I just got busted. Boyfriend's cuffed me to a chair and he's shining a flashlight in my eyes. I squirm, and in doing so, hear the stitches in my yoga pants give. Oh no.
Why'd you do it?
I do what I've seen on television, I hock and spit at his face. Only, I don't have so much practice with hocking and spitting, so the phlegm/saliva concoction I worked up dribbles down my chin, becomes a long line of stretched mucus and gradually settles in a yellow pool on my knee. Rad.
Tough girl, huh? I've dealt with the likes of you before.
Boyfriend pulls his chair beside mine, kicks it with his heel so it spins a hundred and eighty degrees. It stops, and he sits on it backward like so many dudes in the nineties. He leans forward, his face getting closer to mine as he contemplates. The bridge of his nose compresses when he squints at me. There is no torture technique that can best me, he's not as tough as he looks. Then, Boyfriend opens his mouth.
Yous. Yous. Yous. Yous. You-
Alright, I'll tell you everything! Just please, no more Eastern-Canadian talk.
Boyfriend, seeing me crack, feels secure enough to pull a key from his breast pocket. Before I know it, my cuffs are on the table and my wrists are free. What is that table made of, beechwood? Beautiful choice, not for an inquisition room, but perhaps a cozy cottage.
Boyfriend bangs his fist on the table to get my attention. Oh yeah, right.
Why?
Because he's... he's getting so fat.
My hands cover my face. I can't believe I broke so easily. And now, nobody is safe from obesity. Boyfriend puts a hand to his ear. I'm not sure if it's because of my omission, or he's getting so old that he really didn't hear what I said. So I yell.
I SAID HE'S GETTING SO FAT!
He is not. Boyfriend looks down, and by his feet sits a spherical fur ball.
You made me fat. You made you fat. Fat, well, you definitely contributed to that mess. I thought I could save Mutt.
So you hid the dog treats. I nod. But you didn't hide them from the dog. I shake my head. You hid them from me. I nod again.
He looks at me like I just poured vinegar and baking soda in my mouth. My actions made perfect sense. The dog lacks the motor skills to jimmy into my bedside table. He's not the one I worry about. I worry about the middle-aged man who tries to buy affection with treats that give my furry little bastard another roll on his neck and a heart condition. For clarification's sake, by furry little bastard in the last sentence I meant Mutt... this time anyway.
Boyfriend loosens the tie around his neck while he digests the news. Yes, fool. You're the problem. You're turning all the inhabitants of this apartment into wannabe citizens of the United States. Perhaps pump up the fat content some more in our meals; we'll all be super sized and riding scooters in no time. Dream come true.
That's one crime solved. Now, what happened to the ice cream?
Oh no. There was so much. He's going to judge me for taking it down in one sitting. We were supposed to share. There's no way I can tell him the truth.
Yous. Yous. Yous...
Damn it.
Time for tea,
K
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Lesson learned
As many of you know, I've been down and out for almost a week now, infected with some nasty disease that I'm trying to kill off. I hate being confined to an apartment where I can be in the bedroom, bathroom, kitchen and living room at the same time. If Tom Petty is right, and he usually is, I belong among the wild flowers. There are no wild flowers in this freaking apartment. There's a plant I keep forgetting to water... not entirely the same thing. I demand freedom! In my exile I have learned a lot. My only touchstone to the world has been Boyfriend, a very dangerous thing indeed. Ladies, Gentlemen and combinations of both, I give you the top three things that have given me insight this week:
1. My being ill turns us into an old couple.
Who knew that all it took was dysfunctional vocal cords and plugged ears? I can't hear him, he can't hear me, I always imagined this being paradise. Turns out it's just aggravating as hell. On the rare moments I have seen Boyfriend during my stint in the joint, this has been the way our conversations go:
Can you pass me the remote? (To give a better idea of my voice, only random syllables make sounds, and more often than not, it sounds like a honking goose in the distance.)
What? (His lips move, but he might as well be talking to me underwater. I hold my breath -- not because I think we're underwater, I'm trying to make my ears pop. Though, if this were insight number three, the underwater thing could be possible.)
Can you pass me the remote? (Honk, honk, honk.)
I can't hear you, what? (Insert sounds of the wharf here.)
What? (I point at the remote on the table beside him.)
What? You want some tea? I'll make you some tea. (For the record, I can't be upset. Tea is always a good solution if you don't know what I want.)
2. Boyfriend is an illusionist
Night one of system breakdown: Boyfriend disappears in the night. Ta da! He reappears in the morning, sleeping on the couch. Boyfriend disappears every day after work too, but somehow, our fridge keeps accumulating more juice, even when I haven't seen Boyfriend. Ta da! Mysterious. Also, while I decompose on the couch, my collection of cups keeps vanishing. I find them clean in the dish rack later on. Honesty time: I'm actually a professional when it comes to ignoring people. Ta da! I have to tip my hat to Boyfriend though, he's done better than usual when it comes to taking care of me.
3. When your medication advises you not to drink alcohol, don't drink alcohol.
This one stemmed from a case of mistaken identity. On day two of the system breakdown I ran out of juice. Rookie mistake. However, good news, there was margarita mix in the fridge and carbonated water too. Put the two together and you have one decent non-alcoholic beverage. That being said, unbeknown to your protagonist, the last time Boyfriend used the margarita mix, he thought it would be a smart idea to put tequila right in the mix bottle, saving him a valuable thirty seconds the next time a margarita craving hit. The thing about being sick, especially when you can't eat, is that you compensate by drinking more. I polished off the margarita mix and soda water pretty quickly, if I'd been able to taste anything, I'm certain I would've walked away after my first sip.
A short while later the transition happens...
I remember watching some sort of movie involving robots. At least I'm pretty sure I did, the idea that I latched onto had to come from somewhere. I got off the bed (the memory is a little fuzzy, though Boyfriend was delighted to fill me in the next morning) and my throat hurt like I'd spent the last hour reaching my hand into my mouth to claw my larynx (possible). I went into the bathroom, not sure why, then wandered to the living room to see Boyfriend on the couch watching sports something. He says I sat beside him, silent for a moment before I started rambling about robots. I was quite convinced, it seems, that robots were on the cusp of taking over the planet, and the moment I was healthy, they were going to wipe out the human race. I was rather stressed about the whole situation. Then Boyfriend says, I stood up, went into the bedroom, and passed out like a fourteen-year-old after a drinking contest.
The next morning when he recounted the strangeness, it didn't make sense until he called me a drunk. At least my plugged ears finally gave me a break so I could listen to the story.
Why am I a drunk? (Honkity, honk, honk)
I saw the empty bottle of margarita mix. That thing was loaded with tequila.
I shook my head insistently and yelled, Virgin, as loud as I could. Shame nobody popped in at that moment. It could have been a great misunderstanding. Also a shame the She-Hulk was down for the count too. I wrote quickly in my notebook, ripped out the page and handed Boyfriend my note:
IOU one beating from the She-Hulk. She'll be in touch when she's ready to brawl. Love you.
Time for tea,
K
1. My being ill turns us into an old couple.
Who knew that all it took was dysfunctional vocal cords and plugged ears? I can't hear him, he can't hear me, I always imagined this being paradise. Turns out it's just aggravating as hell. On the rare moments I have seen Boyfriend during my stint in the joint, this has been the way our conversations go:
Can you pass me the remote? (To give a better idea of my voice, only random syllables make sounds, and more often than not, it sounds like a honking goose in the distance.)
What? (His lips move, but he might as well be talking to me underwater. I hold my breath -- not because I think we're underwater, I'm trying to make my ears pop. Though, if this were insight number three, the underwater thing could be possible.)
Can you pass me the remote? (Honk, honk, honk.)
I can't hear you, what? (Insert sounds of the wharf here.)
What? (I point at the remote on the table beside him.)
What? You want some tea? I'll make you some tea. (For the record, I can't be upset. Tea is always a good solution if you don't know what I want.)
2. Boyfriend is an illusionist
Night one of system breakdown: Boyfriend disappears in the night. Ta da! He reappears in the morning, sleeping on the couch. Boyfriend disappears every day after work too, but somehow, our fridge keeps accumulating more juice, even when I haven't seen Boyfriend. Ta da! Mysterious. Also, while I decompose on the couch, my collection of cups keeps vanishing. I find them clean in the dish rack later on. Honesty time: I'm actually a professional when it comes to ignoring people. Ta da! I have to tip my hat to Boyfriend though, he's done better than usual when it comes to taking care of me.
3. When your medication advises you not to drink alcohol, don't drink alcohol.
This one stemmed from a case of mistaken identity. On day two of the system breakdown I ran out of juice. Rookie mistake. However, good news, there was margarita mix in the fridge and carbonated water too. Put the two together and you have one decent non-alcoholic beverage. That being said, unbeknown to your protagonist, the last time Boyfriend used the margarita mix, he thought it would be a smart idea to put tequila right in the mix bottle, saving him a valuable thirty seconds the next time a margarita craving hit. The thing about being sick, especially when you can't eat, is that you compensate by drinking more. I polished off the margarita mix and soda water pretty quickly, if I'd been able to taste anything, I'm certain I would've walked away after my first sip.
A short while later the transition happens...
I remember watching some sort of movie involving robots. At least I'm pretty sure I did, the idea that I latched onto had to come from somewhere. I got off the bed (the memory is a little fuzzy, though Boyfriend was delighted to fill me in the next morning) and my throat hurt like I'd spent the last hour reaching my hand into my mouth to claw my larynx (possible). I went into the bathroom, not sure why, then wandered to the living room to see Boyfriend on the couch watching sports something. He says I sat beside him, silent for a moment before I started rambling about robots. I was quite convinced, it seems, that robots were on the cusp of taking over the planet, and the moment I was healthy, they were going to wipe out the human race. I was rather stressed about the whole situation. Then Boyfriend says, I stood up, went into the bedroom, and passed out like a fourteen-year-old after a drinking contest.
The next morning when he recounted the strangeness, it didn't make sense until he called me a drunk. At least my plugged ears finally gave me a break so I could listen to the story.
Why am I a drunk? (Honkity, honk, honk)
I saw the empty bottle of margarita mix. That thing was loaded with tequila.
I shook my head insistently and yelled, Virgin, as loud as I could. Shame nobody popped in at that moment. It could have been a great misunderstanding. Also a shame the She-Hulk was down for the count too. I wrote quickly in my notebook, ripped out the page and handed Boyfriend my note:
IOU one beating from the She-Hulk. She'll be in touch when she's ready to brawl. Love you.
Time for tea,
K
Saturday, November 24, 2012
Silent Conversations
Over the years, Muse and I have developed an acute ability to have conversations without saying anything, without resorting to the mime game. How you ask? Eyeballs and eyebrows tell you everything you need to know. If we go to a restaurant and somebody sitting in the booth behind us gets into my personal space we'll have a silent conversation where our eyeballs and eyebrows say this:
How do you feel about that man's arm splayed across the booth like that?
Not too great, Muse. If it persists, I may lose it on him.
Want me to deal with him?
Yes, but no. You always look out for me, don't you?
Of course I do! (Even though she doesn't say it, I hear her voice getting a little pitchy in my head. I'm quite sure we both hear it, as we both bust out with laughter over our muted conversation.)
Seriously, I love that girl. This conversation technique is something that I thought Boyfriend would get the hang of over the years too, but no. The best example of his inability for this happened whilst we were in line at Tim Hortons. The weather was warmer, and ahead of us in line was this buxom middle-aged woman in cargo shorts. Now I've been conditioned by the world's entertainment landscape to have very little attention span. As such, I can't simply stand in line and be fine. My eyes wander and I catch something that I really want Boyfriend to notice. This is how Boyfriend reacts when I try to converse with him sans words:
Why are you looking at me like that? I pointedly stare at the woman's calf in front of us then meet Boyfriend's gaze again. This is where he's supposed to give me an eye bulge or something that says, "Wow." I have to repeat the action, stare, and meet his eyes. I help him out by tilting my head and mouthing the word, "look." Finally, he bends his neck and takes it in.
Wow. That's a pretty bad tattoo, hey? I squint at him with a "What are you, stupid?" look and just wait for the lady in front of us to turn around. Thankfully, she's not the in-your-face-biker-lady type that she's built to be, and just ignores Boyfriend. I'm surprised she didn't whip around with a switchblade and cut him for his remark on her botched, who I assume to be Michael Jackson, tattoo. I shove my elbow into his sternum and give him a "Shut the hell up" stare, which is quickly followed by my "Buy me some timbits" gaze.
Muse, thank you for knowing what I'm saying without having to say it. Boyfriend, I've enrolled you in a mime class, it's only the first step. Hope it helps.
Time for tea,
K
How do you feel about that man's arm splayed across the booth like that?
Not too great, Muse. If it persists, I may lose it on him.
Want me to deal with him?
Yes, but no. You always look out for me, don't you?
Of course I do! (Even though she doesn't say it, I hear her voice getting a little pitchy in my head. I'm quite sure we both hear it, as we both bust out with laughter over our muted conversation.)
Seriously, I love that girl. This conversation technique is something that I thought Boyfriend would get the hang of over the years too, but no. The best example of his inability for this happened whilst we were in line at Tim Hortons. The weather was warmer, and ahead of us in line was this buxom middle-aged woman in cargo shorts. Now I've been conditioned by the world's entertainment landscape to have very little attention span. As such, I can't simply stand in line and be fine. My eyes wander and I catch something that I really want Boyfriend to notice. This is how Boyfriend reacts when I try to converse with him sans words:
Why are you looking at me like that? I pointedly stare at the woman's calf in front of us then meet Boyfriend's gaze again. This is where he's supposed to give me an eye bulge or something that says, "Wow." I have to repeat the action, stare, and meet his eyes. I help him out by tilting my head and mouthing the word, "look." Finally, he bends his neck and takes it in.
Wow. That's a pretty bad tattoo, hey? I squint at him with a "What are you, stupid?" look and just wait for the lady in front of us to turn around. Thankfully, she's not the in-your-face-biker-lady type that she's built to be, and just ignores Boyfriend. I'm surprised she didn't whip around with a switchblade and cut him for his remark on her botched, who I assume to be Michael Jackson, tattoo. I shove my elbow into his sternum and give him a "Shut the hell up" stare, which is quickly followed by my "Buy me some timbits" gaze.
Muse, thank you for knowing what I'm saying without having to say it. Boyfriend, I've enrolled you in a mime class, it's only the first step. Hope it helps.
Time for tea,
K
Friday, November 23, 2012
It's not how it sounds
I've admitted on many occasions that I am not the domestic type. Especially when it comes to being in a kitchen, interpreting the foreign concept of recipes, or making anything edible. I don't even speak the language, but maybe I should start to learn some stuff, because at one point I was forming some pretty incorrect opinions.
Early on in our relationship, Boyfriend introduced me to his friend, Artois. They're the best buddy types, finding an especially strong bond in good food. Artois and his wife had us over for dinner several times, and it was clear from the beginning that Artois and Boyfriend got on very well.
That being said, there was a time years ago, when Boyfriend was in the kitchen doing his thing. He has this almost choreographed dance when he makes dinner, the movement is fluid: saute this, season that, sip beer, strain, peek in the oven, slice, check the score on the game, whisk, and taste the perfection. It's really something else to watch. That man just needs a frilly apron and he is ready for his own television show. On this particular night, Boyfriend stops in the middle of his routine and looks me dead in the eyes as I watch from my desk, undoubtedly procrastinating on some kind of work I need to do. Boyfriend's eyes sparkle as they do when he has a brilliant idea.
I gotta call Artois.
Now? What for?
We need to have another rub party.
Silence comes out of my mouth. My mind repeatedly ponders the words that just came out of him. I probably just heard it wrong, by my thoughts keep coming back to... like a rub... and tug party? I know. Wrong. Gross. Much too much. We hadn't been dating for a lengthy time. I thought maybe Boyfriend's into the occasional stint with other males. That's not unheard of. But how do I feel about that? Is it a deal breaker because of the dude thing or because of the polygamous thing? Would a part-time bisexual boyfriend be a bad thing? Lots to think about. Maybe he doesn't need a frilly apron. He would look great in one. I'm confused now, how can he not want to take me to the ballet but be into a rub party with Artois?
I bet he could use more rub too. I've needed rub for awhile.
Okay, you need to stop talking.
I thought you liked the rub.
I beg your pardon?
I put it on my meat.
Can we talk about this maybe after dinner?
I rubbed the pork loin.
My hands go immediately to my ears. There's no way I can have dinner now when he's rubbed down our food. I start humming to drown out the sound of any other gross omissions. I'm certain there's panic all over my face, and Boyfriend picks up a large spice container and holds it so I can see that it's almost empty. We've switched topics, it's safe to have conversation again. I cautiously lower my hands.
So? It's empty. Buy some more spice.
This is my rub container. I'm almost out. That's why I need to make more.
I read the label on the container that he's brought closer to my face: "Boyfriend's poultry/pork rub."
Well why the hell is it called rub? You can't blame me for getting the wrong idea.
...Because you rub it onto the meat.
Boyfriend looks at me like I'm stupid. It's a good thing we clarified this before I could call or text the girls. Being a closet bisexual for life would have quickly altered his life's narrative if I'd run away as my plan A strongly urged. Get the facts, kids. Learn the cooking lingo: there's plenty of words/phrases in kitchens that can cause confusion because of how they sound: Shucking, pulled pork, dutch oven, shove it in the bread box, meat grinder, the list goes on. Beware.
Time for tea,
K
Early on in our relationship, Boyfriend introduced me to his friend, Artois. They're the best buddy types, finding an especially strong bond in good food. Artois and his wife had us over for dinner several times, and it was clear from the beginning that Artois and Boyfriend got on very well.
That being said, there was a time years ago, when Boyfriend was in the kitchen doing his thing. He has this almost choreographed dance when he makes dinner, the movement is fluid: saute this, season that, sip beer, strain, peek in the oven, slice, check the score on the game, whisk, and taste the perfection. It's really something else to watch. That man just needs a frilly apron and he is ready for his own television show. On this particular night, Boyfriend stops in the middle of his routine and looks me dead in the eyes as I watch from my desk, undoubtedly procrastinating on some kind of work I need to do. Boyfriend's eyes sparkle as they do when he has a brilliant idea.
I gotta call Artois.
Now? What for?
We need to have another rub party.
Silence comes out of my mouth. My mind repeatedly ponders the words that just came out of him. I probably just heard it wrong, by my thoughts keep coming back to... like a rub... and tug party? I know. Wrong. Gross. Much too much. We hadn't been dating for a lengthy time. I thought maybe Boyfriend's into the occasional stint with other males. That's not unheard of. But how do I feel about that? Is it a deal breaker because of the dude thing or because of the polygamous thing? Would a part-time bisexual boyfriend be a bad thing? Lots to think about. Maybe he doesn't need a frilly apron. He would look great in one. I'm confused now, how can he not want to take me to the ballet but be into a rub party with Artois?
I bet he could use more rub too. I've needed rub for awhile.
Okay, you need to stop talking.
I thought you liked the rub.
I beg your pardon?
I put it on my meat.
Can we talk about this maybe after dinner?
I rubbed the pork loin.
My hands go immediately to my ears. There's no way I can have dinner now when he's rubbed down our food. I start humming to drown out the sound of any other gross omissions. I'm certain there's panic all over my face, and Boyfriend picks up a large spice container and holds it so I can see that it's almost empty. We've switched topics, it's safe to have conversation again. I cautiously lower my hands.
So? It's empty. Buy some more spice.
This is my rub container. I'm almost out. That's why I need to make more.
I read the label on the container that he's brought closer to my face: "Boyfriend's poultry/pork rub."
Well why the hell is it called rub? You can't blame me for getting the wrong idea.
...Because you rub it onto the meat.
Boyfriend looks at me like I'm stupid. It's a good thing we clarified this before I could call or text the girls. Being a closet bisexual for life would have quickly altered his life's narrative if I'd run away as my plan A strongly urged. Get the facts, kids. Learn the cooking lingo: there's plenty of words/phrases in kitchens that can cause confusion because of how they sound: Shucking, pulled pork, dutch oven, shove it in the bread box, meat grinder, the list goes on. Beware.
Time for tea,
K
Thursday, November 22, 2012
You think you can fool me?
Ever since I can remember I've been opposed to onions. We just don't jive. Their texture and taste just make for one gnarly experience for this kid. For some reason, the smell of sauteed onions is delicious, but any vegetable that makes you cry is not worth ingesting. As a child I used to tell people I was allergic to onions so I could avoid eating them. This trick only worked on Boyfriend for a short while until he saw me mowing down some chips and salsa. Ploy over and it was time to come clean and sound like a child as I did so:
I hate onions. I'm sure you're aware that they're harvested in hell.
Boyfriend replies with an exasperated sigh and shake of the head. The man never takes me seriously. He responds the same way when I say I don't like sports, the last eighth of a cereal box, grown-up women in pigtails, washing the dog and the incorrect use of an en dash. He complains that I'm too fussy, to which I reply, I'm not fussy, I just know what I like. Also, I can't fault the salsa makers -- they don't make it just for me so I can deal. Boyfriend though, he knows of my distaste.
Boyfriend, being the sole person allowed to make food in our kitchen, has tasked himself with manipulating my palate to suit what he likes. He's gone to great lengths to finely chop up onions and put them into his culinary creations. I wish I could say it was rare, but it's several times a week that I find onions in my food. As is customary of my people (I'm not sure who my people are, but I'm certain they are out there), I use my fork to do a little edible exploration. I find these bits of disgustingness and scrape them to the edge of my plate, shooting Boyfriend a threatening look as I do so. I don't mind taking minuscule bites in order to spitefully avoid onions; I was the kid that ate peas one at a time, I've been training for this my whole life.
I admit, though. On the occasions when Boyfriend does trick me and I shovel his latest edible concoction into my mouth (that sounds gross), he gets up out of his chair, points in my face and declares with such pride:
You just ate onions, and a lot of them. You can stop being a princess and just eat them like a regular person from now on.
You think so, do you. I think not. To be contrary, I push my plate away, declare I'm full and since I forgot to bring my ninja stars to dinner, I throw cous cous in his face and leave the room. An exit meant for a movie star if ever there was one.
So now, I'm on guard. I'm not paranoid, per se, but I worry that he's snuck onions into everything he feeds me. Did you rub onions on my eggs? There's definitely onions in these fish tacos, I can taste them. I detect notes of onion in my ice cream. He maintains that, no, there are no onions in anything, but I swear he's messing with me. I've even started snooping around to see if there are onions in the apartment before he makes dinner. And yes, in spite of watching him cook for us every night, I question the ingredient list. When he reaches to scratch his head, I yell, AHA! ONIONS! and then he regards me as though I'm unbalanced.
If this is the reason I end up in the loony bin, I'll be pissed. Why are you here? My Boyfriend tricked me into eating onions. At least I think he did. I'm not entirely certain.
Time for tea,
K
I hate onions. I'm sure you're aware that they're harvested in hell.
Boyfriend replies with an exasperated sigh and shake of the head. The man never takes me seriously. He responds the same way when I say I don't like sports, the last eighth of a cereal box, grown-up women in pigtails, washing the dog and the incorrect use of an en dash. He complains that I'm too fussy, to which I reply, I'm not fussy, I just know what I like. Also, I can't fault the salsa makers -- they don't make it just for me so I can deal. Boyfriend though, he knows of my distaste.
Boyfriend, being the sole person allowed to make food in our kitchen, has tasked himself with manipulating my palate to suit what he likes. He's gone to great lengths to finely chop up onions and put them into his culinary creations. I wish I could say it was rare, but it's several times a week that I find onions in my food. As is customary of my people (I'm not sure who my people are, but I'm certain they are out there), I use my fork to do a little edible exploration. I find these bits of disgustingness and scrape them to the edge of my plate, shooting Boyfriend a threatening look as I do so. I don't mind taking minuscule bites in order to spitefully avoid onions; I was the kid that ate peas one at a time, I've been training for this my whole life.
I admit, though. On the occasions when Boyfriend does trick me and I shovel his latest edible concoction into my mouth (that sounds gross), he gets up out of his chair, points in my face and declares with such pride:
You just ate onions, and a lot of them. You can stop being a princess and just eat them like a regular person from now on.
You think so, do you. I think not. To be contrary, I push my plate away, declare I'm full and since I forgot to bring my ninja stars to dinner, I throw cous cous in his face and leave the room. An exit meant for a movie star if ever there was one.
So now, I'm on guard. I'm not paranoid, per se, but I worry that he's snuck onions into everything he feeds me. Did you rub onions on my eggs? There's definitely onions in these fish tacos, I can taste them. I detect notes of onion in my ice cream. He maintains that, no, there are no onions in anything, but I swear he's messing with me. I've even started snooping around to see if there are onions in the apartment before he makes dinner. And yes, in spite of watching him cook for us every night, I question the ingredient list. When he reaches to scratch his head, I yell, AHA! ONIONS! and then he regards me as though I'm unbalanced.
If this is the reason I end up in the loony bin, I'll be pissed. Why are you here? My Boyfriend tricked me into eating onions. At least I think he did. I'm not entirely certain.
Time for tea,
K
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
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
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
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
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
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
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