has left the station.

Well, in any case, time for tea,

K

Post script: It's huge, not hudge. That's a spelling issue that drives me nuts, you say it just fine though, Boyfriend.

Luddite for Life

I was created to be sarcastic. I was created to spill every liquid that is not water or vodka. I wasn't created to be a teacher. I don't have the patience for it. You either learn right away and keep up with my teaching, or I get frustrated enough to pack my things and leave. I didn't talk to Muse for many moons after the time she asked me to teach her about fractions. Even thinking about it makes the She Hulk take over. Now, indents from my fingernails track across my palms. Must learn to let things go, but that She Hulk holds onto bitterness like a prison bitch with a shiv. Le damn.

Boyfriend, in his sweet naivety, is ignorant to the fact that I do not do well when I try to impart wisdom to idiots. Darwin had it right; adapt or die, Boyfriend. Not that you're an idiot. That's the She Hulk talking. She still hasn't forgiven you.

You have to remember, readers, Boyfriend is from a different time. You know about his archaic cell phone deal, well, computers are much worse for my man. He jokes about sending me to cooking class (shout-out to the hollandaise I made this morning...from a package), but the man has got to focus on his inability to do anything with a computer. Let me give you some examples:

After I moved here, I made the purchase of one very sensuous lap top. I spent many a dollar on that beauty, and left her in the care of Boyfriend for an evening while I went to Playland to wait forever in a line to ride that rickety, old roller coaster. It's like gambling with your life every time the safety bar is unsecurely rested across your lap. Best last moment ever, and then you survive. And then you go again, die, and haunt the amusement park for the rest of your life. I'd call that win-win. Anyhow, not important. I'm not sure what exactly Boyfriend was using my computer for, but at some point throughout the evening, I get a text. Computer's broken, how do I fix it? This is the part where I freak out. A matter of hours alone and he's busted up my computer. I call. No answer. I call again. No answer. He must be scared of the wrath. The She Hulk texts him back: What do you MEAN the computer is broken? We go on the bumper cars and the She Hulk takes out her aggression by slamming her car into the cars of young children that are just excited for the opportunity to pretend to drive. No, that's a lie. I got stuck when I went to T-bone some hefty child in his red car. Good news on that front, he was close enough to add some flavourful words to his vocabulary. You're welcome, hefty boy. After the bumper cars, my phone finally rings:

What happened?
To what?
The computer. You said it was broken. What did you do?
I didn't do anything.
No. You did something. If you tell me what you did so I can figure out how to fix it.
I didn't touch anything, the computer just turned off.
Did the battery die?
I don't think so.

In fact, yes, the battery had died. When he plugged it in and turned it on, everything was fine. Crisis averted. In fact, I invited him to come join us at the park and ride the roller coaster.

For a man that insists we have an HD television and PVR he does not know how to work either. He always says we need Hubby Cupcake to come over and fix things. I don't pretend to know what that spiderweb of cords behind the television is for, but the neurotic part of me freaks out at the knots and twists and millions of black wires. That scene behind the entertainment stand is my nightmare. I shouldn't have looked. Better to be ignorant. I might not be patient, but I am tolerant. If I were less of a person, I wouldn't PVR the boring sporting events he insists are good. Aside: At some point last week there was some sort of upset in a hockey game, something about who ended up in the Stanley Cup, and allegedly THAT was the reason to watch sports. I don't pretend to understand, there's no storyline, I can't follow along without a plot. The reason I program the PVR for him is that otherwise he'll break it, and it's just easier on me to record it and not explain how to PVR shows...again.

I bought Boyfriend an iPod a few Christmases ago. When I purchased it, I made a mental note to decrease any frustration that would find me following his opening of the gift. Boyfriend does not fare well with the electronic dealys, so I out-clevered myself. He just wanted it in order to listen to his honky-tonk music. I opened it, charged it, and filled it with his music, and rewrapped it so it was ready to use immediately. I forgot about the part where he would eventually want to change the music that was on it. I am not a-so-smart. I learned how much foresight I lack when Boyfriend came up to me the other day with an announcement: I would like to change up the music on my thing. Oh no. I should have sensed the terror that morning when I woke up, but as it is always overcast here, it is sometimes hard to discern the clouds of doom from the ones that bring the rain. I know that people learn in different ways. I understand it in fact. Therefore, I tell him how to download the music, I show him how to download music, I hold his hand and watch him download the music himself. I exit, because I have seen Boyfriend perform this simple task. As soon as I settle into a book, his voice comes a-callin', How do I make a playlist? I tell him, show him, and watch him make one. My work here is done. I go back to my room and open my book. Hey, can you help me do that again? No. I cannot. Will not. Except that I did. When I open my book again, he shouts another question. This cycle gets old far too fast. His next question I ignore. If I go into that room again, I know that his blood will paint the carpet, but I also know that crimson does not match the apartment. The only responsible decision was to ignore him. For a long time. I thought maybe he could figure it out on his own. Turns out, he cannot. That, or he refuses to adapt.

He thinks it's cute how often I suggest riding the roller coaster at Playland. He has yet to make the connection that I only ask him when the She Hulk is angry.

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

An update on karma

Karma. That voodoo is real. As you all have read in a previous post, Boyfriend and I both have a Golden Oreo trigger. They're too good to deny. We see 'em, we eat 'em, they gone, we sad. They are the second best invention to this date (Without dispute, chickens are the best invention ever). Also, if you have been following my blog, I gifted him a box of these golden delicacies and, justifiably, he hid them on me. Prepare to gasp with dramatic flair because I FOUND THEM! For the record Boyfriend, not your best hiding place. The pasta cupboard? I know I have no business in there, but it's adjacent to the tea cupboard. Also, not knowing where the hiding place was definitely got the best of me, I had to know in case a craving hit. I tore that kitchen apart. I was aware if there was any place in our matchbox-size apartment that he would hide something, it's in that mysterious room with all its pans, spices, foreign equipment and at first glance, inedible things. My bad for not figuring out the magic behind the transformation of inedibles into good eats. That's voodoo too. As for karma: I found those cookies and in great victory threw copious amounts of metallic confetti throughout the apartment. It looked like a parade wandered through, which strangely enough, Boyfriend did not believe when he came home to an apartment coated in rainbow glitter. Fyi: At this point I have not devoured any Oreos, merely located them. I also felt guilty when I saw the fiery orange post-it written by my hand that PROMISED I wouldn't eat the cookies. For some reason I knew if I ignored another promise written on a post-it Boyfriend would never let me live it down. There has to be some trust in a relationship. And for the record, my intention was to not eat those cookies. I tried. So help me God, I tried.

For days I kept the secret that I had located the treasure. Every ten minutes I'd casually peer into the pasta cupboard and stare longingly at the box wondering if, in his advanced celebration of years, Boyfriend would simply forget about them. In his defense though, I forget stuff all the time and I'll never be old. He also remembers things that he really shouldn't. He would probably love me more if he were capable of forgetting the bad things...the annoying things...those times I've woken him up out of boredom...the She-Hulking...the pettiness...the time I yelled at him for walking in front of me...the demanding princess nature...the three urns I tell him contain the ashes of misbehaving ex-boyfriends that actually hide my arts and crafts...the times I sing off-key just to annoy him...If he could wipe all of these from his memory we'll be just fine. And those are just the things that I do that annoy myself but I can't stop them from happening. I'll never apologize for being whimsical or acting on impulse. That's unacceptable? I'm sincerely sorry.

Where was I? Ah, righto. Eventually Boyfriend made his way through the current box of Oreos...the last ones I pilfered, and he moved the new box to the fridge. Maybe I should explain. Wait. Did I tell you before why we keep our cookies in the fridge? Hold on. I need to investigate. The easy thing to do is just spill the reasoning, but happy news for you, I like to be difficult. And I'm curious. No. I did not. I barely touched on the cookie news. Get over yourself, it's a big deal in our place. We keep stuff like that in the fridge because to put it bluntly, our apartment is a stifling box of sweaty, immense, never-ending, satanic desert-like heat. Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick, it better keep the old folks that live here happy because we're dying. The only reason we're both so skinny is because we sweat out every calorie we consume. I feel like I need to include a sentence here that we've checked the heat control in our apartment, the beastly heat is out of our hands. Either that or our dial-thingamajig is broken. Maybe this is how we're being punished for Boyfriend taking an extra underground parking stall without paying for it. Anyways, our place, being the entrance to hell, makes the icing in the Oreos go too soft. Much, much too soft. Not an ideal attribute for this kind of cookie.

I'm getting to the part about karma. For those of you that haven't heard this story, you're probably really wondering where on earth I'm leading you. Well, you're in my home, and bear with me, it's about to get satisfying, then gross, then there's going to be a weak attempt to cover any tracks of wrongdoing. Shall we?...Before we do, this was supposed to be a post about Boyfriend taking me to my first hockey game, but my Oreo update turned out to be longer than intended. NHL fans can wait for another time. Even writing that last sentence, I realize just how out of whack my priorities are. Not that I'm suggesting that memories that involve sports should merit a better rank, but my first thought is to let the people know about cookies. You can walk away at any time, I'll understand. Frankly, I'm judging those that stick around to read my nonsense rather harshly. Back to the cookies in the fridge.

Scientists and Physicists of the world unite and answer me this: What is the impact of a colder temperature on Golden Oreos? Wrong, they remain just as delicious if not more so. You, in the back. Correct. The fridge temperature will cause the molecules of the cookie to form tighter bonds making the cookie itself harder. Or something like that, it sounds smart anyways. The point is that the softness of the icing becomes replaced with cement. Oh, I forgot another important detail of this story: I recently had minor surgery done on my mouth and was forbidden to bite into food. Now you're probably really unsure as to where I'm going. Compose yourself, we're getting to it. The day arrived that I couldn't fight the craving anymore. I was going to get me some of those cookies. I restrained myself and only took two. With the last box when I...let's call it what it is...stole Boyfriend's cookies, I figured out the best way for my sore mouth to eat the Oreos was to snap them in half and then break those halves in half (Muse, that means I broke it into four pieces, math isn't for everyone, but woman, you're beautiful). It worked on my last stolen cookies, it'll work with these ones too. I tried to snap the cookie in half by pressing my thumbs onto the outside, but it didn't work. I don't know what was up. My lovely primate brain decides that if it's not breaking by pushing with my thumbs, I'll just hold it the same way, but push my index fingers upward into it so the cookie would break in the opposite direction. I'm not even entirely sure how to explain what happened next. With grit and determination I pressed my index fingers into the decorative outside of the cookie. I don't know if I slipped or the Oreo was in a bitchy mood, but the little ridges of the vanilla outside caught on my knuckle and ripped into my skin. Trust when I say ripped is the right word, I had a flap of bloody skin and a hefty leak of scarlet fluid from my finger. The Oreo was painted like it was present for a messy homicide, and strangle enough, still unbroken. Lucky for me the only audience present was Fat, who stared at the DNA spattered Oreo then gave me a look as if to say, "You gonna eat that?" The She-Hulk made an appearance and kicked Monsieur Cora Pearl in her direction before running to the bathroom to attempt to figure out a way to doctor herself up.

I am the worst person to be present at a time like this. I don't know what to do. I can't call Boyfriend and ask what to do. I can figure this out somewhat. The obvious first choice is to cover the wound with something that will hide how disgusting it is so I don't have to look at it. I go for paper towel and to my delight discover that Boyfriend hides our first aid kit in the same cupboard. Cool. I wrap my finger in paper towel anyway. It was more accessible. Not to say that I completely ignore the first aid kit, I grabbed it as an afterthought. The last time I took first aid was over a decade ago and it made me want to throw up. My solution: Quickly wash the wound, splash that stuff on it, glop on that other stuff, put on a Band-Aid, call it a shift. Except the thing won't stop bleeding. And there are no Band-Aids. Plan B: Complete Plan A as fast as possible, wrap the gauze that I found around it and tape it in place. To quote Muse, "Problem El Solvo." Kind of. I left a rather disgusting trail of DNA in the bathroom. I've lost too much blood to care about hiding the evidence I left in the garbage can. In hindsight I should have had the nasty, flesh wound looked at. That damn finger seeped blood for longer than I care to admit. Oh well.

Boyfriend came home and I knew there was no way to hide the bulbous white layers that surrounded my finger. I thought the best thing to do was acknowledge its existence.

I hurt myself.
I saw the garbage can in the bathroom. What happened?
I was...(insert whatever lame excuse I used here, something like,) I was playing with the cat and accidently caught myself on something sharp.
Oh.

I like that he noticed the bloody paper towel in the bathroom and doesn't ask about it. Genuinely. Like it may have been some time-of-the-month event that went awry. Better not to ask, Good Boyfriend. I also like that he didn't question my lame excuse. This post is actually my admission of guilt. The true event of what happened. It does make me feel like a complete fool to say that a cookie almost sawed off my finger because of my own negligence and bad karma. The best part is the beautiful scar tissue that is the result. A lifelong reminder to keep my promises. And just like that, I become the definition of awesome.

Time for tea,

K

Monsieur Cora Pearl; A Dog's Best Friend

I just caught Fat snuggled up to Mutt's teddy bear and it made me think of a time when Boyfriend and I were figuring out how to live in close proximity to each other. Now this bear has been around for a long while and has a rich history living in my house. Well, that might be overselling it, calling the bear's past a rich history, but everyone knows I'm not capable of disclosing the whole truth in this blog because, really, where's the fun in that? It does lead me to wonder how y'all (I just read The Help, so I beg your pardon if the Mississippi accent comes a-callin' to the blog) attempt to separate the fact from the fiction or if you just take what I write with the figurative grain of salt. Never mind, I’m over it and no longer care or remember where I was going for that matter.

So the bear. He's bound to be about a decade old by now. At least I assume it's a he. As there are no sex organs I can't tell for certain, but we'll just say this bear is male neuter, just like Mutt. The bear, let's give him a blog alias...Monsieur Cora Pearl (yes it's a girl's name, get over it), was originally a Christmas gift from my younger brother about a decade ago. He's a tan, old-timey looking bear with a triangle chocolate nose and tiny, black beady eyes that have a story to tell.

Monsieur Cora Pearl's Story:
I knew from the words that boy spoke when he brought me home from the freak show of a strip mall in that tiny town (which smelled like a nearby mining and smelting company...very ritzy) that this was the start of my journey to better places. I sat wrapped tightly in festive paper that adorned me like a straight jacket. I was hidden away for so long I thought that maybe I didn't act as a good teddy bear should and my punishment was this solitary confinement. I started going crazy. I came up with a multitude of plans for escape, but as I am not a character in Toy Story, I lacked the ability to physically come alive. Wait. I shouldn’t know what Toy Story is. How does that work. Never you mind. I was left to stew in my mental hell wishing all the while for somebody to bestow their love on me.

K’s Story:
Following my move to Vancouver, I had the Book Ends (They be twins, my younger sisters) over for a sleepover after I was all settled. We were catching up, having some girl time. I was sitting on the living room floor, as I sometimes do, while they perched on the couch and we talked about boys, parents, I gave them the ten-second-tour (that's literal – bedroom, bathroom, Monsieur Cora Pearl there on the floor please don't touch him, kitchen, and dining/living room. Done.) feel free to do what you like, mi casa es your place too. The only rule is: don't touch Mutt's things. I should make a special note here that even Boyfriend and I DO NOT touch Mutt's things. He's very...well, he's kind of a canine hoarder. As I spin in my chair I can tell you that right now he has collected all of his stuff right beside the cat's post, a mountain of uneaten treats, his stuffed alien dog, his neck pillow (Which he pilfered. Yes, pilfered. It wasn't his. Dirty little thief.) and of course, Monsieur Cora Pearl. Oh Law (that's a combination of Kathryn Stockett and the margarita I'm sipping, not me), when you touch Mutt's things he has a tendency to somewhat freak out. Rule of the house: Leave Mutt's things alone. Do whatever else you damn well please unless it pisses off the She-Hulk. She'll let you know when you cross the line, but that's generally after you cross it so she can smash you.

Monsieur Cora Pearl’s Story:

That girl saved me from suffocating. She freed me from that trap I was wrapped inside of while a song called Christmas in Jail, played in the background. It was all too appropriate. We stayed at that house for awhile, though it turns out the girl didn’t live there. We went on a long bus ride to a different house. We lived there for awhile. Some days after she woke up she would make her bed and carefully position me on it, with my back resting against the pillows. I think she put me there so I could keep a lookout; I was always facing the door to intimidate any and all intruders. Most days though, the girl didn’t want to wake me. She left me face down on the floor with the blankets strewn about on the carpet for warmth. She was always considerate like that. There were other teddy bears for awhile, but as the years drifted by and the girl started to catch the crazy, those bears slowly disappeared until I was the only one.

K’s Story:

The Book Ends asked why I gave the warning about Mutt’s things. I’m not a liar when I’m speaking...with the exception of that time I told Muse and Hubby Cupcake that Boyfriend was Mister North Shore 1996. He got a sash and a key to the city if you were wondering.

Monsieur Cora Pearl’s Story:

We’ve been moving around a bit over the last little while. I was misplaced in a moving box for far too long. I thought she forgot about me. I’m feeling more and more unloved. Especially when I was finally removed from the box and saw an alive stuffed cat. She’s kind of a fat bitch.

K’s Story:

After I tell the Book Ends why they should NEVER touch Monsieur Cora Pearl or Mutt’s other things, the sisters get the giggles in unison. I laugh too, because, really? Really? Boyfriend arrives, lets himself through the door and greets us. Hey Boyfriend, welcome to the estrogen-fest. Pull up a chair. Or you could...what are you doing Boyfriend?

Monsieur Cora Pearl’s Story:

We’re at a different house now. We live with a dear old woman that seems to be a future version of the girl. I like her. She makes pancakes. The girl brought home a little monster of a thing, she called it a dog, but I’ve seen enough television to know she’s a liar. I think it’s a rodent. I’m pretty sure, no, I’m eight thousand percent certain. Within the rodent’s first few months, he’s rooted into cupboards and staked claim on a forest green neck pillow. Didn’t even ask if I wanted it, and yeah, I did. By now the girl doesn’t even notice me. She put me in the spare bedroom and forgets all about me. Only living things I see are that spherical cat and monster “dog”. They come in and keep me company once in awhile, but never stay long. That is, they don’t stay long until one day the “dog” comes in looking all different. He’s got a lampshade over his head and he’s acting all ashamed. Says he doesn’t know who he is anymore. Feels like less of a man. Says he likes my company.

K’s Story:

Boyfriend is new to our everyday life together as I mentioned earlier. I don’t know what Boyfriend is thinking when he steps toward Monsieur Cora Pearl and picks her up. He shoots me a mischievous smile. Did I forget to tell Boyfriend the only rule of the house?????

Monsieur Cora Pearl’s Story:

The “dog” and I become best friends. Better than best friends, I think he loves me. I mean, he says he does, but I have to admit that sometimes I doubt his sincerity. It’s nice to be loved, but it does make me feel a little used sometimes. At least it’s attention; the girl just looks at me with disgust now, careful to stay away from me. Like I have some disease. This, this is what my life has become.

K’s Story:

Boyfriend pulls Monsieur Cora Pearl away, in a back swing that makes me wonder if Boyfriend plays tennis. The Book Ends and I stare, frozen, all knowing what’s going to happen with Boyfriend’s swift follow-through. They just heard the story and I think they’re rooting for Boyfriend on this one. As if in slow motion, three sets of eyeballs watch Monsieur Cora Pearl come closer. Boyfriend smiles, delighted that I haven’t made a move to stop it from happening. Monsieur Cora Pearl collides with my face. A synchronized “Ohhhhhh” comes from the Book Ends, while I let out and agonized, AGHHHHHHHH! Monsieur Cora Pearl is Mutt’s hump bear. I’ve seen him go at Monsieur Cora Pearl as though he’s filming a porno. And Boyfriend connects the diseased stuffed animal with the side of my face. This is the absolute worst day of my life. Wait, let me think...yes. This is the worst. The She Hulk boils with anger.

Do you have any idea what that is?

A bear?

The bear that Mutt humps.

Ha ha. What?

Oh God. Disgusting. I’m dying. Give me that bear, I’m going to get you in the face with it.

No, that’s gross.

Obviously it’s gross. Forget the bear, I’m going to kill you Boyfriend. Today is the day you are going to die by my hand. It’s happening.

The She Hulk pounces, her mammoth claws rip into Boyfriend’s chest. One by one she snaps his rib bones as if they’re Thanksgiving wish bones. Every time the bones snap the She Hulk wishes Boyfriend didn’t do stupid, nasty things. She then takes the stake that she was saving as a precaution for the next coming of Dracula – stay on guard, it’s going to happen – and the She Hulk plunges the stake into Boyfriend’s rapidly palpitating heart. Boyfriend dies and the She Hulk tosses Monsieur Cora Pearl on top of him. She sets the apartment on fire as she leaves.

It’s a good thing Boyfriend has as many lives as a cat. I should really figure out how many are left. I don’t want to waste his last few willy nilly. Also, excuse me while I shoo Fat away from Monsieur Cora Pearl. She doesn’t need that nonsense.

Time for tea,

K