To paraphrase Puddle of Mudd (anybody remember them???), he hates me…he fucking hates me, na na na naaaa.
Here we are, not even a month into our domestic co-habitation, and Boyfriend is trying to kill me.
Okay. We both knew there would probably be some adjustment and some fireworks when we finally moved in together, because let’s face it…we’re both kind of asshats from time to time. Stubbornly independent asshats, at that. But really, I haven’t been that hard to live with. Really, I haven’t.
I mean, okay, sure. I occasionally still hit the garbage disposal switch in the middle of the night when I’m scouting around for a glass of water in the kitchen, but I only did it once while there was a piece of silverware in it. And I didn’t so much screeeam as give a manly yelp of startlement. And in my defense, the garbage disposal switch is totally in a bad place. It’s right where, at three AM, you expect a light switch to be. Besideswhich: the silverware? I always put them in the non-disposally side of the sink (though admittedly not so much out of conscious effort as lingering fear of the Garbage Disposal Monster), so being woken in the middle of the night by me getting shouty and the Disposal Monster bellowing in fury as it tried to eat our kitchenware was totally, completely, unequivocally Boyfriend’s own damned fault.
Also, that time I forgot the laundry in the washer all week and we had to re-wash it twice to get the nasty-ass mildew smell out of it? Similarly not my fault. If I wasn’t so busy slopping wood stain all over the patio (and getting stainy fingerprints all over the door, but shhhhh!) making pretty shelves for our bedroom so Boyfriend had a place for his hundred billion dumb movies, I’m sure I would have remembered it. And hey, props for being proactive and doing the laundry before it overflowed the closet, right? And at least I wasn’t the certain someone who accidentally shrunk my hideously overpriced dry-clean-only pants in the washer yesterday. A-hem.
And finally: that bag of cat litter that leaked and left a trail of special Sierra-sanctified crunchies from the litter box, through the bedroom, bathroom, and dining room to the front door? I would have cleaned it up like right then if I wasn’t already running late for work. It’s not my fault Boyfriend got home four hours before me and got tired of tracking it all over the rest of the apartment. And anyway, it gave him an excuse to bring out the little Dyson vacuum he wanted so badly last Christmas and barely gets the chance to use. So really, he can’t be mad at me for that. Right?
I think so, you think so, and the world thinks so. Apparently, though, Boyfriend doesn’t think so.
Because he’s still trying to punish me.
Exhibit A, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is this week’s dinner menu:
Monday – artisan tomato-artichoke fettucini with sauteed farmer’s market veggies and fresh (also farmer’s market-sourced) jalapeno-cheddar sourdough bread; bottle of pleasantly aromatic white wine.
Tuesday – potato-leek chowder, (more) farmer’s market-fresh sourdough; last of bottle of pleasantly aromatic white wine.
Wednesday – vegetable lasagna with (you got it) farmer’s market-fresh ricotta cheese and a baby veggie garden salad; another bottle of wine.
Thursday – It’s Thanksgiving, so everything under the sun. And possibly everything in the fridge, too. And a flourless chocolate torte for dessert.
Friday – pan-seared bay scallops on artisan fettucine noodles with a citrus-saffron reduction.
And that’s just for this week. One day last week I trudged in the door after another late evening at the office to find some sort of poached-chicken-wrapped-in-bacon-on-a-bed-of-ham-and-topped-with-hollandaise-sauce heavenliness (and wait for it – Boyfriend is a vegetarian) waiting in the oven. And another day Boyfriend just happened to be putting the finishing touches on a homemade creamy pesto-and-veggie pasta delicacy right as I got off work. And those three tubs of cookie dough sitting in the fridge that he bought to support some charity or another? Boyfriend knows I have no defenses against cookies; if bringing cookie dough into my domicile isn’t an explicitly hostile action, I don’t know what is. Hiroshima was a subtler attack.
Pure. Hatred. Right?
Boyfriend knows exactly how hard it is for me to keep my inner sumo wrestler in check. He knows that whereas he can eat and eat and EAT anything he wants, think about exercising, and maintain a svelte figure, I simply exercise and exercise and EXERCISE, think about eating, and gain five pounds. And he knows how vain, shallow, and narcissistic I am, and that even the idea of gaining a single micro-ounce wounds me to the core. So, unless he’s discovered a newfound fetish for larger men (and if he has, we need to talk), this is all clearly a passive-aggressive attack. Who needs to find bin Laden when there’s domestic terrorism of this magnitude going on?
As if this wasn’t evidence enough that the boy truly hates my fetid guts and this co-habitation thing isn’t going to work out, there was this conversation this morning:
Vindictive, Malicious, Hateful Boyfriend: You should see my holiday baking list…your waistline is in trouble.
[See?!! A direct attack!!]
Me: Oh dear.
Evil, Coldhearted, Horrible Boyfriend: It’s an extensive list.
[More threats!! Call the President…we gotta go Nucular!]
Me: Oh dear.
Nasty, Twisted, Wicked Boyfriend: If we make three or four things a week we should get through the list by Christmas…
[Axis of Evil, meet your…axis. Your curly-haired, skinny-assed axis.]
Me: So what kind of things are on your list?
Mean, Mean, Mean (can you tell I ran out of synonyms??) Boyfriend: Fudge, peanut brittle, caramel corn, assorted cookies, cream caramels, egg nog, sweet rolls, etc…
See what I mean? Not even a month into this exercise in domestically harmonic bliss, and Boyfriend is sick and tired of me.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I need to go drown my sorrows in a glass of spiked egg nog and a Turkey leg.