Silent Conversations

Over the years, Muse and I have developed an acute ability to have conversations without saying anything, without resorting to the mime game. How you ask? Eyeballs and eyebrows tell you everything you need to know. If we go to a restaurant and somebody sitting in the booth behind us gets into my personal space we'll have a silent conversation where our eyeballs and eyebrows say this:

How do you feel about that man's arm splayed across the booth like that?
Not too great, Muse. If it persists, I may lose it on him.
Want me to deal with him?
Yes, but no. You always look out for me, don't you?
Of course I do! (Even though she doesn't say it, I hear her voice getting a little pitchy in my head. I'm quite sure we both hear it, as we both bust out with laughter over our muted conversation.)

Seriously, I love that girl. This conversation technique is something that I thought Boyfriend would get the hang of over the years too, but no. The best example of his inability for this happened whilst we were in line at Tim Hortons. The weather was warmer, and ahead of us in line was this buxom middle-aged woman in cargo shorts. Now I've been conditioned by the world's entertainment landscape to have very little attention span. As such, I can't simply stand in line and be fine. My eyes wander and I catch something that I really want Boyfriend to notice. This is how Boyfriend reacts when I try to converse with him sans words:

Why are you looking at me like that? I pointedly stare at the woman's calf in front of us then meet Boyfriend's gaze again. This is where he's supposed to give me an eye bulge or something that says, "Wow." I have to repeat the action, stare, and meet his eyes. I help him out by tilting my head and mouthing the word, "look." Finally, he bends his neck and takes it in.

Wow. That's a pretty bad tattoo, hey? I squint at him with a "What are you, stupid?" look and just wait for the lady in front of us to turn around. Thankfully, she's not the in-your-face-biker-lady type that she's built to be, and just ignores Boyfriend. I'm surprised she didn't whip around with a switchblade and cut him for his remark on her botched, who I assume to be Michael Jackson, tattoo. I shove my elbow into his sternum and give him a "Shut the hell up" stare, which is quickly followed by my "Buy me some timbits" gaze.

Muse, thank you for knowing what I'm saying without having to say it. Boyfriend, I've enrolled you in a mime class, it's only the first step. Hope it helps.

Time for tea,

K

Women's studies applied to time

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time for tea,

K

The impossibility of it all

I know many things for certain. This is what I'm sure of at the moment: my new pedicure looks super fantastic, everybody likes all the same things I do because my taste is impeccable, and PMS is a free ticket to get away with anything. Suck it, testosterone.

But maybe I'm not so sure of my opinions anymore; Boyfriend shook up my confidence on all three that are listed above. Right now, he's accusing the sports broadcaster of stealing his opinions, so that should tell you why I'm upset that Boyfriend's altering my perception.

Shattered Perception #1
 I came home today to show off the seductive canvases that are my toenails...that's never a sentence you think you will write, but here we are. It's like I never expected to ever use the phrase, "Get your tongue out of your ass," but Mutt has a disgusting fascination with his own anus. I digress. I traipse into the apartment and do Rockette-style kicks as I enter the living room. Boyfriend doesn't take his eyes off the football game.

Uh. Hi.
Hey.

His eyes stay glued to the dudes in spandex. Not only has his missed the sight of my smashing feet, he also ignored my high kicks with chorus line precision. I wasn't a ballet dancer until I was eight for nothing. Well, that's a lie, it was for nothing. I caught sight of my can-can spectacle in the mirror, it was more in the style of my four-year-old nephew doing karate. I stop immediately, though I still think it counts as a grand entrance. No matter. When determined, I can make him notice things. I leap onto the sectional and lie down. I prop myself up on my elbows and give him the Non-Wife stare. Not being locked down by ring and by name has the advantage of an easier exit if I get sufficiently pissed off or neglected. I just need him to see the "pay attention to me or else" look on my face. Nothing. So I do what any rational woman would: I inch my feet closer and closer to him. He's not blinking. I briefly fret and wonder if maybe he died since our salutation and I was too self-involved to notice. Boyfriend eventually takes a sip of beer. He's fine...but not for long.

If only he acknowledged me when I came home, my feet wouldn't have worked their way up to his face and gripped his nose between my big toe and the others. Trust me when I say, holy flip out. How was I supposed to know that he wouldn't acquire a foot fetish while I was out today? My apologies, Boyfriend, for trying to be involved with any new interests that I imagine you collect throughout our time apart. It's called growth. Also, I've learned a valuable lesson about putting feet in your face, it's a no-no.

Shattered Perception #2
Recently, I changed my shampoo and conditioner. Boyfriend's been so busy doing old man things (building ships in bottles, muttering about news reports, combing his moustache and the like) I really didn't expect him to notice. Please note: Boyfriend doesn't have a moustache; I like fluff filler, deal with it. Like I posted last week, we're in a good groove right now, so we cuddled up on the couch to watch a movie. Cute, right? Well, that being said cute is not our thing, and any cuteness will not last. I curl up beside him on the couch and rest my head on his shoulder. This is how a lazy night with the other half is meant to be spent. I hear soft sniffs and I wonder if perhaps Boyfriend is showing the first signs of a seasonal cold. I hope he doesn't because I don't deal well with man-illness. As a Non-Wife I'm not patient and nurturing. He lifts up his left hand, the defensive/She-Hulk side of me goes on alert. If he ruins this sweet moment by wiping a drippy nose on his hand and potentially wiping that nasty hand on me that's it. I will end him. His hand comes up, but doesn't leave my field of vision. Instead, it swoops forward, palms my face like a basketball and he pushes me away from him. All I can do is go with the motion and I flop on my side like a rag doll (not of the Aerosmith variety).

You asshole. What's your problem?
Your hair stinks. What is that, dog shampoo? She-Hulk powers activate.
You thought it was WHAAAAAAAT? I will have you know that this is Shampure.
He responds with silence.
Aveda, you damn fool.
There is a gradual pause before Boyfriend speaks, Is that some foreign language for dog shampoo?
She-Hulk attack.

I was right; PMS will let you get away with anything, attempted murder included. Since this is true, it has to mean that I'm right about everything else too. Self-confidence, as well as relationship balance, restored.

Time for tea,

K

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

Letters of apology and appreciation from the bat cave

Dearest Muse,

I suppose the proper first thing is to thank you for is all the mothering you have done for me over the last week and a half. This girl is lucky to have you as her third mother. A billion thanks for coming with me to laser eye surgery because Boyfriend couldn't make it. I'm sorry, I really thought it would be more fun on your part. My bad. I'm also sorry if my calmness freaked you out. I'm also really sorry about the misunderstanding, I thought, like your husband, that the surgery would enable me to shoot lasers out my eyes. At least that's some good news for Boyfriend, because we all know that he would have been victim #1.

Another thing I need to thank you for are the eye drops you bought me. And the second bottle...and the third ones...and most especially the fourth bottle--the gel ones--they really lubricate my eyes and make them feel rather erotic. I'm not sure how you're taking that, but it's meant to be a compliment. Though, it has been brought to my attention that my backward-ass way of giving compliments is too confusing. I never learned how to do it properly, okay? Erotic eyeballs is the best compliment that's coming, and for that I apologize. Sincerely.

Oh, while I have your attention: We need you to ask Hubby Cupcake to come over and help hook up the blu-ray player, Boyfriend and I have no idea what we're doing. Also, your husband is unlikely going to be fond of his nickname that I just came up with. Tell him that everyone gets an alias in my blog! It makes me feel like Flava Flav, giving nicknames to my prostitutes. Honestly though, it's a good nickname. He's a hubby. And who doesn't like cupcakes? Idiots obviously, but my point is that cupcakes are freaking cute and delicious. Not that I think he's delicious. You know what...never mind. This next bit is for him: You're Hubby Cupcake because I choose for you to be Hubby Cupcake. Own it. Please note that for this nickname I am sincerely sorry.

Where was I? Muse, yes. I'm sorry that I came up with the post-surgery calling plan and it didn't work out. You have to admit, it did seem like a good idea to have you call, let it ring once, hang up and call right back. I would have known it was you without having to check the caller ID and hurt my eyes. I'm sorry that neither of us had the forethought to turn my phone back on after surgery so you worried when I didn't answer your calls. Whoopsies. At least Boyfriend was happy to chat with you when you called him.

I also sincerely appreciate the Wendy's a few days ago. That burger was everything I wanted it to be. Erotic eyes and a burger, the stuff dreams are made of. All thanks to you.

Sincerely (the real sincerely, not the fake sincerely I use when I apologize for things I'm not sorry for) yours,

Your Bestie,

K

**********************************

Darling Boyfriend,

We have had ourselves quite a nifty week, haven't we? You have to admit it had its moments and our relationship is all the better for it. No? Yes? Really, who can tell?

My first big thank you is for the assemblage of my bat cave. Who would have thought that our flimsy curtains wouldn't be enough blockage from the outside world to keep my eyes happy? You have to admit, I did my best not to bother you that first morning when I woke up and the post-dawn light sodomized my retinas. That's hyperbole. For effect. Okay, moving on. I'm sorry for the agonized scream that woke you up when I ran to the windowless bathroom to hide from any trace of light. I could have lived in there for days until my eyes healed. At least my legs would have been shaved. Who am I kidding? They really wouldn't have. But I could have stayed there were it not for your act of valour. I didn't know until the other day what you put over the window to coat the bedroom in blackness, but thank you for thumb tacking those towels on the wall. And that signed cardboard cut-out of the Barenaked Ladies that you also used as a screen, thank you for not letting me know that it was in our house. Now that I know it exists I want it gone. They've served their purpose.

I really am sorry that I ate your cookies. I just figured you had lots so I would help you get rid of them. You're welcome for replacing them with the Golden Oreos, I knew I wronged you and had to make it better. I'm really, very sorry that I ate your Golden Oreos in spite of the post-it note I put on them saying that I wouldn't. Yes, it was a bitch move on my part, but I was hurting and the only thing that would make it better was stolen cookies. You're welcome for replacing them with another box of Golden Oreos. I'm sorry we got to the point that you had to hide them from me. No one is sorrier than I am for this happening.

However, thank you for all your help when I couldn't see. Your compassion and sense of duty really shone through last week, this being especially paramount with all the little things. You brought me food and drops, Tylenol threes and helped me with my iPod. The last I am especially grateful for, day two of surgery when I blindly felt around for my iPod, felt a tangled cord on the night stand and grabbed the earbuds was a small victory. When I called you to come and turn the iPod on to a certain audiobook I really appreciate how you pointed out to my great dismay that the earbuds were connected to nothing. That's what I love about you, Boyfriend, you don't give special treatment. You love me the same no matter what the circumstance.

Thanks for telling me I looked hot in my blind person glasses. You didn't need to say that. I know I did. I felt it. Sexy, blind person glasses. I'm holding onto those for summertime. Eat your heart out Vancouver.

The last thing I need to write here is that I'm sorry we can't do this more often. I know how much you loved not fighting over the remote. But now I can see and I'm not afraid to sucker punch you for it.

Would you look at that, Boyfriend? It's time for tea,

Sincerely and lovingly yours,

K

Rude Awakenings

I have a headache that feels like a taser to the temple. The fact that I guilted myself to sit in front of my lap top and write an entry for you should make all of you feel very satisfied. Now stop harassing me. You know who you are. You've heard the unedited version anyways so suck it up and grow some patience like everybody else.

I like to sleep. Frankly, I excel at it. Nap time is a very happy time for me. Bedtime is all the more fantastic. I suppose much of this good sleepy-time fun is due to the engorged queen-size bed (also referred to as a king-size) with that delicious pillow top that hugs me close every night. This gal can crash in a matter of seconds and be out for a full eight hours...okay, eleven hours. We don't judge here. No wait, I do. Rather often. New deal for the blog: I can judge whomever I want and those folks that are tolerant enough to hang around and continue reading what I write do so without judgement in my direction. Yes? Marvelous. Moving on. I don't even hear Boyfriend's alarm when it goes off in the morning. My sub-conscious knows that that alarm holds  no meaning for me, so it keeps me dreaming rather than fumbling around for a snooze button. Screw ignorance, this is bliss.

However, Boyfriend and I have sleeping habits that may not exactly jive with the other half. I'm a talker. I probably snore, it's never been mentioned, but it's safe to presume. I'm a pillow thief. I get the restless legs and rather than leave the room, I like to stay in bed and do horizontal Rockette high-kicks to tire my muscles out. Boyfriend is usually in the way when this happens. We'll just chalk up any damage done here for payment of bad behaviour that he engages in that I am unaware of. What else? I get crazy ideas that I need to put into my notebook at all hours lest I forget so there's the constant use of my night light to scribble my hoards of thoughts that usually don't make much sense come the next day. I drink a lot of water before bed and also when I wake up through the night which means frequent trips across the hall. There are a couple other little things, but who cares about those? Boyfriend's bad sleeping habits are these: he goes to bed way before I do and he's a light sleeper. This is such a headache if I knew what I was getting into these two things would have been a deal-breaker. Just kidding. No I'm not. Am I? I can't watch TV in bed because it will wake him up, Mutt and Fat wake him up and then he wakes me up because I don't hear them and how is it possible that I don't hear them? I have to be quiet after he retires for the evening. It's all just very not good.

The other day, we had an interesting occurrence: we woke each other up. Somehow in my sleep I became empress of the TV remote. I don't know. I wasn't paying attention to my physical body while I was unconscious and got hold of what many would deem the Power. And in obtaining the Power I put into our morning the small series of events that would lead to my own crabbiness. I don't know if this means I have too much practice with the converter, as Boyfriend would call it (Right? Who calls it that? Took me eight months to figure out what he was talking about.), but I turned that beast of a television on. Operating TV = Awake Boyfriend = Boyfriend's outburst (REALLY?) = Awake and confused me (What? You're watching TV. What? Watch it in the other room. I'm not watching TV. Oh. The TV's on.) = Crabby me. Le damn. Such not a good time.

As I mentioned, Boyfriend has his habits that hammer away at my sanity. Boyfriend  has a talent much like that of the cinematic serial killer that won't die. Don't go anywhere, hear me out on this one. I came home late the other night from work, and well, Boyfriend had put in a full shift watching some kind of sport...hockey? Maybe football or lawn darts. I don't know. The point is by the time I get home some sort of TSN or golf channel or something else that oozes testosterone blares from the television. Asleep on the chaise end of the couch is one cozy Boyfriend with a smile adorning the corners of his mouth. Even in slumber the proximity to the Sports Net or NBA All Stars delights him. If I'd taken a snow pick to his frontal lobe he'd have died happy. The good news is I haven't gone beyond thinking about it, so Boyfriend is still alive. A big you're welcome to Boyfriend's boyfriends, your buddy is still among us. Back to the freaky part. As I gaze down on him, deep in sleep, feeling kind of like a weirdo myself for digesting him visually, my eyes zero in on his hand. It's positioned beside his hip and still holding a can of beer. Any person in their right mind can see the future here. He's going to flop over onto his side and paint my couch a lovely amber ale colour. Not today pal. I can play nice and rather than venomously snatch it away I grasp the top of the beer can, feeling the sloshy movement of the beer indicating how very full this can is. The thing is, it's not coming out of his hand, it's wedged in there pretty good. No matter. I use my one hand to pull his fingertips away from the can while I pry the beer away with the other. As I lightly tug his fingers, Boyfriend's eyes snap open and eye me with fury. I see more of the whites of his eyes than I ever have. He doesn't blink, but the usual green/brown/blue (it's not that I don't know, I just can't tell which of these colours his eyes are) fades and is overtaken by the murderous scarlet colour that usually occupies the numbers flashing from the alarm clock. I hear a mechanical whir as he robotically raises his free hand to my throat and lifts me off the ground; my feet dangle a good 18 inches off the floor. This is where I find out that Boyfriend is a robot. That would have been awesome if that happened and I lived to tell the tale. His eyes do bolt open when I attempt to remove the beverage from his hand. In the movie version I step toward Boyfriend (in the film he plays the psycho killer) thinking he's finally dead, the panic slowly dissipates and I approach him just to make sure the terror is over. My movie self would offer up one of those one-liners, something lame like, "See you lager? I don't think so." His eyes open and eye me with pure hatred. If he was harbouring a weapon, this is the point where he uses it to stab me in the chest when I become distracted reaching for the beer. The protagonist (that might be a matter of opinion, but mind your business) bleeds out on the living room floor and Boyfriend sits up, downs the last of his beverage, crushes the can and saunters almost out of the frame. He stops dramatically, then slowly turns to gain eye contact with me before he utters the last words in the film, I've never spilled a beer in my life. The end. In all honesty, he did say that when I took the can out of his hand, but then he rolled over and went back to sleep. Believe me, you'll love it when it hits the big screen.

Well, time for tea,

K

Some ideas might make you look crazy, but at least nobody ends up dead

I used to watch a cartoon when I was younger called Animaniacs. I'm not really sure what kind of animals they were supposed to be...if they were even supposed to be anything at all. Not that they're the ones that are the important allusion here. On this cartoon there was a segment with a cartoon mime...was he a mime? I feel like he was. That, or he was some unfortunate cartoon man that suffered from albinism, or he was an albino, if you will. It would be rather insensitive if the cartoon guy suffered from that disorder, wouldn't it? Anyways, the cartoon albino segment was called, Good Idea/Bad Idea. Or something along those lines. They would cut to a black screen with Good Idea scrawled across it bold lettering, a friendly dad-sounding voice...reminding me much of Danny Tanner (Full House anyone?)...would say something like: "Good Idea: Helping a wrinkly old man with a cane cross the street." Then the cartoon albino would trot an old fella safely across the street at and intersection. The black screen would come back with bright writing. "Bad Idea: Helping a leper cross the street." At the end of Danny Tanner's sentence, the cartoon albino helps a nasty ol' leper across the street, contracting leprosy himself, and both lepers fall into pieces mid-way on the crosswalk. The opposite light turns green and the two men are run over by a city bus filled with knitting grannies.

Okay, maybe that exact scenario didn't play out on the cartoon, but I'm trying to give you the essential idea based on what I'm capable of remembering. This post goes back into the archives of mine and Boyfriend's dating history. As you know, like the average household in Canada, our happy home has two working parents, and 2.5 kids. No wait, that's not us. We live in a cramped toaster oven, with our epileptic Mutt and Fat cat. Just goes to show that all your dreams come true one day. Eat your heart out Cinderella. I was reminded to write this post when Fat jumped onto my desk and stuck her face in my tea. Danny Tanner, if you please. "Good Idea: Rescuing a cat from the animal shelter. Bad Idea: Rescuing a dumb cat from the animal shelter." Asshole move Fat. Time out for you. For the record, we believe in punishment in our house. At least I do. The cat gets a time out in the bathroom, where more often then not I forget about her until my tiny bladder exerts its control over me. Mutt is not so good with this kind of punishment. He's a howler. And a scratcher. And a barker. And so freaking ugly. But I love him. When he does wrong I make him look at himself in the mirror. I may have missed my true calling. Should've been an evil mastermind. Well, I'm always looking for new hobbies. I'll let you know how it goes.

Turn your clocks back a few years people. That's where this story happens. Boyfriend had this huge mother of a fish tank that was in his living room at his old place (circa 2009 or thereabouts). In the tank were three unnamed fish, but we shall call them Gross, Grosser, and Uglier Than Mutt. I'm not into brown fish that look like they lived many years within the confines of a sewage treatment plant. If I have a fish tank in my house it's going to be filled with beautiful salt-water fish that look like they flew in from the most exclusive coral reef in the world. I don't want goldfish, I want diamondfish. I want other jewel-toned fish that are teal, sunset orange, sapphire, chartreuse, lavender, macaroni and cheese. That last one might just be a name for the colour of a crayon. God Bless the creative folks at Crayola. I tip my hat to you.

Now I'm not at liberty to discuss the unsolved homicide investigation, but let's just say that due to unforeseen circumstance, Gross, Grosser and Uglier Than Mutt did not get to make the move with Boyfriend to our apartment. They...well, them ugly fishes are no longer with us. Let's just leave it at that. As you know, Boyfriend and I moved in all his stuff that weighed upwards of forty million pounds (that's how heavy it felt to me anyways), including the fish tank. I, for one, feel it was rather insensitive of Boyfriend to hang a vacancy sign on the fish castle that was inside. CSI hadn't even cleared out when he did that.

The weeks went by with great debate. What was going to happen with this fish tank. I SAY A-BYE-BYE. We don't need no fish tank. Boyfriend, as you know, is a doer. He doesn't like to leave things unfinished. He finds a friend who's shopping around for a home for his dear fishy friend. The conversation with Boyfriend and I goes something like this:

A friend of mine needs to get rid of his fish. We have that empty tank...
What KIND of fish is it? I don't want ugly fish.
It's not...ugly.
What would you call it instead of ugly? Homely? With character? Dull? Endearing in its own way?
It'd be a great conversation piece.
Which means what? It's deformed? Missing an eye so it has an eye patch?
No. It's a piranha. It's tropical like you like.
No piranhas in our house.
Why not?
You know how stupid Fat is. She'd be stoked to go fishing and then she'd lose a paw trying to snatch some freaky sushi.
...

Point Me. Extra points for finding Fat stuck inside the empty fish tank a few days later. She somehow got inside, but couldn't figure out how to exit. It brings me great joy that I know the limitations of her intelligence. At least she didn't think it was some kind of fancy litter box.

We didn't end up getting rid of the fish tank. It's in the hallway and we have two new pets in there. A lobster and a shark. Don't worry, the lobster's in a lobster trap so the shark can't get it. Heaven forbid we put fake animals in danger. For those of you that visited our place prior to our getting these new animals: you remember the former resident that moved into the castle after CSI deemed the ugly fishys' demise a triple suicide, the lizard. Yeah...he wasn't real either. He's also loose in the apartment, so please try not to step on him if you can help it. "Good Idea: Having pets that aren't piranhas. Bad Idea: Having pets that aren't real so friends refer to you as the crazy people with fake pets."

Time for tea,

K

TelephOH-NO part un

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


















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

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

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

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

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

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

Time for tea,

K

The simple things in life

I've never wanted a relationship that was easy. Why? Two reasons: 1)Easy is boring, and 2)Easy is boring. As I was writing I forgot what my second reason was, so I figured reason number one was important enough to list twice. I don't like boring. Boring is boring and fun is fun, even the words emulate what they are. You know fun is good because it has one syllable. One syllable = good, and moreover, One syllable = simple. Therefore, we can infer that: good = simple, yes? (For those of you that don't follow, the answer is yes, just nod your head and pretend you understand). The more important thing to note is  simple ≠ boring, mmmkay? The math checks out. Which leads me into the reason for this post: cherishing the simple things in life.

One of the many reasons I love Boyfriend is his love of simple things. It doesn't take a lot to make the man happy, which makes me happy. Let's face it, it's all about my happiness anyways. However, his love of simple things has an element of Huh? (Or, Say Whaaaat? if you prefer). The things that make him happy are things that I wouldn't expect. The man watches a lot of sports, that's one of the boring simple things in his life. But that's not what we're talking about. This post is dedicated to the weird simple things. Allow me to provide three examples of Boyfriend's simple things in life with the Huh? element (Say Whaaaat?):

1) He loves Mutt
Mutt is simple. Ordinarily I would make a comparison to Boyfriend here, but that's hitting below the belt, and let's face it, it's a new year I could try to start it off on a nicer note. Boyfriend and Mutt are, as the kids say, bromantic. It helps that Mutt is his Football Sunday buddy. As I mentioned before, Mutt is ugly as they come, and Boyfriend and him didn't exactly hit it off. Boyfriend almost lost his face to the little beasty. To their inglorious friendship, I say, Huh? (Say Whaaaat?).

2) His favourite food
Boyfriend is a red seal chef. Eat your heart out ladies. He's good at what he does. For dinner he has made us grand meals including seafood-stuffed chicken with lobster bisque as the sauce over top. Please don't hate me for saying that, jealousy is unbecoming. Seriously ladies, jackpot. He cooks food that I can't even pronounce or remember the name of. Delicious delicacies I have never heard of before in my life. And Boyfriend's favourite food of all time: franks and beans. To this, I say, Huh?? (Say Whaaaat?).

3) His coffee lids
It is no secret that my man likes his Tim Horton's coffee. Every day (literally) he will have himself at least one extra large coffee with one cream and two sugar. See Boyfriend, I have the capacity to remember. That'll be egg all over my face if it's wrong and I post it in the blog here. I believe that would definitely make me the Matadork in this situation. I don't know how many times I've gotten that coffee order wrong. It's cute when he adds more milk or sugar when we get home without saying anything to my face about how I screwed up again. He knows I try, but remembering isn't my strong suit. Seriously, check my DNA, we love puns and we don't remember stuff. That chicken is foul. It's funnier saying it out loud because it's fowl... Never mind, back to the coffee situation. Way, way back when Boyfriend and I were doing the long distance thing, Tim Horton's was changing things up. Their lids that had always been those pull-back tabs were gradually switching over to latte-style lids, with the small hole to sip through. Boyfriend and I spent many tireless hours on the phone with each other trying to solve the nation-wide problem that was sweeping the pull-back lids into extinction. I will not stand for it. It's an abomination. I need a lid that I can have a drink from my coffee, not a lid that's like an adult sippy cup. More or less, this is what Boyfriend said. I'm not a good rememberer. Rememberer isn't a word. When I came to visit him, we found out the coffee shop's (or doughnut shop for those of us that have our priorities straight) plan was to phase out the old lids, and transition to these new lids. Boyfriend always made it a point to...politely demand an older lid. Times were hard, lids were changing, it was a tough era to be Boyfriend. What I like about Boyfriend, is that he's a do-er. He does not go down without aggressively fighting for his cause. He did what anyone in his right mind would have done, he started hoarding Tim's lids. When he'd go to the gas stations that sold Tim's coffee, he'd grab a few extra old-style lids and stash them away. As I mentioned, he gets a Tim's coffee every day. A few grabbed lids here and there really add up. On another visit, we went to the Tim's drive thru where they were entirely switched over to the new lids, and he asked for no lid on his coffee. Instead when we pulled up to the window, he passed over one of his lids and ask them to secure it to his cup. He perplexed many a Tim Horton's worker during that time. The man likes his lids. He had a stash in his car, at home, at work, little piles everywhere. He learned young not to keep all his eggs in one basket (pardon the cliche). And now, when one goes to Tim Horton's and orders a regular coffee, the old lids are back, they save the new lids for their lattes and stuff. Boyfriend thinks this is due to his efforts to revive the old-style lid. Frankly, I think he might be right. The lid is a very important feature to Boyfriend's daily coffee. To this, I say, that's proposterous...I mean, Huh??? (Or, Boyfriend, you crazy).

To sum up: I love my weirdo Boyfriend. His love of the simple things makes me appreciate him that much more.

Time for tea,

K

Boyfriends: a love story

Hello strangers. My attempts to get away from you have failed miserably, but we all have to agree I had a pretty good run at neglecting to blog. The holidays, they have a tendency to getcha, don't they? Good for nothing time-suckers...I love Christmas. That's not sarcasm, I'm a Christmas nerd. For those of you that contributed to my bounty of tea, tea pots, and tea cups, I thank you. You done good. Some people have creative juices, but my inspirational beverage must be hot and botanical. Heat this up! I'm going to skip over a majority of the Christmas crap that happened around here, you didn't miss much. Important bit of info: Santa brought Boyfriend and I an epileptic for Christmas, so that's awesome. We'll get to that though. Gotta lay the groundwork for this love story, Cinderella didn't begin with the loss of her glass slipper. Slippers, good idea, please hold for one moment. My foot digits seek warmth and comfort.

Let's see...once upon a time in a land of semi-desert, Boyfriend came to see his fair lady, a princess so fair and breathtaking you would hardly believe it. This visit was years ago, in the infancy of their romance, when she and he lived in separate Kingdoms. Boyfriend rode in his chariot for hours holding out in great hope for even a second of the strikingly gorgeous maiden's time. Except that she was expecting him, so really he was scheduled in for a few days of her time and didn't need to hope for it. But times change, and now he finds difficulty leaving the television when the hockey game is on to travel the distance outside to help the princess unload groceries from the car. I know Boyfriend, I was aware of what I was getting into. And I still love you for it...did anybody slip the princess some kind of potion? Yes? Because she be talking crazy. Ew, Mutt, you got your hair into my tea. Mutt, exactly. That's where I was going with this. It isn't a love story about Boyfriend and his poetically beautiful princess, but a love story of him and Mutt. Alrighty. Boyfriend travels the hundreds of kilometres to seek the love of his future princess, knowing that while her love overflows like her champagne glass on New Years, it is the approval of the miser that lives in the castle that he needs to obtain.

Uh, have I talked much about Mutt? Cliff notes if I have neglected to mention him, or a little aside for those of you that don't care to pay attention (by the by, I don't care for those of you that lack interest, go away): Mutt is so ugly he's cute. He's a mix, half chihuahua/half ugly hybrid. And he's a big bastard for a little guy. Don't get into his bubble unless you want your face ripped off. That's pretty much it. I love my grumpy Mutt.

Boyfriend at this point has heard rumour of the miser that lives in the castle, but their meeting had yet to occur. Until this day. Whatever day that was, I didn't mark it on a calendar. It was summer, three years ago...maybe August? July? Really, who cares? Those of you who care, please stop reading the blog and focus on getting a life. For reals. Please strike for reals from the record. Boyfriend crossed the moat and entered the castle where the stunning and vivacious princess greeted him. Wait. This was the first time Boyfriend came over ever. Did he get lost? No...his directions are only bad if I'm the source of them. Oh yeah, in that case, he would have gotten lost. When expected to show up at 7:00 pm, the valiant prince crossed the castle threshold at 2:54 pm the next afternoon. Which is why the flawless maiden greeted him so keenly. She had spent tireless hours wondering if his delayed arrival was due to a run-in with a dragon...that's a kind of gang, right? Oh please. We all know that I'm lying to you.

Prince Boyfriend and the fabulous princess embraced. I wrote you every day. As I you, Prince Boyfriend. Did you get my texts? I know sometimes through the mountains you lose cell service. You didn't get my replies to yon text messages? I texted you back twice. This is a conversation we still have at least once a week. Get a new phone Boyfriend! At this point his ears perk up when he hears commotion from the miser, and Prince Boyfriend looks alarmed. His hand goes to his hip where he keeps his chef knife/sword. Do you hear that? In the distance. Is there a threat to the Kingdom? Dear princess, you are too lovely to chance an encounter with a beast that creates such dreadful noise. It sounds much like the howls and echos that haunt the underbelly of hell. To my noble steed! The mazda I hath borrowed from a friend. Go devastating beauty, I will slay this wretched beast. Dude, that's my dog. C'mon I think he burrowed under the bed. Boyfriend and I go into my bedroom, kneel next to each other on the floor, and lift the blankets to gaze at the miser hiding in the shadows. That's mutt. Boyfriend's eyes dart back to the door, wondering if it's too late to make a run for that mazda. He's harmless, one second, I'll get him. I wiggle closer to him, eventually grabbing Mutt's collar with my fingers and I pry him unwillingly from under the bed and into the daylight that fills the room. I swear, the surprise on Boyfriend's face when he saw the size of my little rat dog was more hilarious than I could describe in words. Mutt at this time is barking and growling and bearing his teeth, that's my little angel for you. You have to earn his love. Boyfriend lifts his hand, thinks about giving him a pat, then thinks better of it immediately. Calm down. He won't want to attack you if you hold him. Though these words come out of my mouth as I essentially throw Mutt into Boyfriend's arms, I'm not sure if they're true. The good news is: Mutt was too surprised to do anything, so instead became frozen in Boyfriends arms with a look at me that said, "Woman, you have gone too far." They parted on mediocre terms after visit number one.

Visit number two with Mutt: Boyfriend swung by my work to grab my house keys. When I was walking home I saw in the distance somebody walking a rather poorly controlled white dog. It was Mutt and Boyfriend, with Mutt either leading the way or trying to outrun Boyfriend. It was too hard to tell.

Between visit number three and moving to the city near Boyfriend they fell in love. It happened so naturally I can't even claim to have witnessed the evolution. I should have kept a scrapbook. Now that Mutt and I have let Boyfriend move in, they've got their own thing going on. It's a dude love fest and I'm the third wheel. I think they prefer when I'm not around. I think Mutt loves him more than me...but I guess Boyfriend is the literal gravy train for that rat dog. Mutt eats better than most people because of Boyfriend. His love language is feeding you right. It must be, because he feeds me pretty good too.

The moment I knew it was true love between Prince Boyfriend and the miser was just a couple weeks ago, right before Christmas. Mutt's been having seizures, he did great shaking the martinis at our Christmas party. Just kidding, we didn't have a Christmas party. Mutt is kind of an alcoholic, but we don't judge each other in our house for our hobbies. Anyway, Mutt's seizures made us schedule a vet appointment with a new pet doc. I had to work, so Boyfriend brought mutt over town in his big redneck truck to go see what was up. They did blood work, updated shots, full physical, and then they asked Boyfriend to collect a urine sample. Poor, poor, Boyfriend. Mutt didn't have to go. Boyfriend called me after the appointment to say what happened, and that he just needed the little miser to lift a leg so he could collect the sample and then the boys could head on home. Mutt peed while Boyfriend and I were on the phone, so he missed catching it in his little container. As the story goes, a couple hours later, Mutt finally did it again and Boyfriend was overzealous and in his great effort to catch the stream, he took a little bit of the golden water to the back of his hand. I'm sorry, but you only do that for people you love. I told you, it's a love story.

Time for tea,

K

Post Script: For those of you that are interested, Mutt is in perfectly good health in spite of being epileptic. Boyfriend and I have to give him medicine every morning, and with our best efforts we've been getting Mutt to choke down his syringe of pink goodness. Yes, two on one isn't fair, but misers are difficult beings to deal with. And the prince, princess and miser lived happily ever after. Until the princess She Hulked and the prince moved to another continent.

Two brothers think we should do it

Not IT it. I hate that the elusive "it" has morphed from something vague into something that happens behind closed doors. I don't mean do it in "the van's a-rockin'" sense, I mean do it as in "I know pronounce you woman and husband". At least that's how they'll announce us if we ever take the leap. Man and wife? Get real, I'm not wife-ish.

Last summer I read in some horoscope book that I found in a store that I would have an unorthodox but happy marriage. Stop right there. Don't walk me down the aisle yet. Do you see a Bam ring on my finger? Well, no, and not just because you don't see me at all. Even though I'm not the most reliable teller of tales, I can assure you that we haven't come to the Bam ring portion of this love story (maybe it's more a story based on tolerance). I can tell you though, about a Bam dress that I wore to Muse's wedding. Love that dress. I was the best lady in that circus. Before Muse started walking toward us the priest guy...no, I don't think he was a priest. Muse and Hubby don't follow the book of Jesus or any other holy man or woman. I don't know what he was, but the old guy that was ordained by somebody to perform their wedding...was he a magician? I don't know, but he leans over and whispers, "I understand you're wearing a Bam dress." I say, yeah, look at him sideways because unlike with everyone else at the wedding, I'm not about to yell, BAM! and strut my stuff for a magician-priest. More about Muse's wedding circus in another post. Another day. Where were we? Bam dress, check. Bam ring, absent. That's really all you need to take from this paragraph.

I believe I have mentioned in the past about Boyfriend's friendliness and his ability to attract some interesting characters. Or have I? I think I have, if not, I have now. Boyfriend is a weirdo magnet. About a year ago we ventured to a small pub. Sports bar obviously. I don't know that we've ever gone anywhere that doesn't have some sort of athletic paraphernalia somewhere. Yippee for me. I love me some sports action. If you aren't picking up the sarcasm of that last sentence, get out. Leave the blog space, I have no patience for you. I DO know, however, that Saturday is Hockey Night in Canada. Not Friday. I know some things. What on earth was I talking about? Recap: Bam ring a-no-no, Boyfriend + Weirdos = friendship, we go to a sports bar. Right. We sit down and order some bevvies, and chat with the owner/bartender. Lovely homunculus he was. And he pours them strong. He wasn't the weirdo in the story, he was just a tiny pygmy of a man. Perhaps the reason he was so nice and friendly was because he escaped from a Disney movie. Just speculating.

Moving on. A little while later, these two old men with white hair and super leather tans come in and sit at the bar with us. Americans, and also, friendly. Brothers, you can tell because they look almost like twins. Similar moustaches, same height, clearly not starving. I would've bet there was some kind of relation going on there. For some reason we felt it necessary to take some photos with our new Weirdos. Nice Weirdos, don't take weirdos to always have bad connotations. There's one with the four of us, Boyfriend, Weirdo #1, Me, Weirdo #2, and it almost looks like mine and Boyfriend's shadows have come to life. Or stripes on a zebra. Or keys on a piano. And another photo with me doing a shot of tequila with both of those Weirdos, and here's how that happened:

Weirdo #1 and #2 sit down with us, but it's like they've already decided to become our friends even before speaking to us. #2 takes a seat beside Boyfriend and #1 sits very close to me. Weirdo #1 has millions of questions. Where are you from? What do you do? Are you two married? You're not married? (At this point the other two listen in and I swear I see Weirdo #2 slap Boyfriend a high five for not getting tied down) How long have you been together? Where did you meet? Are you not married because of all the work it takes to plan a wedding? Well, Weirdo #1, I'm going to level with you. It's more of a Bam ring issue. I needs me a solid rock before we do the "I do" thing. This is where Weirdo #1 takes a solid interest in my case and gets pushy with Boyfriend about getting me a ring and getting wed. Weirdo #2, however, takes Boyfriend's side. Boyfriend doesn't need to defend himself, as #2 has got his back just as much as #1's got mine.

"He'll do it when he's ready."
"She's not going to wait around forever."
"You don't have to push him."
"She's not getting any younger."
"They're happy with how things are now, why change a good thing?"
"Has he told you they've been together for two years?"

Boyfriend and I sit back and just watch the back and forth like it's a tennis match. We sip our drinks and just let them do their thing. Eventually, Boyfriend excuses himself to find the bathroom and both the Weirdos look at me. What? I'm not reffing this thing, I'm just watching. But out of curiosity, #2, why are you on his side? You're obviously new, but just to let you know, even though I'm not pressuring him for this, I need to win every argument. I bet he doesn't even know your name. You should be on my side. "You probably don't know my name either". Of course I do, it's Weirdo #2. At the time I did remember his name, but as storytelling goes, you start attributing nicknames and then their real name is lost in they abyss. The point is I was right about his name. He's surprised. I bet you $50 that Boyfriend doesn't remember your name. "How about at drink?" Deal. I've mentioned how Boyfriend is a horse I can bet on and win every time, haven't I? This is how I got a free drink and shot of tequila. And we all lived happily ever after. Oh wait, you're supposed to say that at the end. It's not over yet.

A while later and a few bevvies in, Weirdo #2 finally admits something. "It's been a long time since we've been to a wedding." For the record, we were so far beyond that conversation at that time it took more than a moment to realize what he was talking about. As I recall, Weirdo #1 brightened like he'd just witnessed Boyfriend's proposal. "You should get married in April. April weddings are the best." Uhh, excuse me Weirdos, but you realize that this is up to us and not you? Just because Weirdo #2 has decided that a wedding is in the cards doesn't mean that we have. Back off. Marry off the pygmy bartender...who for some reason has covered his ears with a plastic cover that reads, Bullshit guard. When did he put that on? Things have gotten strange. Both Weirdos have started ganging up on us. "So, will you do it? Get married in April?" Uhh... "We'll be invited right?" Uhh... "This April though, next year is too far away." We did what any sensible couple would do. Finished our drinks, threw a handful of money at the little pygmy and RAN THE HELL AWAY FROM THAT FREAK SHOW!

Time for tea,

K

Matadorable

For my birthday I received a gift, as is custom on one's birthday, from my younger sister. It's called the "Total Bitch Control Kit". I assumed it was for handling my She Hulk. She can get out of control when she's upset. When I open the kit though, it is not what I originally expect. This isn't a kit to control the She Hulk, it's a kit to help the She Hulk gain control. Makes me wonder why my sister wants to help the She Hulk along. Not that she needs any help with her rampagingness (not a real word, do not pester dictionary.com). So very not good, the She Hulk devoured the kit...not in the sense that she ate it, don't be foolish. There's a little book included with helpful phrases that egg the She Hulk on, especially at a time when she craves salty foods. There are quotes like, "battles are won before they are fought", and, "if you can't bite don't show your teeth". The She Hulk has adopted these new mantras and bears her teeth and claws the second she breaks free to start her rampage. Poor Boyfriend doesn't stand a chance. Also, why do the drawings of this total bitch in the book look like a nineteen fifties cougar? Boys, I just left a pie cooling on the windowsill, would you care to come in and have a warm slice? That's the drawing of the cougar talking. I don't make pies. Who in the hell is she talking to? There's nobody here except me. I wasn't expecting the crazy to arrive so soon. Put the "Total Bitch Control Kit" back in its box and throw it to the other side of the apartment. Good job.

Onward. Boyfriend and I have a mutt. Nope, scratch that. The mutt and I have a Boyfriend. The mutt was here first and we collectively decided to let the Boyfriend live with us. After two years of cohabitation with Boyfriend, none of it's mine or his anymore. It's mine and ours. See, I can share...his things...his nice things. He can have his hockey stuff and the football helmet and the kitchen whatsits. I don't even know what any of those things do (including the hockey stuff and football helmet). By all rights at this juncture in our jaunty journey (who doesn't love alliteration? Go away, you're uninvited to the blog) the mutt is equal parts mine and Boyfriend's responsibility. Does anyone disagree? Well all I hear is Fat (the cat for those of you that don't care to pay attention) lapping water out of her dish and nobody saying that I'm wrong, so there you have it. Right again. Don't rush me, I'm gradually getting to the point of this post. Potentially. We'll see if any coherent sentences tap out of my fingertips and onto the screen in front of me. So far so good.

Actually, I'm sleepy. Not that there will be any way to tell in this blog post, but I am going to bed. We'll revisit this post anon. If I remember to. Well I guess if it actually gets posted and there are words after this paragraph it means that I did remember to finish the thought I had here. In which case you're welcome. If I didn't remember, it's not like you'll be able to get upset with me because these words will never make it onto your computer screen. Sometimes I'm so clever I outsmart myself. Bedtime now.

It's only a couple days later. Took me a moment to recall what I meant to share in this post, but it's official: we're on the trolley again. Recently, my Muse and I decided to be clever and avoid all those hectic Christmas shoppers. If that man that barged into me in the mall the other day is reading this, you too are uninvited to my blog. Yes you apologized, but that was only after I rudely yelled something like, whoa, whoa, whoa! to your backside. Uninvited! Muse and I picked a day we were both free, made lists, and power shopped to finish our Christmas shopping. Well, mostly. Next year, everyone is getting a bottle of booze for Christmas, even the children. It makes my life easier. I took the mutt out for a long walk before we left, and Muse whisked me away to spend much too much of my hard-earned dollars. Fast forward to a few hours later. We were waiting for the last gift of the day to be ready (a personalized something, you know how long things like this can take, especially when the person doing it is a weirdo and also a doddler who is quite possibly dyslexic). We were a little later than I expected, so I text Boyfriend to ask him if he was near the apartment so he could take the mutt out to lift a leg. It was not in his plan as he, too, had things to do. As he can't leave his little mutt buddy to cross his legs and hold it for another hour before I get home, Boyfriend went to let him out. However, as I have put him out of his way, Boyfriend texts me to say that you can't leave a dog alone for so long. The She Hulk coated me instantly and rage coursed through my veins. I never, never, ever leave the mutt alone for so long. Especially on purpose, that little mutt has a life most people would dream of. I plan my day around him because I love that little beast. On the drive home, I obsess over this, thinking how dare he say something like that? Is he inferring that I am a bad pet owner? Because I would STRONGLY disagree. I felt a little bad for Muse, who had the pleasure of a front row seat as I worked the She Hulk up and egged her on with imagined thoughts of what Boyfriend was thinking.

I got home, arms full of packages and bags, dropping them in the bedroom as I took my loaded pistols from their holsters. Then I shot him four times in the chest. Bang! That's how you do it where I come from. Okay, no. Not really. The loaded pistols are the fiery words in my chest that will shoot out as soon as he says the wrong thing. I'm just waiting for the go-ahead. For the record, the wrong thing could have been anything from, The dog peed on the carpet to I just made dinner for us. Who am I kidding? If he sneezed I would've lit the cannons. The She Hulk was angry.

Instead, he says something that I'm not bracing myself for. He looks a little upset, and tells me about part of his day. At one point during his running around, he saw a mouse caught in a mouse trap (one of the snappy ones, not the humane ones that let you free them back into the wild after you catch them), but it managed to kind of escape before the trap could kill him, but instead trapped and broke the little thing's leg. So Boyfriend, heart breaking, thought the best thing to do instead of let it slowly die while caught in the trap, would be to kill it quickly so it didn't have to suffer anymore. Sweet, yes? It just turns out that he probably didn't pick the best way to "off it" as it were. Clearly, Boyfriend lacks the cold-hearted killer instinct, and figures the nicest way to send it off is by drowning it. I'm sure you can imagine how the story ended. The mouse did not "go gently into that good night" as easily as Boyfriend thought it would. It fought and struggled for breath, ripping into Boyfriend's fragile heart as long as it continued to live. Eventually though, it succumbed to death. Boyfriend hasn't been the same since. I think he's haunted by the ghost of that little mouse.

What kind of vicious beast would the She Hulk be if she tore him apart after this? I mean, his text did encourage her, but in the end, he was just too matadorable to charge at. That's why she waited a full twenty-four hours before she threw down the gauntlet. It's the polite thing to do when one is in mourning. I've got control of the She Hulk.

Time for tea,

K

The mysterious lemon phenomenon

Sickness is gross. Illness makes me want to, let's keep it polite, spew. I don't have time or patience for it. The thing about the colder season is that it's cold season. Everybody gets all sniffly, sneezy, coughy, phlemy, diseasy, downright nasty. And for the record, when people blow their noses, it's worse than nails on a chalkboard. The sounds just skeeves me out, especially the people who make that honking sound. What IS that? Nope. Wait. I really don't want to know. Just keep your nose-blowing away from me. Far, far, far away from me.

As I have mentioned before, Boyfriend's go-to when he's ill is that neo sicktron stuff. It puts him out, so I may or may not push it on him even when he's just starting to get a cold, or I just need a little me time. Who says that drugging your partner is a bad thing? We have the best bonding time when he's passed out in the living room. We watch shows and movies together that he wouldn't dream of watching if he were conscious. Sometimes we have a good time doing shadow puppets. Oh wait, that's misleading, I do shadow puppets. The light from the dining room shines into the living room at the best angle so that if he's on the left side of the room the shadows land on him. A while ago I was making him look like Gene Simmons in his Kiss makeup. It's all about fanning your fingers out when you position the shadows over his eyes. And one time when he was snoring, I pressed my hand on his stomach to alarm him into silence, but not alarm him enough to wake up. He went, mmm, like the sound one makes when they just finish a hearty meal, then he rolled to his other side and slept in silence. Making memories people, it's what it's all about. We have a good time when Boyfriend is knocked out and on the couch. Wow, in hindsight, if I led with that last sentence for this blog post, somebody may have notified the authorities and they would have found my ether stash. That would be like, nine different kinds of uncool. So I will thank you all for minding your business.

As will happen, there is the stage before the neo sicktron kicks in and puts Boyfriend out. Also, Boyfriend's a sipper. It tastes gnarly, I say hunker down and chug that bad boy, because bleh. It's just so not good at all. He likes to add wedges of actual lemon sometimes to make it taste more...real lemony? You definitely can't say it makes it taste better. Nothing could do that. One night as I'm gently pushing the bottom of his mug higher to pour more of that faux-lemony crap down his throat, he resists and lowers his drink. Boyfriend peers into the darkness of the ceramic mug, and as we don't have an overhead light in the living room it makes it hard to see inside. He squints, then looks at me with curiosity. What? I thought you didn't put any lemon in here. I didn't. Then why is there lemon in it? What? I sit up, look inside myself, and I swear I see a lemon wedge in there too. What in the hell? Boyfriend, though not so put off as to stop drinking the neo sicktron, goes on to blame me for my inability to wash dishes properly. I do! Though I don't like to wash dishes I do it because we don't have a dishwasher. Probably because it would take up half of the free space we have to move in our apartment. I don't disagree, because I truly believe that it's possible that maybe I didn't wash that mug. I don't even remember if I grabbed a dirty one off the counter or a clean one from the cupboard. I'm a little fluffy in the brain, anything is possible. As is customary, I get up to make myself some tea, and Boyfriend follows me into the kitchen with  the mug of his now-finished beverage. Can we call it a beverage? No. Beverages, I believe, aren't mediciney. What he just finished was not a beverage. He tilts the mug in the light over the stove and looks in to check out the old lemon from his drink. Huh. What now? Look. I peek inside, bracing myself for something disgusting. Only...the mug is empty. Didn't you see it in there too? I really thought I did. There are only two possible conclusions here: 1) In his medicated winding-down-to-sleep time Boyfriend accidentally swallowed the whole wedge of lemon without realizing (meaning his mouth is bigger than I thought), or 2) We just really need a light in our living room.

Time for tea,

K

The other woman

I feel that I'm doing a service for our relationship by threatening Boyfriend's life on a constant basis. If I keep him fearful enough, he'll never dare cheat on me. There are too many a-holes out there that think cheating is awesome, when really it's dirty and disgusting. Are you a two-timing dog? Stop reading my blog, you're nasty. Boyfriend knows how I feel about scumbags that cheat. It's still polite to remind him what will happen on the off-chance he strays: I will chain him down and set him on fire while he sleeps. Cheat and die a flaming death, it's a simple enough rule. Around here we call it house rule number three. Number one: I'm not to be unsupervised in the kitchen, rule number two: keep the liquor cabinet stocked, and rule number four: fair fights are for losers. These four rules make ours a happy home. On a side note, I have a job in the kitchen now: Boyfriend lets me peel potatoes. Done it twice so far and haven't screwed it up yet.

There is one exception to the third rule (aka cheat and die a flaming death). That is his other woman, I know about her so it's cool. Boyfriend and I have an agreement about her. She doesn't come to the house and I go on being fine with how much time he spends either in her or on her. I mean, it gives me a break, doesn't it? He shouldn't be my responsibility all the time. I got myself a time-share, the pamphlets were very helpful in making the decision that a part-time Boyfriend was both affordable and enjoyable. I'm all for polygamy. We're a happy trio: Me, Boyfriend and his boat. She and I get on all right, but I can take her or leave her. How put off were you when I wrote about him being in her or on her? If you said, "very put off" your mind is too nasty to read my blog, I'm a lady you ass face. Of course he can go in her and on her, she's a big gal, got a galley and everything. I'm not allowed in the galley unsupervised either.

That's weird, I thought I was wearing sunglasses on top of my head. I was at some point. I know because it was bright outside and I thought of how smart I was to have worn my sunglasses on my head (it's Vancouver out there, we never see the sun). And then I wore them in the sunshine, and then it got dark at like 3 p.m. (if any farmers are reading, Boyfriend says it's your fault for us having to deal with time change twice a year, so maybe you should send him a fruit basket or a pet goat as compensation, he gets rather ruffled about daylight savings time) so I took them off because only fools wear their sunglasses at night. I bet I put them somewhere smart. Just strange I had the sensation of them still being perched in my hair. Maybe it was a ghost bird that was up there, I don't feel it anymore. Yeah, definitely a ghost bird.

The other woman, yes. She's a Mariner...I think that's right, I'm most positive it is. I'm sure Boyfriend will correct me if I'm wrong, I would wager a shiny nickel on it. Seriously, he's a horse I could bet on and win every time...like when he lights the barbeque he'll always say something along the lines of, I like that I can start it with the push of a button. He does. The boat though, I think is the true love of his life. Well, a labour of love anyhow. He's spent bazillions of hours fixing that old gal up and making her pretty. Oh, and making her work too. He actually took her out last summer on some overnight dates. Good job Boyfriend. Their relationship isn't perfect either. It too, is a matador and bull relationship. I don't know how many times Boyfriend has been frustrated with her and thought seriously of drilling holes in her bottom (again, if you're reading this and thinking gross things, stop reading my blog) and letting the ocean have her. I'm pushing for a viking funeral if Boyfriend's frustration reaches its breaking point. Boyfriend just clarified that yes, he does like her better than me.

I need her in our lives though. She can be the woman that he wants to change. Who spends all her time waiting for him to come home to her. Who feeds Boyfriend's love of all things aquatic and puts up with him interrupting her to look at the vessel across the water just to say, Nice boat. I am not the woman for any of these jobs. I'm more like the trophy wife. Not that I'm a wife, and maybe it's just a participant trophy, but still. I'm not into the other stuff I just listed, got it Boyfriend? And if I may just suggest to all the ladies out there, you should tell your fellas to get boats. You would be amazed the stuff you get away with when they're distracted by fixin' up their other woman.

Time for tea,

K

Why boyfriends don't carry bags

Booze. That's why. No wait. That's when they DO actually carry bags. When they've got a gallon of the good stuff in their systems. My fella is not a bag man, there are very few exceptions in our history together when he actually broke this rule. Let me tell you about it, and yes, liquor is the key ingredient in both stories.

I'm going to start with my favourite bag story with Boyfriend. In this one, I don't mean a bag as in a purse, I refer instead to a bad of produce. This was way back when...I'm a touch foggy if it was when we were moved in together already or...no, we weren't living together because we were at the grocery store near his old apartment. Right. I was in town for a visit and we went somewhere...though I'm not sure where to be frank with you...anyhow, wherever this magical, mystery place was, Boyfriend and I did our share of elbow lifts. That makes sense how we made it to the grocery store. It was walking distance, because dang if we had enough sobriety between the two of us to make it there any other way. Cab drivers on duty that night: you're welcome for not calling for a ride. Boyfriend made some sort of comment about it being stumbling distance, as Boyfriend will always helpfully point out when one has sipped beyond one's capacity. Righto. We stumbled into the small grocery store and ambled around the produce section. I can't remember what else we bought, but I do remember the clear plastic bag that we loaded up with those little golden nugget potatoes. That's what they're called, right? Golden nugget potatoes? It sounds right to me. You know, the wee ones that are yellowy-lookin'. Somehow we managed to get enough wits about us to split up and search out different items and reconvene at the checkout. Or something like that. We separated for some reason. Those elbow lifts will impair your memory every time. I grabbed something that we needed, as did he, and I saw him walking to the checkout line and I was several feet behind him. The joy of inebriated Boyfriend is how free he lets himself become. He swung that bag of potatoes to and fro while he skipped along and hummed "Singin' in the Rain" to himself. Well, two parts of that sentence aren't true. Based on what happens next, I'm sure you'll figure out which of the three did happen. If anything else, you've got a 33.3333333333andsoforth% chance of guessing right. Suspense over now, I'll tell you what happened. Well, wouldn't you know, as he made it to the line-up at the cashier, he swung forth, with gusto, a sack of golden nugget potatoes that collided with the rump of an elderly asian woman. Bad time to be bending over to sort through your basket dear lady...well bad time for you. I thought it was a hoot. She did not. She was, and I'm guessing here, at a loss of words of what to say to the strange man whose potatoes collided with great inertia into her back door. For the record, that is not a nasty euphemism. Get your mind out of the gutter. She just turned around stunned while Boyfriend managed a giggly apology and looked rather surprised himself. Boyfriends do not carry bags, he didn't know what he was doing.

Boyfriend with a bag story numero deux:
This one is about a purse. Sort of. Well, yeah, it is. It has a purse in it anyways. It's the story about the first and only time Boyfriend has ever held my purse in public. Yes. It's definitely about a purse. That's settled, onward we go. I should preface this with a very important fact: Dudes do not like carrying a woman's purse. Boyfriend doesn't even go near mine when we're at home. Even if I tell him to grab something from it, at best he will snatch it and hurriedly toss it at me in a matter of milliseconds so I can retrieve whatever I said he could grab. Seems to me like he thinks coming in contact with it gives him a dose of estrogen that seeps in through his fingertips. Don't worry Boyfriend, it's not catching. I think you have to pay extra for the purses that give you that extra feminine boost on contact, they spray it with testosterone eliminator I'm pretty sure. Makes your voice go up a few octaves and your breasts become enhanced with prolonged exposure. Everybody knows it's a scientific fact. The main point I'm driving home here is: if it looks like a purse and it feels like a purse, it's meant only for a woman in spite of it being called an Indiana Jones exploration satchel. No dudes allowed. So the story. It was the eve of my twenty-fifth birthday. Some may say that's young, but to those people I say you're all liars. Everyone knows you pass your prime at twenty-two. For those of you that haven't reached twenty-two, go away. I don't need you kids around making me feel like a geezer, have the courtesy to bring a fake I.D. that says you're at least twenty-seven and you can hang out with us grandparents. Seriously. Go away. Many thanks. Well, when one reaches the quarter-century milestone, rather than stay home and cry over wasted youth, one goes out and...indulges...in tequila-based drinks and shooters. Don't judge! It was one's birthday and she was having a hard time with it. Let one placate oneself however she likes. Anyways, many, many, many margaritas later this girl and Boyfriend had been dropped off at the bus loop near their house because you never ever EVER drink and drive. That's what losers do. As much as one looks like a loser after many, many, many margaritas you know she is not a true loser because she and her amigos get home safe every time. Seriously, don't be a loser because I'll find you and give you a couple raccoon eyes as a warning. It's for your own good. I don't like hitting people...without a few practice swings first. Concern for safety is now over, let's resume. Boyfriend and I, rather than wait for a connecting bus that will take us one block from our infant-sized apartment decide to walk the six blocks home. C'mon, it's stumbling distance as a certain somebody likely reminded me at the time, not that memory serves me best that eve. Yes, it seems like a reasonable idea, but after many, many, many margaritas things in the stomach region aren't a-so a-happy. The optimistic way of saying this is: I got to revisit my dinner, though it wasn't as delicious as the reverse of how it ended up in my belly. You know what I'm sayin', I left the drunkard's version of a Hansel and Gretel trail from the bus loop to my apartment. I'm sorry to all of you people and your yards. For the record I was dealing with becoming officially old. And also for the record, one doesn't bounce back at twenty-five the way one does at twenty-four. The good news was, Boyfriend carried my purse for like two of those blocks...he wasn't walking anywhere near me and it was like two or three a.m., but the point is he carried my purse. Good Boyfriend. All it takes is some adult bevvies and Boyfriend holds that thing like a pro. In hindsight he may have referred to it as his Indiana Jones exploration satchel. If Indiana Jones likes purple.

This, dear sirs and madams, is why Boyfriend doesn't usually carry bags. He's not usually that drunk.

Time for tea,

K

Duping

This is another post of something I'm not proud of. Well, no. That's a lie. When I succeed, I'm actually quite tickled with myself, it's another one of those relationship victories. When you step on that podium to get your gold medal and the crowd cheers, there's nothing like it. You know what I'm talking about, the duping of the other half. Nothing beats the feeling of when you do your damnedest to pull the wool over their eyes. I can get Boyfriend to do my bidding because I: A) am too lazy to go outside, B) am not too keen on getting rained on, C) have better things to do, D) like to exercise my muscle in getting Boyfriend to do things for me, or E) all of the above.

One of my constant go-tos for duping is the milestone quiz. Ladies, you know what's up here. You ask your fella the date of something important, such as your birthday or your anniversary. Every chica out there knows that dudes are bad with any dates that aren't the superbowl or some other super sports match extravaganza main event thing. It's a given. I'm delighted when Boyfriend even guesses the right month. The thing I like to do is not to get upset when he doesn't know important dates, but to make him think that yes, somewhere in the dusty archives of his brain, he knows days that are important. Yay Boyfriend. I like to go with it, remind him of days that he's declared are my birthday or some day that involves me getting presents. Then he gets me presents for the wrong day, and will have to compensate by getting me presents for my real birthday that say three things: 1) Happy Birthday, I love you, 2) I got you a really good gift for being stupid and way incorrect in thinking your birthday was two months ago, and 3) I cost myself lots of money when I don't remember dates properly. With any luck, he'll forget again the next year and Boyfriend will get duped again by getting me more presents. After all, it's his fault for forgetting your birthday, no shame in milking presents for it. This duping scheme is foolproof.

A long time favourite of the casual duping is the out-of-the-house pick-up responsibility. When I'm home and I get a craving or remember I need something but find myself disinterested in leaving the warm apartment to venture out into the rain it bums me out. Then, those times when I'm lucky, Boyfriend is out and about somewhere making friends over beer or flipping off bad drivers in traffic. The point is that he is out of the house with a vehicle. There is a certain magic here with an unwritten, unspoken rule. If you're out, you have to bring home items requested to you by text message, phone call or telepathy. We're still working on the last one. Sometimes Boyfriend hedges his bets and brings me home a pineapple because he's guessing that it's something I desire. I only She-Hulk when he guesses wrong to promote learning through negative reinforcement. He'll get it eventually. Or die trying. I do like that he has to pass a tremendous number of stores in order to get home. If whatever I desire is on route, he has to pick it up or suffer the consequences. Whatever frivolous want I have needs to be attended to, it's the polite thing to do, and Boyfriend is a gentleman. Well, he will be. Or die trying.

I happened upon an interesting turn of events this morning, and in hindsight, I feel that Boyfriend is learning about duping. This does not work well for me. As always, Boyfriend wakes me when he leaves for work. I guess it's payback for when I get home late and wake him up, or kick him off the couch, or throw the cat on him with her hindquarters toward his face. Immature, yes, but he's the one that says something is the cat's ass and means it to be complimentary. No matter. As it's my day off, who really cares? I've got a ton of things I want to get done today, take the mutt for a long walk, grab a coffee, do some laundry, find a university in which to get a degree in being a samurai, read, go buy some dog food and cart it home like a pack mule, work on my book, dig a tunnel to China, make the bed, shower, practice some voodoo and maybe make plans to go to a movie later. Not a bad day that I've laid out in my head. Boyfriend shakes me awake, like he did the other day when he interrupted my dreams about eating chicken wings, and says his see ya later. I only catch parts of his sentences for three reasons: 1)I've been rudely taken from slumber, 2) I can't listen and wake up at the same time and 3) If I'm not going to remember what he say anyways, why put in the effort? Multitasking is hard. I wake up when Boyfriend shoots a deal my way:

If you do laundry today, I'll go buy some more dog food.

In my head, I'm thinking, Sucker. I was going to do laundry anyway. And I was going to get dog food at some point during the day too.

Sure thing Boyfriend, that sounds like a fair trade to me.

He leaves, and this ol' lady flops back into bed for a few more hours of winner's sleep.

When I wake up, I am pleased. I duped Boyfriend into doing one of the jobs that I wasn't looking forward to. As I smile with victory I stop and slowly realize that maybe Boyfriend isn't so easily duped. I mean, yeah, my plan was to walk to the pet store in the rain and get the mutt some food. Now that I think about it... that's not a job that I usually do on account of having to walk to the store and carry the food home. This is a job that Boyfriend does because he has a vehicle and he loves Mutt. It gives him great pleasure when he picks out food our little picky bastard will actually eat. If he was never introduced to gourmet food prepared by a red seal chef, we wouldn't have a problem. I done been duped! Boyfriend probably thought I was the sucker because all along his plan was to get the dog food anyways. That's like eight different kinds of not cool. I can't believe we tried to trick each other into doing chores that we were going to do anyways. We're both dumb. That, or we're both conniving, malicious, attractive geniuses. Whichever.

It seems there is a trend with Boyfriend's duping. He woke me recently to tell me something.

You owe me forty dollars.
Okay. Wait. Why?
Alright, you don't owe me forty dollars, but you can't blame me for trying. Love you.

Can't believe I almost fell for that one. Again.

How do I She-Hulk about this without admitting the duping that I too am guilty of? Something for me to think about. Or die trying.

Time for tea,

K

The boyfriend grocery list

Let's be real, I'm no expert on grocery lists when one goes to purchase food. This posting is about the grocery list of items or qualities that your ideal mate has. You know, back before the ball and chain, when you feel like you have the luxury to sculpt your own personal statue of David, complete with attributes and impressive... salary. I was thinking about what I used to have on that list way back when, and where Boyfriend falls on that list of things I was sure I wanted in a dude. Ah youth. Was I ever that young? Well here is the list, the edited version because the original had way too many things on it:

1) Must be able to cook
We're all aware of my shortcomings in the kitchen. Boyfriend gets a big check mark with this one. I have my own personal chef, I'll never go hungry again. Unless I do end up killing him as I threaten to do every now and again when he acts out of turn. I'll have to think that one through before I take him out with a blunt object to the back of the head.

2)Has tattoos
Boyfriend gets a participant ribbon for this one. He does have a fear of needles, so even considering getting one counts for something. One time we were going to get him a tattoo, but he got sunburned really bad, like florescent lobster red. Can't exactly tattoo his epidermis when that's going on. Now that I think about it, there's nothing hindering him from getting a tattoo now...

3)Has piercings
If a fella can rock a nose ring, I'm all over it. I also like a dude with pierced ears. Needless to say, Boyfriend does not have them. He's of the generation where if a fella has his ears pierced, it means he likes seamen. My sincerest apologies, as I'm Canadian my people have a tendency to put ehs into sentences where they don't belong. You know what I mean. I think it means that a guy has a thing for pirates.

4)Wears a suit for his job, and on the weekend chills out man-style in sweats to watch the game.
Okay, half marks for Boyfriend on this one. I also didn't know what it meant to date a guy that loves sports. There is now a reason I avoid the apartment on football Sunday... and Monday night football... and the football on Thursday... and any night NHL is playing... or CFL... baseball... whenever that boat race around the world thing is playing.

5)Has curly dark hair
This is the chart topper. Since I was a wee lass I've been into the dark, curly hair. I don't know why, but I think it's the cutest... scratch that... most rugged, testosterone-laden, attractive physical quality in a man. Seriously, ask around, that's been the one constant on my list. No blonds, thanks.

6)He's tall
Okay, Boyfriend is taller than me. Not by a lot, but he is, so check.

7)He challenges me
Ladies, there is a difference between winning and victory. I don't like to just be handed a trophy, I like to earn it. I know I'm not always right, but the reward is so much richer if I'm victorious over something I'm being an asshole about. I do not care however, for those times where we enter the ring and I get K.O.'d. Not cool Boyfriend.

8)He reads
Ha. Boyfriend doesn't read.

9)He knows when to leave me alone and doesn't get emotional
This kind of overlaps with the sports thing. His sport time is my me time. No clingy, tell me about your feelings kind of stuff here. Extra points to Boyfriend for never being a wussy, crying makes me uncomfortable. If we have something to discuss we duke it out MMA style like any respectable couple would.

10)Likes the theatre
Boyfriend does. I know now that Boyfriend does not like the ballet. You learn quickly how he feels when you ask if he wants to go to the Nutcracker and he immediately protects his junk. Dance is a no-no, but theatre is a big yes-yes. Especially if it's that little theatre near our apartment: you get to bring your wine, beer, shooters or what have you that you purchase in the lobby into the theatre with you and it's stumbling distance home. Also, if any people from said theatre are reading, you might want to post clear signs that say you can bring your beverage inside with you. Our first visit there we were pounding back drinks during intermission because we didn't know. Ah Rent, good show.

11)He's funny
Half points because he bombed at the weekly open-mic night in our living room last week. Practice your material and come back next week Boyfriend. I only heckle to make you try harder next time. And lose the plaid blazer, it undermines your credibility as a comic. I've just given myself a terrible idea, WE SHOULD ACTUALLY START DOING THIS! Oh wait, we'd have to schedule around sports and work. I guess we don't need to sleep every night.

12)He buys me presents just because
Boyfriend definitely gets points here. He has bought me so many pineapples! ...That was a lackluster reaction from you, I guess I should've prefaced it for my love of pineapples, in spite of when I overindulge and they make my tongue swell, they're freaking delicious. And he's bought me a hammock, a candle holder, various treats, he's even talking about getting me a muzzle, but says I'll have to share with the dog. Oh wait, that's not awesome at all. He bought me flowers once, only once probably because my reaction was to look at him with scrutiny and ask, What did you do?

13)He likes pets
He better like the pets, I've seen him and Mutt napping together. I think things are getting serious between them.

14)Drives a cool car/motorcycle
Well... one of the first vehicles of Boyfriend's I rode in was his work van. You're probably thinking, okay, so? Well his work van is the kind of van you're warned about as children, an unmarked white van with no windows along the sides. It didn't help that when he picked me up from the airport he said there were puppies and pineapples inside. For the record, there were neither puppies nor pineapples back there. And now he drives a big ol' redneck truck. Emphasis on big ol' redneck.

15)Likes to travel
The fact that he's hoping to retire so I can cover the cost of his tour of the world should speak for itself here. I neglected to specify on my list that I would like to travel with him. Faux pas me.

16)Doesn't wear pink
I have nothing against men in pink, but I do not find it attractive. Plus, I look good in pink, it's my cross to bear and I don't want any competition. I also wouldn't want Boyfriend finding more boyfriends on airplanes during his tour of the world because of wearing pink. But I think the spiciest colour Boyfriend wears is forest green, so we're okay in this department. Oh, my bad, that's Packer green, Packer green. I repeated it for emphasis.

All in all, I think Boyfriend scores pretty good on the list. I mean, it's definitely a pass. I'm not really sure how to mark it, so we'll call it a B+. That's respectable, right? I'll bump it up to an A if I come home to margaritas tonight. Okay, you have until tomorrow Boyfriend.

Time for tea,

K