Period or Placenta?

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

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

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

What does it look like I'm doing?

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

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

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

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

Time for tea,

K

The perfect disguise

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

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

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

What?
I just love you.
Uh huh.

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

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

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

Time for tea,

K

The Good Ol' Hockey Game...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time for tea,

K

Women's studies applied to time

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time for tea,

K

The impossibility of it all

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

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

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

Uh. Hi.
Hey.

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

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

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

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

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

Time for tea,

K

The Non-Wife

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time for tea,

K

Metaphors of dead bats and tightrope walkers

A couple months ago, I was walking down the street and happened upon something unexpected on the sidewalk. A dead bat. I named him Mr. Magoo. He was right in the middle of the sidewalk in a position that made him look like he was about to be crucified. Being the kind of person that I am, I loomed over the dead Addam's Family pet and took in the sight. Remembering the little beasty recently, I can't help but feel like that dead bat is the perfect symbol of mine and Boyfriend's relationship.

I'm just going to give you a moment to let that sink in before I explain...

Bats in general are freaky-ass rodents of the night. They're tiny succubus animals that don't see clearly and cause fright which -- on a side note -- is why they are the mascots for Halloween. On a camping trip a long while ago we were by a lake at night. The little flying horrors came out in droves and dive-bombed the area. Strange that all the screaming didn't frighten them away, Boyfriend has quite the set of pipes. What I'm saying is that there's a reason that bats aren't the teacup poodles of the world. Bats get a bad rep. I'm not saying that's without reason.

I jabbed Mr. Magoo with my finger just to make sure he was dead. He wasn't, so I killed him in order to appreciate his dead majesty once again. It's what that filming-pot-selling kid from American Beauty would have done, how is it any different if I do it without a video camera? Now this dead bat has the gnarly quality of the live ones -- you're scared of it and kind of want to make a run for it, but when you realize it's harmless in spite of those fangs and pushed-up nose, you might even consider it cute. Just like me and Boyfriend.

This week I've been uncharacteristically observant. What I've observed is this... Boyfriend should work for the circus as a tightrope walker. I don't say that because he fills out a unitard like no other. Insert unitard joke here -- the material writes itself. What I mean to say is that Boyfriend is quite the whiz when it comes to maintaining relationship balance. He annoys me to the point of searching online for an assassin-for-hire and before I call to get a quote, Boyfriend bounces back with a tremendous act of boyfriendery. That's not a real thing, but work with me people. Boyfriendery it is.

For instance: He made me help with dinner the other night. Faux pas, Boyfriend. While I cut those stupid vegetables it was hard to contain my anger. I blinked once, and when I opened my eyes everything in my vision was filtered through a field of scarlet. Well, more of a blood red colour. Boyfriend popped his head into the kitchen to see how things were going and to remind me to peel the potatoes. The damnedest thing happened. We both heard this weird scuffing sound and arched our necks to peer down where the sound came from. My feet had transformed into hooves, and one repeatedly scraped the ground as though I were preparing to charge. Our eyes met then, and all I could do was shrug. I couldn't control it. I laughed it off, but instead of my typical girlish giggle a hysterical and malevolent baritone came out. Needless to say, I was surprised. The She-Hulk is generally less man-ish. This was a new kind of anger, more...are those horns sprouting out of my head? Oh wait. I forgot I wore my viking helmet that day. I'm trying to bring it back. For some reason that and pillaging villages isn't going over so well. Give it enough time. It'll be trending soon.

The She-Satan stared at Boyfriend, narrowed her eyes and slowly tilted her head to the side. Peel the potatoes? PEEL THE POTATOES? She-Satan grabbed a potato and shoved the whole thing into her mouth. She and Boyfriend didn't break eye contact. Neither blinked, and the She-Satan masticated the spud. After 16 seconds she spat the contents from her mouth onto the counter. The heat from her venom both cooked and mashed the potato in those 16 seconds.

Boyfriend broke their gaze to stare at the steaming mashed potato on the counter. He crossed his arms before he spoke to the She-Satan, That'll be cold before the rest of the dinner is ready.

She-Satan pounded her giant fist into the mashed potato, the anger causing an explosion of the mush throughout the kitchen. She stalked off to go watch Jersey Shore in the bedroom, her hooves clip-clopping as she stomped away to leave Boyfriend alone in the kitchen.

For those of you that are following along, the top part is like a live bat. Scary, unnecessary and misunderstood. I would like to point out that the live bat did not kill anybody. Had it been a baseball bat, it may have killed somebody. Those things are dangerous. The dead bat part of the story comes next:

The next day, Boyfriend brought me home a case of Pink Ting. That's cute in ways that few people understand. I can read that love language like nobody else. He knew he pissed me off to an absurd level the day before, and to regain his footing on the metaphorical tightrope he had to do something nice to make up for it. Pink Ting to the rescue. Boyfriend has almost lost his balance a few times, but he compensates to correct his mistakes. If the time ever comes for him to get off the tightrope, I doubt he'll fall. He'll be pushed.

I told you. We're no teacup poodle. We're a dead bat.

Time for tea,

K