In April, Kristin and I celebrated our 5th anniversary. Well, I say 4th because every guy knows that you’re not officially dating until your girlfriend injures you and you don’t get mad. For me, it was a busted lip. Either way, we both knew it was a momentous occasion. She felt it was a testament of the commitment we have to each other and I felt it was a miracle - she wasn’t in prison, and I was still alive.
There have been many close calls though. A few years back I did something to piss her off and, honestly, I don’t remember what it was. Maybe I ate the last of her cereal. Who knows? Anyway, instead of voicing her displeasure like normal adults do, she did the next best thing: she took a swipe at me. And, for clarity, this wasn’t an “I’m a kitten playing with a ball of yarn” swipe. It was more along the lines of “I’m a lioness trying to knock over a water buffalo running at full speed” swipe. But somehow, I managed to duck in time and escaped with my head still attached. My 200lb. oak dresser wasn’t so lucky. A piece of its siding is still missing.
What is it with women not knowing their strength? Every Christmas, I get my sister, Ari and Kris a dictionary to help them find the definition of “tickle” because here’s what they think it means: 1) To dig fingernails into another’s skin until blood is drawn and/or screams are let out. [Example: “A chunk of my underarm is missing so, no, that did not tickle.”]
So how am I still here? Well, after surviving as the youngest of three, I got in a few scuffles as a young kid. And somehow, I always came out on top…until that fateful day in summer camp at age of 10. I decided to skip a shorter kid in the lunch line and he protested. But I ignored him and continued to budge past, so he grabbed my wrist and flipped me in the air.
I saw clouds.
While still holding on to my wrist, Steven Segal somersaulted so he stood over me, said “Hi-YA,” and punched me in my neck. I learned a lesson that day: boys are definitely tougher than girls. Or so I thought, until the following year when I took a girl’s markers without asking in 5th grade and she tried to take my jugular. And on this day, I learned the only lesson that matters: girls are way crazier than boys.
Asides from being crazy, the one I live with likes to overreact to things. Here are some Kristin classics:
Me getting plain 4C Bread Crumbs instead of seasoned: “This is a nightmare.”
Me accidently using her pillow and not mine: “I hope you choke on your phlegm and die in your sleep.”
Me throwing the remote to her, her completely missing it, and it hitting her kneecap:
And when it comes to the idea of kids, overreaction is an understatement. Me? I hope to have about 3 big head, high waist babies running around. Kristin? She nearly gagged watching a kid spill their orange juice on America’s Funniest Home Videos. But that’s not all because her discomfort with new life reaches beyond the human race. Once on a nature show about giraffes, a mother was giving birth. And while I smiled at the addition of new wildlife to this planet, I looked over at Kris and saw it was too much for her to handle. She passed out before the baby hit the ground.
So imagine Kris’ reaction to having a dream about her giving birth…to kittens. You know that face you make when you find hair in your food? Well, that would be considered joy in comparison. But I must say that my powers of persuasion appear to be working because after five years she went from not wanting any children to worrying about putting cats through college.
But I must say this: she is the most caring person I’ve ever met. She’s so caring that I hate cooking dinner for her. Let me explain. Early in our relationship, I thought I would make her the fanciest breakfast EVER - waffles with ice cream on top. Actually, it was Vanilla Bean ice cream. Yup, I didn’t hold anything back. So I’m spending the entire morning preparing this Ihop spectacular. You know, plugging in the toaster, getting the Haagen Dazs out the freezer, and finally I bring it to her. She smiles, says, “thank you,” and takes a bite. Kristin then puts the fork down, and apparently begins to think of a nice way to say she doesn’t like it. “Eww. I don’t like it,” she said.
I must’ve made a big deal out of it because now she says she likes absolutely everything I make. How is that possible? I’m not a great cook, and I don’t even like half the stuff I make. “Mmm. This is great, Andrew.”
“C’mon. If you don’t like it, just say so.”
“What makes you think that?”
“You just put your plate on the floor and slid it to Dozer.”
She gives a confused look.
“And then you said, ‘here Doze, eat this…because it is disgusting.’”
So now she’s afraid she’ll hurt my feelings and has decided to lie to my face for the rest of our lives. One day I’m really test her and make a mango, egg, and olive oil sandwich and see what she says then.
Now, I have my share of faults and quirks too. For one, Kristin has joked she should just change her name to Can You because I ask her to do things I can easily do. I call it resourceful. She calls it lazy. I also have a vast dislike of throwing food in the garbage, so I put it in the next best place: the toilet. Pasta, scrambled eggs, waffles, pizza, and more have all gone surfing...when I remember to flush. Her 3 a.m. shrieks because she thinks she’s peed tomato sauce never stops being funny. But what she gets on me most for is my hate of supermarkets. Let me ask you this: have you ever gone in one and didn’t spend more time or money than you intended? OK, then. So, recently I’ve been boycotting the establishment, which hasn’t made Kristin happy.
And that’s actually the reason I’m locked in the basement. She does this when I’ve been a bad boyfriend. But with this laptop I’ve hidden in here, I thought I should tell everybody about how she treats me and maybe I could get some help. Luckily she’s cooking dinner, because if she came in here now and caught me doing this, she’d chop my han
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