Lesson learned

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

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

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

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

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

A short while later the transition happens...

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

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

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

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

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

Time for tea,

K

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

It's not how it sounds

I've admitted on many occasions that I am not the domestic type. Especially when it comes to being in a kitchen, interpreting the foreign concept of recipes, or making anything edible. I don't even speak the language, but maybe I should start to learn some stuff, because at one point I was forming some pretty incorrect opinions.

Early on in our relationship, Boyfriend introduced me to his friend, Artois. They're the best buddy types, finding an especially strong bond in good food. Artois and his wife had us over for dinner several times, and it was clear from the beginning that Artois and Boyfriend got on very well.

That being said, there was a time years ago, when Boyfriend was in the kitchen doing his thing. He has this almost choreographed dance when he makes dinner, the movement is fluid: saute this, season that, sip beer, strain, peek in the oven, slice, check the score on the game, whisk, and taste the perfection. It's really something else to watch. That man just needs a frilly apron and he is ready for his own television show. On this particular night, Boyfriend stops in the middle of his routine and looks me dead in the eyes as I watch from my desk, undoubtedly procrastinating on some kind of work I need to do. Boyfriend's eyes sparkle as they do when he has a brilliant idea.

I gotta call Artois.
Now? What for?
We need to have another rub party.

Silence comes out of my mouth. My mind repeatedly ponders the words that just came out of him. I probably just heard it wrong, by my thoughts keep coming back to... like a rub... and tug party? I know. Wrong. Gross. Much too much. We hadn't been dating for a lengthy time. I thought maybe Boyfriend's into the occasional stint with other males. That's not unheard of. But how do I feel about that? Is it a deal breaker because of the dude thing or because of the polygamous thing? Would a part-time bisexual boyfriend be a bad thing? Lots to think about. Maybe he doesn't need a frilly apron. He would look great in one. I'm confused now, how can he not want to take me to the ballet but be into a rub party with Artois?

I bet he could use more rub too. I've needed rub for awhile.
Okay, you need to stop talking.
I thought you liked the rub.
I beg your pardon?
I put it on my meat.
Can we talk about this maybe after dinner?
I rubbed the pork loin.

My hands go immediately to my ears. There's no way I can have dinner now when he's rubbed down our food. I start humming to drown out the sound of any other gross omissions. I'm certain there's panic all over my face, and Boyfriend picks up a large spice container and holds it so I can see that it's almost empty. We've switched topics, it's safe to have conversation again. I cautiously lower my hands.

So? It's empty. Buy some more spice.
This is my rub container. I'm almost out. That's why I need to make more.

I read the label on the container that he's brought closer to my face: "Boyfriend's poultry/pork rub."

Well why the hell is it called rub? You can't blame me for getting the wrong idea.
...Because you rub it onto the meat.

Boyfriend looks at me like I'm stupid. It's a good thing we clarified this before I could call or text the girls. Being a closet bisexual for life would have quickly altered his life's narrative if I'd run away as my plan A strongly urged. Get the facts, kids. Learn the cooking lingo: there's plenty of words/phrases in kitchens that can cause confusion because of how they sound: Shucking, pulled pork, dutch oven, shove it in the bread box, meat grinder, the list goes on. Beware.

Time for tea,

K

You think you can fool me?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time for tea,

K

Period or Placenta?

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

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

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

What does it look like I'm doing?

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

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

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

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

Time for tea,

K

The Good Ol' Hockey Game...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time for tea,

K