One thing I like about Boyfriend is that he's a people person through and through (Please note: this is one thing I like about boyfriend, I assure you there are others, but this is the only one relevant to this post). He's very giving of himself to people, especially family, and it's something that I certainly appreciate. He's a go-the-extra-mile kind of guy, and though there are times that I want to lynch him, this redeeming quality always leaves me allowing his life to continue, at least until he really crosses me.
I understand people have needs, one of Boyfriend's needs is a vacation friend, ideally one that can talk sports or boats (preferably both for my sake). This generally suits one of my needs too, that need to be alone. Not that I'm a wretched old lady or something, I just spend a lot of time inside of my head... that might not be a good thing, but even for you skeptics, there's a lot going on in there that keeps me busy. However, Boyfriend needs that good ol' chum he finds out on the beach or in a pub when I leave him alone for awhile when we go away. I imagine him as that oddball child that actually talks to strangers when we all know from childhood this is a terrible idea. Why is it a terrible idea? Please don't answer, it's a rhetorical question. Allow me to tell you why we are taught as children that we should never, under any circumstance, talk to strangers.
The vacation best friends are those people you forge a friendship with when you're away at a tropical hot spot. It sounds sweet in theory. One thing I have learned from my travels through the years: Vacation friends do not work out as everyday friends, they probably become facebook friends at best. Trust me. I'm not going to lie, part of the reason I go away is to flee from people (screaming See ya suckers as I adjust my rear view mirror). Between friends, Boyfriend, work and the other voices in my head, I like the quiet time one can only find on vacation. Don't get me wrong, I like to go for drinks and dinner with people we meet when we go away, but let the record show that I do not like to spend my whole vacation with people that I will forget about two weeks after returning home. Boyfriend picks vacation friends one of two ways: 1) Out of selfishness, and 2) Poorly. Both of these don't work out. Let me explain.
When he chooses vacation friends out of selfishness:
Our last vacation, Boyfriend went missing. I done lost him, it might have been on purpose, and I might have known to find him at the sports bar in our hotel, but for purposes of this story he was lost. I searched high and low around the hotel, shouted his name and listened as my call echoed down the beach. I attempted a call to 911 to report him missing, but as I don't speak spanish the call did me no good. Or was it the front desk I dialled? Maybe I didn't make that call. No wait. I did none of these things. I was probably sleeping off a margarita or five when Boyfriend made his getaway... No wait. This came after we met his friend at the bar. That makes sense that I needed a nap. Right-o. We're on the trolley again. We were at the sports bar together and Boyfriend starts talking sports to all those that are present in the bar and riddled with testosterone. That's what did me in. I had nothing relevant to say so I left, stumbled back to the room and made the executive decision to nap. We'll say it was an executive decision, I'm not really sure how it all happened. While I'm... napping and poorly hydrated, Boyfriend bonds with one of the sports enthusiasts, his soon-to-be vacation boyfriend. I don't remember his name, nice enough fella, he had a moustache I think. He definitely had glasses... I'm pretty sure. Nonetheless, he and Boyfriend bonded. It just so happens that Boyfriend's boyfriend has a wifey with him as well...kind of a devil of a woman. She was somewhat alright, definitely overbearing, I guess if she were a plant she would be one of those ones with teeth that eat flies... what are those called? Yes, Dionaea muscipula. (Did you even think for a second I was going to go there? I looked it up to sound sciencey for you, this is aka the Venus fly trap. And fyi sciencey isn't a word, please don't use it in real life. And you're welcome for teaching you something new.) She was definitely a huntress too. If Boyfriend and his boyfriend were at the sports bar together, Venus Fly Trap could hunt me out like nothing. Giant flippin' hotel and nowhere to hide. Plus, the margaritas slow you down so you can't run as well as you'd like to, and yes, tripping and falling on your face is an option. She was very particular, very bossy, and had kind of a trucker mouth that she'd use to reference people she doesn't like back in Canada. I use "kind of" to sound less harsh, even though in truth, there was nothing "kind of" about her. I mean she was nice to me, probably because she didn't give me time to interrupt all of her talking. So many freaking words and they didn't stop barking out of her mouth. Here's a clue: when you get the glossy-eyed deadpan stare and your listener is gulping back tequila like she needs it to live you are not as interesting as you think you are. I feel like she and I are in different leagues (if I may take the liberty to guess, I would think this is a baseball metaphor, yes?). You can interpret that however you would like. Thanks to Boyfriend, we were bound to this couple for our whole vacation. I'm pretty sure by the end of our stay we were disliked by everyone else at the hotel because of our association with her. Ladies and gentlemen, let's give a big hand to Boyfriend for picking well for himself and leaving me with Venus Fly Trap. Stop clapping, the tone of that last sentence was sarcastic.
When he chooses friends poorly:
On our first getaway together, Boyfriend started his boyfriend search early. He befriended the dude that sat beside us on the plane...this relationship didn't last too long as airplane boyfriend was looking for boyfriends in the more literal sense and I was like, sorry friend, but this here fella is mine. I mantrapped him so step away, yes, I'm aware he's man-pretty. Please stop ogling him, it makes Boyfriend self-conscious. I would've hung out with this fella if he didn't want a piece of mine. A girl always needs a good man as a girlfriend. I could've helped him pick up other dudes. I'm a great wing-woman. My gay-dar's not so good, but I make up for it in wing-womaning. So unfortunately, airplane boyfriend was more of a peripheral friend at the resort. During our second day there, Boyfriend found a new friend. If there's one thing I can say about Boyfriend's vacation boyfriend search, he does look for couples. Not that I'm a fan of being set up on play dates with wives, I have a thorough screening process for friends at home, but once I'm won over, it's a friends for life situation...unless you cross me. This new vacation boyfriend has a lady too. She's alright, possibly a friend I might try out in real life, but her fella has some...unusual rhythms. I mean, friendly dude, he just says things that are...out there. I chalk it up to the beverage benefits of an all-inclusive. We have a good enough time. They're pretty understanding at giving us our own space, we chill out, rent a boat, every thing's pretty okay when we're together. We find out they live in the same area, and Boyfriend even gives his boyfriend his real phone number to call him when we all go back home. Marvellous. It just so happens that this guy calls Boyfriend, and Boyfriend invites him over to his boat to hang with him. Neat, yes? This vacation friends story ends much like it begins in the airplane. It turns out that Boyfriend's vacation boyfriend may be interested in more than just Boyfriend's boat. To this, I laugh. That is why if one makes vacation friends that is all they should be. If you like them on vacation, chances are in real life they aren't the same. I'm sure there are exceptions to the rule, they're just not the residents of our shoebox apartment.
To all those likable vacation friends in the future, thanks for the laughs. To all those selfishly chosen vacation friends that I will interact with, keep the drinks coming, it's the only way we'll both survive.
Time for tea,
K
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Fish face
I was putting some dishes away yesterday and it reminded me of a time about a year ago that Boyfriend crossed the line in a horrendous way. In hindsight, I'm pretty sure I could have sued Boyfriend for what he did. Oh you'll read it and you'll agree. And this one is one thousand percent his fault entirely, not just me figuring out how it was his fault. Be warned. It's heinous.
Where to start? Boyfriend gave me fish face. Well that wasn't much of a reaction from you. Maybe you don't understand what I mean. He cut off a fish's face, gift wrapped it, and gave it to me as a girlfriend of the year present. With a bow. I should've known something was up because this man doesn't wrap anything. Ever. We had to go nine rounds in a boxing ring in order for him to wrap my Christmas presents last year. Trust me when I say that reconstructive surgery on my jaw was worth it. Okay, this whole paragraph is wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
Except the fish face part. That was real. But I don't mean it in the way I said above. Let me start over. This is the story of how Boyfriend gave me fish face. Last summer, Boyfriend bought enough salmon to start his own farm. He filleted (I'm pretty sure this is the right word, but my bad if this proves to be incorrect) and vac-sealed them into their own nice little plastic packages. The dude is like a one-man assembly line. I'm surprised Santa hasn't abducted him to work as an elf in one of his sweat shops. Santa would probably have to tell people he has a pituitary gland problem to explain the height, but such is life. Boyfriend does good work. Yeah, the filleting. One more side note, I know this is pronounced fill-ay, but I keep getting flashbacks of Ma at a gas station saying fill it up. Fill it. Fill it. Back to my kitchen that I'm not allowed to go in: Boyfriend gives a ton of this fish away and we still have enough to fill [it (Oh my god, I'm a loser and I don't mean in the sense of my last post. One more time for the kids in the back: fill it. It's like a nervous tick resounding in my head, I swear.)] our freezer. And by freezer I don't mean the one that's part of the fridge. That's where my ice cream goes. I mean a freezer freezer. Fills it to the brim with fish. I think, cool, I like salmon. We're going to eat like queens! ...King and a queen. We're going to eat like a king and queen. No plural on the feminine noun there. My bad.
The thing about salmon is that salmon have those little tiny bones. They don't make for fun eating if you chomp down on one of those suckers. Plus, it's kind of a downer for omnivores and carnivores alike because bones make you remember that what you're eating used to be an animal. Or celebrity. Anyways, Boyfriend, being the skilled master of the kitchen he is, magically does away with these bones. Seriously, he does an amazing job. Not sure why this didn't raise any questions before I walked into the kitchen that awful day.
As per our usual routine, I'm as far away from the kitchen as possible while he's slaving away. I feel like this particular time I was in the bedroom, not that it's important, but I feel that it's necessary to illustrate that I needed to enter the kitchen to see what was up. We'll say I was admiring my shoe collection, because likely that is what I was doing, when Boyfriend yells, Your tweezers work great. I get a visual in my head of Boyfriend in the bathroom mirror plucking some unsightly hairs from his face. I say face even though for a split second I envisioned another area of his body being introduced to my tweezers. I stop what I'm doing and start toward the bathroom when I catch sight of him in the kitchen. Obviously I didn't hear him right.
What did you just say?
I said your tweezers work great.
Confuse me? I enter the kitchen and see him hunched over a salmon fill it (you know what I mean), with my tweezers in hand, gently coaxing a small bone out of the fish. This is more horrifying than getting a gift wrapped fish head.
What are you doing?
How do you think I get the bones out?
Dude. I use those on my eyebrows. Those touch my face.
You never complained that I used them for this before.
If I knew you used them before I would have She-Hulked long ago. I am going to annihilate you. You gave me fish face. How did this become a good idea? What the...you can't be serious... Boyfriend... run. Get away from me before I lunge at you and take you outside and beat you in front of the neighbours (I didn't this time).
I always wash them before I put them back.
Boys, special attention here please: DO NOT EVER DO THIS. Nowhere is this okay. In no instance ever is this acceptable behaviour. You know what this is? The triple B. BBB. Bad Boyfriend Behaviour. And the punishment is a good ol' fashioned beat down from the frenzied fists of your beloved. Even writing this and remembering how angry I was I kind of want to go into the bedroom and smother you in your sleep right now Boyfriend. Be thankful I'm a sucker for your pretty face... your chiseled, manly face. If you're awake to read this tomorrow I would appreciate a thank-you for letting you live another day. You gave me fish face, c'mon. And just because I had two pairs does not mean that one is reserved for your fish friends. Unless they have a unibrow there will be no sharing tweezers. That would be like me using your brush on the cat... wait... I did that to somebody before. I know I was busted doing it, but just for good measure and a clean conscience, whoever's hairbrush I used to groom my cat, I'm ever so sorry, but karma gave me fish face, so...
This concludes the story of how Boyfriend acquired his kitchen tweezers. Wait, that wasn't what the story was called, but it is the ending. Now whenever I see them I cringe. And, I suppose this would be the happily-ever-after or life lesson part of the post: We now have a rule in our house. We ask before we use each other's bathroom stuff, don't we Boyfriend? Please don't ever let me catch you using my tampons.
Time for tea,
K
Where to start? Boyfriend gave me fish face. Well that wasn't much of a reaction from you. Maybe you don't understand what I mean. He cut off a fish's face, gift wrapped it, and gave it to me as a girlfriend of the year present. With a bow. I should've known something was up because this man doesn't wrap anything. Ever. We had to go nine rounds in a boxing ring in order for him to wrap my Christmas presents last year. Trust me when I say that reconstructive surgery on my jaw was worth it. Okay, this whole paragraph is wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
Except the fish face part. That was real. But I don't mean it in the way I said above. Let me start over. This is the story of how Boyfriend gave me fish face. Last summer, Boyfriend bought enough salmon to start his own farm. He filleted (I'm pretty sure this is the right word, but my bad if this proves to be incorrect) and vac-sealed them into their own nice little plastic packages. The dude is like a one-man assembly line. I'm surprised Santa hasn't abducted him to work as an elf in one of his sweat shops. Santa would probably have to tell people he has a pituitary gland problem to explain the height, but such is life. Boyfriend does good work. Yeah, the filleting. One more side note, I know this is pronounced fill-ay, but I keep getting flashbacks of Ma at a gas station saying fill it up. Fill it. Fill it. Back to my kitchen that I'm not allowed to go in: Boyfriend gives a ton of this fish away and we still have enough to fill [it (Oh my god, I'm a loser and I don't mean in the sense of my last post. One more time for the kids in the back: fill it. It's like a nervous tick resounding in my head, I swear.)] our freezer. And by freezer I don't mean the one that's part of the fridge. That's where my ice cream goes. I mean a freezer freezer. Fills it to the brim with fish. I think, cool, I like salmon. We're going to eat like queens! ...King and a queen. We're going to eat like a king and queen. No plural on the feminine noun there. My bad.
The thing about salmon is that salmon have those little tiny bones. They don't make for fun eating if you chomp down on one of those suckers. Plus, it's kind of a downer for omnivores and carnivores alike because bones make you remember that what you're eating used to be an animal. Or celebrity. Anyways, Boyfriend, being the skilled master of the kitchen he is, magically does away with these bones. Seriously, he does an amazing job. Not sure why this didn't raise any questions before I walked into the kitchen that awful day.
As per our usual routine, I'm as far away from the kitchen as possible while he's slaving away. I feel like this particular time I was in the bedroom, not that it's important, but I feel that it's necessary to illustrate that I needed to enter the kitchen to see what was up. We'll say I was admiring my shoe collection, because likely that is what I was doing, when Boyfriend yells, Your tweezers work great. I get a visual in my head of Boyfriend in the bathroom mirror plucking some unsightly hairs from his face. I say face even though for a split second I envisioned another area of his body being introduced to my tweezers. I stop what I'm doing and start toward the bathroom when I catch sight of him in the kitchen. Obviously I didn't hear him right.
What did you just say?
I said your tweezers work great.
Confuse me? I enter the kitchen and see him hunched over a salmon fill it (you know what I mean), with my tweezers in hand, gently coaxing a small bone out of the fish. This is more horrifying than getting a gift wrapped fish head.
What are you doing?
How do you think I get the bones out?
Dude. I use those on my eyebrows. Those touch my face.
You never complained that I used them for this before.
If I knew you used them before I would have She-Hulked long ago. I am going to annihilate you. You gave me fish face. How did this become a good idea? What the...you can't be serious... Boyfriend... run. Get away from me before I lunge at you and take you outside and beat you in front of the neighbours (I didn't this time).
I always wash them before I put them back.
Boys, special attention here please: DO NOT EVER DO THIS. Nowhere is this okay. In no instance ever is this acceptable behaviour. You know what this is? The triple B. BBB. Bad Boyfriend Behaviour. And the punishment is a good ol' fashioned beat down from the frenzied fists of your beloved. Even writing this and remembering how angry I was I kind of want to go into the bedroom and smother you in your sleep right now Boyfriend. Be thankful I'm a sucker for your pretty face... your chiseled, manly face. If you're awake to read this tomorrow I would appreciate a thank-you for letting you live another day. You gave me fish face, c'mon. And just because I had two pairs does not mean that one is reserved for your fish friends. Unless they have a unibrow there will be no sharing tweezers. That would be like me using your brush on the cat... wait... I did that to somebody before. I know I was busted doing it, but just for good measure and a clean conscience, whoever's hairbrush I used to groom my cat, I'm ever so sorry, but karma gave me fish face, so...
This concludes the story of how Boyfriend acquired his kitchen tweezers. Wait, that wasn't what the story was called, but it is the ending. Now whenever I see them I cringe. And, I suppose this would be the happily-ever-after or life lesson part of the post: We now have a rule in our house. We ask before we use each other's bathroom stuff, don't we Boyfriend? Please don't ever let me catch you using my tampons.
Time for tea,
K
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
I'm a loser
It's true. I am. Big time. I am a big loser. It's out there now and whoever you are reading this, you finally know the truth. I lose everything, including sports, but that's not the kind of loser I'm talking about today. I suffer from severe misplacement. It's generally the usual subjects that go missing: keys, phone, USB sticks and purse. Other times it's other things like the cat, a sweater that I donated a million years ago and finally decided I want to wear, and my mind with all of the wonderful ideas inside (sometimes these ideas are lost too, and lame, juvenile ones are left in their places. I'm a magician of sorts!).
My go-to move when things go missing is obviously to call Boyfriend and point the finger at him verbally. We all know if I know it's not my fault, it's his. If something is missing, he moved it. This became the go-to move a long time ago when I started finding weird things in my closet. Boyfriend is one tidy man, and if I leave something out of place with my sloppiness, he puts it in my closet so it's out of the way. Fondue pots stacked on top of lap tops on top of purses on top of coats on top of the cat on top of a book I'm reading on top of who knows what else. In theory, my go-to should be to check the closet first, but I'm set in my ways, so this is generally the phone call that is made:
Hi. What's going on?
I've lost my _______. Where did you put it?
Where did you have it last?
I don't know. Where did you put it?
Maybe you should have put it where it's supposed to go and you could find it now when you need it.
Is it in my closet?
I don't know.
Like actually don't know, or don't care to tell me?
I don't know. You'll find it.
This is the part where I angrily sigh, tell him I gotta go, then proceed to rip the apartment apart to find what I'm looking for. This doesn't help me for two reasons: 1) Now the apartment is a mess 2) If I leave it a mess, I'm sure to find all of it jammed into my closet later. How will I get to my coats with couch cushions and a coffee table in my way? Le crap. In my defense, I saw a story on the news awhile back about so-called messy people. Like Hoarders messy. They were asked to find something in their heaps of stuff and they could do it in seconds. It might have been a super mess, but it was an organized super mess. Or wait. Was it the news or was it a funky dream? Either way, we shall state it as fact.
The usual missing objects are usually on hand but I don't realize it. It's the pockets in everything. They confuse me and I forget where I stash my keys or phone. Pockets, though practical, are bad. Another time I found a USB stick stuck behind a drawer in my jewelry box. (Yes I have a jewelry box. It's from my Granny! The fact that it only has junk jewelry is a non-issue.) I don't know how it ended up there, but if we were playing hide-and-seek, it would have won like a year ago. And when the cat's missing, she'll just bellow until we find her.
The thing is, it drives me crazy to lose stuff, and yet I can't stop it from happening. I think it's getting worse actually. So what does one do to make oneself feel better about oneself? That's right. Level the playing field. Sometimes I "misplace" Boyfriend's things just to let him know what it's like to be on the other end. It sucks to be the loser. Though, sometimes I forget where I hide things, so it's kind of a dangerous game. See Boyfriend, there's always a logical reason for everything I do. This explains my affinity for hiding things. I swear, sometimes you think I'm right out of my tree.
I wonder though, how much worse this problem will get as I age. I already know crazy's comin' for me at some point. It looks like the happy kind of crazy so I'm cool with that...but what happens when I misplace my medication? Not the boring ones like the stuff that keeps you regular or puts you to sleep, but the important ones that at least level you off so you can kind of stay on your rocker. Best you can hope for Boyfriend is to either die first or get put in a different home. A secret one, because I'm sure future ol' lady, crazy me will find you and haunt you asking you to find things for her...wait. Is that much different than we are right now? Dang, forgot I was making oatmeal. One second please.
The question remains though: How does one stop being a loser? I think it's impossible. I'm also in that club of people that has to stop talking on their cell phone so they can find their missing cell phone. Maybe there's no hope. Maybe crazy will catch me sooner rather than later and I can give up the right to have to care about this trivial stuff because somebody will take care of it for me. Yes. That's the plan. I'm Boyfriend's problem now, but those of you going into the mental health profession, this is your warning.
Now that I'm full of oatmeal, time for tea,
K
My go-to move when things go missing is obviously to call Boyfriend and point the finger at him verbally. We all know if I know it's not my fault, it's his. If something is missing, he moved it. This became the go-to move a long time ago when I started finding weird things in my closet. Boyfriend is one tidy man, and if I leave something out of place with my sloppiness, he puts it in my closet so it's out of the way. Fondue pots stacked on top of lap tops on top of purses on top of coats on top of the cat on top of a book I'm reading on top of who knows what else. In theory, my go-to should be to check the closet first, but I'm set in my ways, so this is generally the phone call that is made:
Hi. What's going on?
I've lost my _______. Where did you put it?
Where did you have it last?
I don't know. Where did you put it?
Maybe you should have put it where it's supposed to go and you could find it now when you need it.
Is it in my closet?
I don't know.
Like actually don't know, or don't care to tell me?
I don't know. You'll find it.
This is the part where I angrily sigh, tell him I gotta go, then proceed to rip the apartment apart to find what I'm looking for. This doesn't help me for two reasons: 1) Now the apartment is a mess 2) If I leave it a mess, I'm sure to find all of it jammed into my closet later. How will I get to my coats with couch cushions and a coffee table in my way? Le crap. In my defense, I saw a story on the news awhile back about so-called messy people. Like Hoarders messy. They were asked to find something in their heaps of stuff and they could do it in seconds. It might have been a super mess, but it was an organized super mess. Or wait. Was it the news or was it a funky dream? Either way, we shall state it as fact.
The usual missing objects are usually on hand but I don't realize it. It's the pockets in everything. They confuse me and I forget where I stash my keys or phone. Pockets, though practical, are bad. Another time I found a USB stick stuck behind a drawer in my jewelry box. (Yes I have a jewelry box. It's from my Granny! The fact that it only has junk jewelry is a non-issue.) I don't know how it ended up there, but if we were playing hide-and-seek, it would have won like a year ago. And when the cat's missing, she'll just bellow until we find her.
The thing is, it drives me crazy to lose stuff, and yet I can't stop it from happening. I think it's getting worse actually. So what does one do to make oneself feel better about oneself? That's right. Level the playing field. Sometimes I "misplace" Boyfriend's things just to let him know what it's like to be on the other end. It sucks to be the loser. Though, sometimes I forget where I hide things, so it's kind of a dangerous game. See Boyfriend, there's always a logical reason for everything I do. This explains my affinity for hiding things. I swear, sometimes you think I'm right out of my tree.
I wonder though, how much worse this problem will get as I age. I already know crazy's comin' for me at some point. It looks like the happy kind of crazy so I'm cool with that...but what happens when I misplace my medication? Not the boring ones like the stuff that keeps you regular or puts you to sleep, but the important ones that at least level you off so you can kind of stay on your rocker. Best you can hope for Boyfriend is to either die first or get put in a different home. A secret one, because I'm sure future ol' lady, crazy me will find you and haunt you asking you to find things for her...wait. Is that much different than we are right now? Dang, forgot I was making oatmeal. One second please.
The question remains though: How does one stop being a loser? I think it's impossible. I'm also in that club of people that has to stop talking on their cell phone so they can find their missing cell phone. Maybe there's no hope. Maybe crazy will catch me sooner rather than later and I can give up the right to have to care about this trivial stuff because somebody will take care of it for me. Yes. That's the plan. I'm Boyfriend's problem now, but those of you going into the mental health profession, this is your warning.
Now that I'm full of oatmeal, time for tea,
K
An ode to my first follower, Erin
I haven't even started the post and you've already been lied to. Yes, this one here is dedicated to Erin, this is no lie. But this isn't going to be a lyric poem. That's what an ode is. If you didn't know that, I've just made you smarter. This is an educational place sometimes. If you would like to make this more of an ode in your head, pretend that it's being sung to you by a cartoon pig dressed like Shakespeare while he gently strums a mandolin. Everybody wins. Okay, it doesn't have to be a pig, but trust me, envisioning this pig will make this a heck of a lot more entertaining for everyone. Hey. I don't call your ideas stupid.
Even before I commence writing I know this will be a short post. But sometimes such is what happens. Not every story can be a harrowing tale of my life being shacked up with my dude (eloquent, yes?). I almost used the word epic instead of harrowing, but I feel epic has been overdone. Epic is finished kids, time to move on to something else. Seriously, keep it up and I'm starting an End Epic campaign, you'll see. Well you probably won't see, it'll likely end up just being me alone mumbling about its overuse while I'm all alone in my apartment. At least that woman in the mirror will support me. Okay, let's end this ramble, I've wasted enough space.
As we all know, I'm a dreamer in two ways: One, I like things that are whimsical and two, I dream about fanciful things every night without fail. And, is law in a live-in relationship, one is required to disclose any and all dreams to their significant other no matter how irrelevant or boring (the dreams, not the significant other). On one of the rare mornings where we both get to sleep in together I catch him within moments of waking to tell him about my dream. I went to a cupcake shop and bought six Tiffany's blue cupcakes with round black sprinkles for $110. Now you're probably thinking that dream me is a sucker for this, but if I won the eating contest and could fit a whole cupcake in my mouth I would have won $5000. Analyze that. My dream is somewhat irrelevant here, this post has to do with Boyfriend's dream.
After I share my nightly visions, Boyfriend shares his. It's not much of a story, more of a sentence.
I had a dream that you cheated on me with somebody you work with.
Huh.
Internally I'm saying, 'that's interesting, you don't know anyone I work with'. We all know that Huh is neither a confirmation or denial, but it takes me a little while to figure out that the right answer was something more like, 'Oh Boyfriend, we all know that's never going to happen'. The point is I eventually realized that he probably needed some kind of reassurance that no others are in the picture. I mean, if his subconscious is coming up with this, maybe on some level there's doubt. Yes, after my shower I will bolster confidence that he is my one and only.
Post-shower, I flop on our couch beside him.
Oh Boyfriend, about your dream. If it makes you feel better, the only person I would cheat on you with at work is Erin.
His brow creases, wondering where the hell this is going. Also Boyfriend's probably thinking I said Aaron, not Erin. It's hard to clarify this verbally, and for some reason I just keep talking.
But she's too young for me. Seriously, she is one lovely lady. If she were cloned in miniature size and sold in stores, she would put Barbie out of business because Erin's a better role model and she's also dynamite with a laser beam (Queen, anyone? Guaranteed to blow your mind? Yes? No? Yes?).
Eventually, Boyfriend gets that I'm kidding, not without making some sort of comment about she and I being lesbians. Well, what Boyfriend doesn't know is that I am sweet on Erin, but in a totally platonic way. Hope I'm not putting myself out there with that last sentence. I'm going to put my topic sentence here near the end: Ladies, clarify when you are talking to your fella. They're not always apt to pick up the difference between Erin and Aaron. They will also credit you with being "in like" with a girl once they figure out which Erin/Aaron you mean. Once your boyfriend calls you a lesbian, even in jest, it steers your relationship into a weird place.
Not sure how your imaginary Shakespearean pig with his mandolin fared with making this into an ode, but a tip of the cap to those of you that tried to make it work. Also, Boyfriend says this reads like I want a piece of Erin. Can't a girl be complimentary to another girl without the accusation? Sheesh...
Time for tea,
K
Even before I commence writing I know this will be a short post. But sometimes such is what happens. Not every story can be a harrowing tale of my life being shacked up with my dude (eloquent, yes?). I almost used the word epic instead of harrowing, but I feel epic has been overdone. Epic is finished kids, time to move on to something else. Seriously, keep it up and I'm starting an End Epic campaign, you'll see. Well you probably won't see, it'll likely end up just being me alone mumbling about its overuse while I'm all alone in my apartment. At least that woman in the mirror will support me. Okay, let's end this ramble, I've wasted enough space.
As we all know, I'm a dreamer in two ways: One, I like things that are whimsical and two, I dream about fanciful things every night without fail. And, is law in a live-in relationship, one is required to disclose any and all dreams to their significant other no matter how irrelevant or boring (the dreams, not the significant other). On one of the rare mornings where we both get to sleep in together I catch him within moments of waking to tell him about my dream. I went to a cupcake shop and bought six Tiffany's blue cupcakes with round black sprinkles for $110. Now you're probably thinking that dream me is a sucker for this, but if I won the eating contest and could fit a whole cupcake in my mouth I would have won $5000. Analyze that. My dream is somewhat irrelevant here, this post has to do with Boyfriend's dream.
After I share my nightly visions, Boyfriend shares his. It's not much of a story, more of a sentence.
I had a dream that you cheated on me with somebody you work with.
Huh.
Internally I'm saying, 'that's interesting, you don't know anyone I work with'. We all know that Huh is neither a confirmation or denial, but it takes me a little while to figure out that the right answer was something more like, 'Oh Boyfriend, we all know that's never going to happen'. The point is I eventually realized that he probably needed some kind of reassurance that no others are in the picture. I mean, if his subconscious is coming up with this, maybe on some level there's doubt. Yes, after my shower I will bolster confidence that he is my one and only.
Post-shower, I flop on our couch beside him.
Oh Boyfriend, about your dream. If it makes you feel better, the only person I would cheat on you with at work is Erin.
His brow creases, wondering where the hell this is going. Also Boyfriend's probably thinking I said Aaron, not Erin. It's hard to clarify this verbally, and for some reason I just keep talking.
But she's too young for me. Seriously, she is one lovely lady. If she were cloned in miniature size and sold in stores, she would put Barbie out of business because Erin's a better role model and she's also dynamite with a laser beam (Queen, anyone? Guaranteed to blow your mind? Yes? No? Yes?).
Eventually, Boyfriend gets that I'm kidding, not without making some sort of comment about she and I being lesbians. Well, what Boyfriend doesn't know is that I am sweet on Erin, but in a totally platonic way. Hope I'm not putting myself out there with that last sentence. I'm going to put my topic sentence here near the end: Ladies, clarify when you are talking to your fella. They're not always apt to pick up the difference between Erin and Aaron. They will also credit you with being "in like" with a girl once they figure out which Erin/Aaron you mean. Once your boyfriend calls you a lesbian, even in jest, it steers your relationship into a weird place.
Not sure how your imaginary Shakespearean pig with his mandolin fared with making this into an ode, but a tip of the cap to those of you that tried to make it work. Also, Boyfriend says this reads like I want a piece of Erin. Can't a girl be complimentary to another girl without the accusation? Sheesh...
Time for tea,
K
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Home cookin'
For the record, someone in my house forgot to take out the recycling. Not cool. Get back here and do it. The paper and plastic are piling up and we can't afford the extra space. Okay, we all know that I'm the perpetrator here, but if anybody else would like to empty the blue bins under the sink I won't tell them no. Hello? Honestly, how is there an echo out here in cyber space?
If our hole of an apartment wasn't small enough already, we have a room that I try to avoid, minimizing my living quarters even more. That blasted kitchen. I don't, I can't and I won't cook. I'm one of those people that can't make anything to save her life, but I can do one of two things: make a dinner reservation, or make a call for delivery. This post is prompted by Boyfriend slaving away in the kitchen, making several delicious things. There is something to be said about having one's own personal red seal chef at home. Dinner tonight: shrimp-stuffed mushroom caps, lobster and prawns, asparagus and rice. Eat your hearts out ladies. I mantrapped me a good'un. My only job, while he slaves away in the room I know nothing of, is to stay out of the way. Done and done. I didn't exactly do nothing to get kicked out of the kitchen though. There have been a few instances that led to my banishment...
The first and foremost incident would be during our courtship. Yes, we're calling it our courtship. It was that time in the beginning of our relationship that he was suing me for harassment. Don't worry, after the settlement we made it work in spite of everything. Anyhow, where was I...? Right, back during the initial phases of mantrapping. I decided to be sugary sweet and domestic to prove that yes, one day, I had the capacity to make a good live-in ______ (I'll let you fill in the blank here with any noun you like, it's like a game show you can play at home). I decided to make breakfast for Boyfriend, thinking breakfast was something that one cannot screw up. Prepare for a great surprise, I did not pour him a bowl of cereal. I had eggs, bacon, sausage, hashbrowns and toast on the go. Have I mentioned that I have no business in the kitchen? If I recall correctly, the only thing that came out right was the toast. The rest of the slop was overdone, underdone, and in the case of the sausages both overdone and underdone. I'm not domestic, this is no surprise. I came with a warning label telling Boyfriend that I was a defective _______ (You can use the same noun as before, or fill in another one. It's fun for the whole family! Well, maybe not. I might be overselling it.) In a moment of poetic sincerity after Boyfriend has managed a few bites, he puts his plate down, pulls me into a hug and says, This will be my job. He may or may not have eyed his partially-eaten plate of breakfast slop with contempt.
Boyfriend insists that he doesn't remember this, but without sounding too cruel this is my explanation thanks to one Mr. Billy Joel: Only the good die young. If Boyfriend is still here and not a zombie that means he is neither good nor young. The mind deteriorates as one ages. Point me. Sorry Boyfriend. Blame Billy Joel, he's my copilot on this one.
The second kitchen incident involved me being left alone for a week once when Boyfriend flew to the other side of the country to visit his kinfolk. This was the point in our relationship when he knew how helpless I was in the kitchen, so before he left, he offered to make me some dinners to heat up in his absence. This is by no means an exaggeration. I said no because I'm a big girl that can feed myself (not big as in obese, as I've said before, rubenesque women aren't fond of me). But what we both didn't know is that I was lying. He left, and one night while he was away I thought, I'm going to go into that freaky room where we keep the fridge and rustle me up some grub... from a can. I found some soup in the cupboard and figured I couldn't mess that up. The good news is that I didn't mess it up. That may or may not have to do with my inability to figure out Boyfriend's can opener. It's Schrodinger's cat all over again, until we open the can and find out the result, I both have and don't have the ability to make the can of soup.
It just so happens that while I'm wrestling with this can opener, Boyfriend is at his sister's house talking about how I fare as a cook in comparison to Boyfriend.
There's no comparison. I do all the cooking.
Boyfriend's sister asks a skeptical question, something like, "Really?"
At this point, my frantic text comes in, and all Boyfriend has to do is turn his phone toward his sister and let her read my moronic words:
I can't figure out how to use your can opener.
Yes. I got so angry and annoyed with this everyday kitchen device I text Boyfriend asking for help. If I could've, there would be smoke signals puffing out S.O.S. in my great distress. Believe me, I tried everything to get that thing to work, this included using a knife as a hammer to try to beat my way into that can of vegetable noodle. Boyfriend's sister, if you're reading this, I'm not kitchen smart but I make up for it with street smarts. Okay, no that's a lie. My street smarts rival my kitchen smarts, but... I have to be smart in another way that I haven't figured out yet. The point is eventually I learned how to use that thing (and boy, was I waaaaaaay off), but that wasn't until long after the chinese take-out arrived. And might I say thank god I live in a world where I don't have to hunt and gather my own food. Darwinism would've overtaken me much sooner.
The moral of this post is this: Ladies, for all of your shortcomings, there is a man out there who will make sure all of your basic needs are met. Mantrap him as soon as you possibly can and lock him down. If it weren't for Boyfriend I would be emaciated and/or dead. For this, Boyfriend, I thank you. For other things I curse you, but this isn't one of those postings. You're pretty. Man-pretty if that's a better compliment.
Time for tea,
K
If our hole of an apartment wasn't small enough already, we have a room that I try to avoid, minimizing my living quarters even more. That blasted kitchen. I don't, I can't and I won't cook. I'm one of those people that can't make anything to save her life, but I can do one of two things: make a dinner reservation, or make a call for delivery. This post is prompted by Boyfriend slaving away in the kitchen, making several delicious things. There is something to be said about having one's own personal red seal chef at home. Dinner tonight: shrimp-stuffed mushroom caps, lobster and prawns, asparagus and rice. Eat your hearts out ladies. I mantrapped me a good'un. My only job, while he slaves away in the room I know nothing of, is to stay out of the way. Done and done. I didn't exactly do nothing to get kicked out of the kitchen though. There have been a few instances that led to my banishment...
The first and foremost incident would be during our courtship. Yes, we're calling it our courtship. It was that time in the beginning of our relationship that he was suing me for harassment. Don't worry, after the settlement we made it work in spite of everything. Anyhow, where was I...? Right, back during the initial phases of mantrapping. I decided to be sugary sweet and domestic to prove that yes, one day, I had the capacity to make a good live-in ______ (I'll let you fill in the blank here with any noun you like, it's like a game show you can play at home). I decided to make breakfast for Boyfriend, thinking breakfast was something that one cannot screw up. Prepare for a great surprise, I did not pour him a bowl of cereal. I had eggs, bacon, sausage, hashbrowns and toast on the go. Have I mentioned that I have no business in the kitchen? If I recall correctly, the only thing that came out right was the toast. The rest of the slop was overdone, underdone, and in the case of the sausages both overdone and underdone. I'm not domestic, this is no surprise. I came with a warning label telling Boyfriend that I was a defective _______ (You can use the same noun as before, or fill in another one. It's fun for the whole family! Well, maybe not. I might be overselling it.) In a moment of poetic sincerity after Boyfriend has managed a few bites, he puts his plate down, pulls me into a hug and says, This will be my job. He may or may not have eyed his partially-eaten plate of breakfast slop with contempt.
Boyfriend insists that he doesn't remember this, but without sounding too cruel this is my explanation thanks to one Mr. Billy Joel: Only the good die young. If Boyfriend is still here and not a zombie that means he is neither good nor young. The mind deteriorates as one ages. Point me. Sorry Boyfriend. Blame Billy Joel, he's my copilot on this one.
The second kitchen incident involved me being left alone for a week once when Boyfriend flew to the other side of the country to visit his kinfolk. This was the point in our relationship when he knew how helpless I was in the kitchen, so before he left, he offered to make me some dinners to heat up in his absence. This is by no means an exaggeration. I said no because I'm a big girl that can feed myself (not big as in obese, as I've said before, rubenesque women aren't fond of me). But what we both didn't know is that I was lying. He left, and one night while he was away I thought, I'm going to go into that freaky room where we keep the fridge and rustle me up some grub... from a can. I found some soup in the cupboard and figured I couldn't mess that up. The good news is that I didn't mess it up. That may or may not have to do with my inability to figure out Boyfriend's can opener. It's Schrodinger's cat all over again, until we open the can and find out the result, I both have and don't have the ability to make the can of soup.
It just so happens that while I'm wrestling with this can opener, Boyfriend is at his sister's house talking about how I fare as a cook in comparison to Boyfriend.
There's no comparison. I do all the cooking.
Boyfriend's sister asks a skeptical question, something like, "Really?"
At this point, my frantic text comes in, and all Boyfriend has to do is turn his phone toward his sister and let her read my moronic words:
I can't figure out how to use your can opener.
Yes. I got so angry and annoyed with this everyday kitchen device I text Boyfriend asking for help. If I could've, there would be smoke signals puffing out S.O.S. in my great distress. Believe me, I tried everything to get that thing to work, this included using a knife as a hammer to try to beat my way into that can of vegetable noodle. Boyfriend's sister, if you're reading this, I'm not kitchen smart but I make up for it with street smarts. Okay, no that's a lie. My street smarts rival my kitchen smarts, but... I have to be smart in another way that I haven't figured out yet. The point is eventually I learned how to use that thing (and boy, was I waaaaaaay off), but that wasn't until long after the chinese take-out arrived. And might I say thank god I live in a world where I don't have to hunt and gather my own food. Darwinism would've overtaken me much sooner.
The moral of this post is this: Ladies, for all of your shortcomings, there is a man out there who will make sure all of your basic needs are met. Mantrap him as soon as you possibly can and lock him down. If it weren't for Boyfriend I would be emaciated and/or dead. For this, Boyfriend, I thank you. For other things I curse you, but this isn't one of those postings. You're pretty. Man-pretty if that's a better compliment.
Time for tea,
K
Saturday, November 5, 2011
How it becomes his fault: Second installment
Yes. I'm already at the second posting of how it becomes his fault. This time Boyfriend hit me in the face in the middle of the night. How rude can you get? You never hit a woman!
Let me back up a little bit.
Last night (oh yuh huh, this was most recent) Boyfriend hurt me. If he took the garbage out like he was supposed to, this whole thing could have been avoided. Just you wait until you hear this monstrous tale.
In our domestic relationship the chores are divided. He does this, I do that. He cooks, I do laundry. He takes out the garbage, I field the recycling area. (Which is not as fun as it sounds, there have been times where I have literally dug through the garbage to salvage recyclables. You're welcome, Mother Earth.) This is where the problem occurs. Somebody, not mentioning any names or affiliation to me, did not bring out the garbage from the bathroom. Generally this is not a big deal, but we have a little mutt that has been known to rifle through the garbage on occasion searching for treasure. Such an imagination he has. Which is what happened last night. On my way to bed I see a trail of tissue, old makeup, q-tips and whatever other debris from the bathroom garbage that leads across the dinky hallway to our bedroom. Now if it wasn't a mess by Mutt, Boyfriend has some serious sleep-walking issues. I clean it up and put it back in the garbage in the bathroom and clever me, I shut the door so Mutt can't make another mess while we sleep. I grab my water bottle and head to bed.
The thing about bringing a water bottle to bed though is this: at some point your bladder will nudge you awake and say, "Yo, I can make you a helluva lot more uncomfortable, how 'bout you make this easier on both of us and go pee?" I dream a lot, maybe my bladder didn't actually say this, but mostly asleep, I shuffle out of bed and to the bathroom like I do every night. But every night doesn't usually conclude with me being clever and shutting the bathroom door. In the dark and in my haste, I walk right into that wooden monster. I must've been walking with my face sticking way out because that is the only thing I recall getting hit. Ka-pow. Insert various sleepy expletives here. For those of you that knit your brows together on that last sentence, a sleepy expletive is a swear that doesn't exactly round the bases to becoming offensive. Generally it doesn't make sense, much like "ah, dingdong" or "bloody garbage". Because you're sleepy, your gentle curses don't always make sense. Mine at this point is the word "mother". I'd love to explain that one to you, but I can't. Maybe I have issues with my mommy. No, I don't call her mommy, I'm classier than that. I call her Ma. Nonetheless, after my outburst to myself about liquid I go back to bed. Somehow the knock to the face rendered me incapable of remembering to actually enter the washroom. I climb back in bed, roll onto my side and close my eyes. Le damn. I still have not emptied the tank. Now I'm upset for a few reasons: 1) My face hurts, 2) I still have to pee and there's nobody to do it for me, and 3) Boyfriend is sleeping soundly, unaware as to the physical pain and mental anguish he has caused me this eve. Bad Boyfriend.
I'm only left with one rational option here (I suppose rational may differ depending on who you talk to). I reach my hand out, swiftly whack Boyfriend on the thigh, and dive back down to my pillow to pretend to be asleep. I hear him stir, wake briefly, and eventually roll over, back into slumber. I know, don't look at the screen like that with judgement, but it did make me feel better. Sorry, Boyfriend. It wasn't the nicest thing to do. But it wasn't the meanest thing I could have done either. Think about that.
The good news here is that I learned that I have the capacity to take out the garbage. Even if it's not my job. And to be fair I suffered enough. I had to hold it for awhile before Boyfriend was sleeping soundly again and I could sneak out of bed without being discovered for swatting out of anger. Though, in hindsight, he reads this blog so I've outed myself for that malicious deed all on my own... Boyfriend, pretend you didn't read this... you're gorgeous by the way. If you only emptied the garbage the whole thing could've been avoided. Just sayin'.
Time for tea,
K
Let me back up a little bit.
Last night (oh yuh huh, this was most recent) Boyfriend hurt me. If he took the garbage out like he was supposed to, this whole thing could have been avoided. Just you wait until you hear this monstrous tale.
In our domestic relationship the chores are divided. He does this, I do that. He cooks, I do laundry. He takes out the garbage, I field the recycling area. (Which is not as fun as it sounds, there have been times where I have literally dug through the garbage to salvage recyclables. You're welcome, Mother Earth.) This is where the problem occurs. Somebody, not mentioning any names or affiliation to me, did not bring out the garbage from the bathroom. Generally this is not a big deal, but we have a little mutt that has been known to rifle through the garbage on occasion searching for treasure. Such an imagination he has. Which is what happened last night. On my way to bed I see a trail of tissue, old makeup, q-tips and whatever other debris from the bathroom garbage that leads across the dinky hallway to our bedroom. Now if it wasn't a mess by Mutt, Boyfriend has some serious sleep-walking issues. I clean it up and put it back in the garbage in the bathroom and clever me, I shut the door so Mutt can't make another mess while we sleep. I grab my water bottle and head to bed.
The thing about bringing a water bottle to bed though is this: at some point your bladder will nudge you awake and say, "Yo, I can make you a helluva lot more uncomfortable, how 'bout you make this easier on both of us and go pee?" I dream a lot, maybe my bladder didn't actually say this, but mostly asleep, I shuffle out of bed and to the bathroom like I do every night. But every night doesn't usually conclude with me being clever and shutting the bathroom door. In the dark and in my haste, I walk right into that wooden monster. I must've been walking with my face sticking way out because that is the only thing I recall getting hit. Ka-pow. Insert various sleepy expletives here. For those of you that knit your brows together on that last sentence, a sleepy expletive is a swear that doesn't exactly round the bases to becoming offensive. Generally it doesn't make sense, much like "ah, dingdong" or "bloody garbage". Because you're sleepy, your gentle curses don't always make sense. Mine at this point is the word "mother". I'd love to explain that one to you, but I can't. Maybe I have issues with my mommy. No, I don't call her mommy, I'm classier than that. I call her Ma. Nonetheless, after my outburst to myself about liquid I go back to bed. Somehow the knock to the face rendered me incapable of remembering to actually enter the washroom. I climb back in bed, roll onto my side and close my eyes. Le damn. I still have not emptied the tank. Now I'm upset for a few reasons: 1) My face hurts, 2) I still have to pee and there's nobody to do it for me, and 3) Boyfriend is sleeping soundly, unaware as to the physical pain and mental anguish he has caused me this eve. Bad Boyfriend.
I'm only left with one rational option here (I suppose rational may differ depending on who you talk to). I reach my hand out, swiftly whack Boyfriend on the thigh, and dive back down to my pillow to pretend to be asleep. I hear him stir, wake briefly, and eventually roll over, back into slumber. I know, don't look at the screen like that with judgement, but it did make me feel better. Sorry, Boyfriend. It wasn't the nicest thing to do. But it wasn't the meanest thing I could have done either. Think about that.
The good news here is that I learned that I have the capacity to take out the garbage. Even if it's not my job. And to be fair I suffered enough. I had to hold it for awhile before Boyfriend was sleeping soundly again and I could sneak out of bed without being discovered for swatting out of anger. Though, in hindsight, he reads this blog so I've outed myself for that malicious deed all on my own... Boyfriend, pretend you didn't read this... you're gorgeous by the way. If you only emptied the garbage the whole thing could've been avoided. Just sayin'.
Time for tea,
K
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
That's right, I am beautiful
I guess this post starts with a letter I got in the mail. Well, no, that's misleading. ICBC doesn't write you letters. A letter is something handwritten that contains well wishes and tales from foreign lands. ICBC sends you informative information that has dire circumstances if you don't comply with their wishes, mail that makes you shout expletives when the seniors in the building are right beside you also checking their mail. Sorry old neighbours. That might be rude, my sincerest of apologies to you wrinkly, but friendly, folks. Unlike when I get letters in the mail and squeal with delight, clap my hands and jump up and down with excitement, the mail in my hand makes darkness close in and mournful violins play in the background. Hold on that's not accurate, that's just my imagination. There's always that moment when you get mail from places like this and your brain races, you think, oh God, they found me. I am so busted. Le damn.
Upon opening the letter and not seeing any sign of a skull and crossbones on the paper...no wait, that means it's poisonous (of all the things I can say for ICBC they do send you very crisp notices which as of yet have proved not to be poisonous)...I actually read the words they have typed for me. Oh good, I have to get my licence renewed, they haven't caught me. Cool. Those beads of sweat on my brow appeared prematurely. Worst case scenario and I get busted I tell them I thought it would be a fun surprise. Surprises are never painted in a bad light.
Anywho, getting back to it, I tell Boyfriend the time has come. The beautiful photo of my current driver's licence is going a-bye-bye. I wait for his tears, but none come. Maybe he doesn't hear me. So I yell in his face:
I HAVE TO GET A NEW DRIVER'S LICENCE. THE OLD BEAUTIFUL PHOTO IS GOING AWAY FOREVER.
Signature deadpan Boyfriend face here. Nothing. The appropriate response is a response. If we're being honest the appropriate response is the response I want you to have, not necessarily the one you desire to emote. Remember, me before we. Nothing. Would it kill him to appease me? Is it possible I've used up his entire supply of appeasement? That doesn't fare well for our chances if that's the case. Some days, Boyfriend, digging your grave doesn't seem like it would be a chore. Am I wrong?
The day comes for me to renew my licence. For the record, the people that work there have no sense of humour. Does a frowning face make people take you more seriously? No. Because people like me get determined to make you smile, and that just made it awkward for both of us. You're welcome. Then the picture gets taken. I hate the new no smile rule. Everyone in BC now has a photo that makes them look like a POW in a picture that's used to provide proof of life. I should be holding today's newspaper up by my face and mouthing the words "send help".
Please, take another one.
She takes another one. I look at it on the screen.
Please, take another one.
I peer at the screen and wince.
Eeeee. Please, take another one?
It gets to the point where I'm pissing her off. There's no way to look good in a picture that you're not allowed to smile for. Not going to happen. Who do I write an angry letter to in order to change this? My teeth give me character! Why do you think they use dental records to identify bodies that have burned beyond recognition? Exactly! Let the people smile.
Yeah, I guess that photo is okay.
I didn't even really look at the last picture. I just saw the face of the ICBC woman that just said "we're done here". Even after all we shared. How rude.
ICBC sends me another piece of mail very quickly. I pluck it from the mailbox between my thumb and index finger like it's diseased and wonder which of the two evil things it could be. Of course, it's the new licence. Another thing I can say besides I like their crisp paper, they are prompt with getting new licences to the people. I thank you for this ICBC, but nothing else. Not unless you do me anymore favours. The picture isn't... so bad. I look as I imagine myself the moment before the She-Hulk takes over. I look less like a victim and more like a villain. I guess that's slightly better than a lateral move.
Why was I so stupid as to get Mutt that pig foot thing? Hoof. It's a hoof. He's gnawing on it right now and the smell is distracting. Nasty, nasty thing. The hoof, not Mutt. As I've told you he makes the circle. So ugly he's adorable.
I text Boyfriend about the new arrival via mail. I think... no, wait, I KNOW he's a little bitter he didn't get to the mailbox first so he could pay me back for what happened yesterday. The cliff notes of that episode: A package from the NFL store arrived yesterday that Boyfriend has been waiting three weeks for. I'm the only one home when it arrives so I do what any girl would do in my position: Use it for extortion. I hide it. Don't look at me like that, let me explain how this is rational. I was hoping that I could trade him his NFL thingmy for the spa day that I want for my upcoming birthday. It's logical. Except that things never go according to plan. I get called a jackass and I still don't have any confirmation of a spa day. He's impossible.
When Boyfriend gets home he looks at me with expectation.
Well, where is it?
What?
You showed me the old licence enough times I could draw it from memory. Where's the new one?
Somehow he has figured out the new one isn't quite the caliber I hoped, but, being a good girlfriend, I show him the licence that I had already hidden in my wallet.
He scrutinizes the black and white photo of me, turns the licence over in his hands and after his careful examination he says... wait for this one...
Huh. Except it's also kind of a Hmm. Huhmm.
The written expression can't do it justice. Fyi gentlemen, this is not a compliment. Nor is it an insult, you might say. That's wrong, it is an insult. If the words are not what a lady wants to hear it is definitely an insult, even if huhmm isn't a word.
Back to the conversation:
What does that mean?
I'm not shrill yet and I'm not She-Hulking. This is a proud moment for my people. This is the part where my voice becomes shrill:
What do we say when I show you things like that?
I gently take the licence from Boyfriend's hands. Gently take/snatch with intent to mutilate, potato, potato.
You're beautiful, honey.
Thank you. It's like pulling teeth sometimes.
He goes and starts taking the tags off a dark, long sleeved shirt.
Hey, is that a new shirt?
Yup.
He folds it up and puts it on the desk. This is opportunity for payback if I ever had one, so I imitate him best I can.
Huhmm.
He just walks away from me. I guess one of us has to be the grown up.
Time for tea,
K
Upon opening the letter and not seeing any sign of a skull and crossbones on the paper...no wait, that means it's poisonous (of all the things I can say for ICBC they do send you very crisp notices which as of yet have proved not to be poisonous)...I actually read the words they have typed for me. Oh good, I have to get my licence renewed, they haven't caught me. Cool. Those beads of sweat on my brow appeared prematurely. Worst case scenario and I get busted I tell them I thought it would be a fun surprise. Surprises are never painted in a bad light.
Anywho, getting back to it, I tell Boyfriend the time has come. The beautiful photo of my current driver's licence is going a-bye-bye. I wait for his tears, but none come. Maybe he doesn't hear me. So I yell in his face:
I HAVE TO GET A NEW DRIVER'S LICENCE. THE OLD BEAUTIFUL PHOTO IS GOING AWAY FOREVER.
Signature deadpan Boyfriend face here. Nothing. The appropriate response is a response. If we're being honest the appropriate response is the response I want you to have, not necessarily the one you desire to emote. Remember, me before we. Nothing. Would it kill him to appease me? Is it possible I've used up his entire supply of appeasement? That doesn't fare well for our chances if that's the case. Some days, Boyfriend, digging your grave doesn't seem like it would be a chore. Am I wrong?
The day comes for me to renew my licence. For the record, the people that work there have no sense of humour. Does a frowning face make people take you more seriously? No. Because people like me get determined to make you smile, and that just made it awkward for both of us. You're welcome. Then the picture gets taken. I hate the new no smile rule. Everyone in BC now has a photo that makes them look like a POW in a picture that's used to provide proof of life. I should be holding today's newspaper up by my face and mouthing the words "send help".
Please, take another one.
She takes another one. I look at it on the screen.
Please, take another one.
I peer at the screen and wince.
Eeeee. Please, take another one?
It gets to the point where I'm pissing her off. There's no way to look good in a picture that you're not allowed to smile for. Not going to happen. Who do I write an angry letter to in order to change this? My teeth give me character! Why do you think they use dental records to identify bodies that have burned beyond recognition? Exactly! Let the people smile.
Yeah, I guess that photo is okay.
I didn't even really look at the last picture. I just saw the face of the ICBC woman that just said "we're done here". Even after all we shared. How rude.
ICBC sends me another piece of mail very quickly. I pluck it from the mailbox between my thumb and index finger like it's diseased and wonder which of the two evil things it could be. Of course, it's the new licence. Another thing I can say besides I like their crisp paper, they are prompt with getting new licences to the people. I thank you for this ICBC, but nothing else. Not unless you do me anymore favours. The picture isn't... so bad. I look as I imagine myself the moment before the She-Hulk takes over. I look less like a victim and more like a villain. I guess that's slightly better than a lateral move.
Why was I so stupid as to get Mutt that pig foot thing? Hoof. It's a hoof. He's gnawing on it right now and the smell is distracting. Nasty, nasty thing. The hoof, not Mutt. As I've told you he makes the circle. So ugly he's adorable.
I text Boyfriend about the new arrival via mail. I think... no, wait, I KNOW he's a little bitter he didn't get to the mailbox first so he could pay me back for what happened yesterday. The cliff notes of that episode: A package from the NFL store arrived yesterday that Boyfriend has been waiting three weeks for. I'm the only one home when it arrives so I do what any girl would do in my position: Use it for extortion. I hide it. Don't look at me like that, let me explain how this is rational. I was hoping that I could trade him his NFL thingmy for the spa day that I want for my upcoming birthday. It's logical. Except that things never go according to plan. I get called a jackass and I still don't have any confirmation of a spa day. He's impossible.
When Boyfriend gets home he looks at me with expectation.
Well, where is it?
What?
You showed me the old licence enough times I could draw it from memory. Where's the new one?
Somehow he has figured out the new one isn't quite the caliber I hoped, but, being a good girlfriend, I show him the licence that I had already hidden in my wallet.
He scrutinizes the black and white photo of me, turns the licence over in his hands and after his careful examination he says... wait for this one...
Huh. Except it's also kind of a Hmm. Huhmm.
The written expression can't do it justice. Fyi gentlemen, this is not a compliment. Nor is it an insult, you might say. That's wrong, it is an insult. If the words are not what a lady wants to hear it is definitely an insult, even if huhmm isn't a word.
Back to the conversation:
What does that mean?
I'm not shrill yet and I'm not She-Hulking. This is a proud moment for my people. This is the part where my voice becomes shrill:
What do we say when I show you things like that?
I gently take the licence from Boyfriend's hands. Gently take/snatch with intent to mutilate, potato, potato.
You're beautiful, honey.
Thank you. It's like pulling teeth sometimes.
He goes and starts taking the tags off a dark, long sleeved shirt.
Hey, is that a new shirt?
Yup.
He folds it up and puts it on the desk. This is opportunity for payback if I ever had one, so I imitate him best I can.
Huhmm.
He just walks away from me. I guess one of us has to be the grown up.
Time for tea,
K
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)