Haiku for Otto

     Some friends on Facebook inspired me to write a Haiku for Otto.  So here it is:

Black and white jester

scampering along the surf

laughter follows him.

Living in a Tiny Space

     The boyfriend and I, along with 4 dogs, 2 turtles and various fish, live in a really tiny apartment of about 465 square feet. That includes closet space and toilet. The bedroom is really small, and just barely fits a double bed and a dresser. We can't afford to move because it's rent controlled, and going rates for apartments in San Francisco are outrageous. Things wouldn't be so bad, except the boyfriend is an accumulator, er, ahem... I mean collector. This creates problems.

     It would be OK if he only collected one thing, but he has many interests, and apparently all of them come complete with collectibles. He has a closet full of Disney figurines.  A whole wall of books just about Disney.  And comic books, of course. 

     He has a Master's degree in film history, so he has a huge collection of DVDs, mostly horror. Oh, there's also a ton of old TV shows, like Adam 12, Get Smart, I Love Lucy, Bewitched, Mr. Bean, Black Adder, Fawlty Towers: that's just a few.

     He's also a musician, so he has another wall full of CDs, and many, many, books about music. I'd say at least half of them are about the Beatles. He has about 14 guitars, and several amps, which are really big and take up a lot of room. He has no room for clothes in his closet (which is bigger than mine), so they tend to spread all around the house. 

Actual photographic evidence that I am not making this up.

The fact that he's a major slob doesn't help anything, either.

     
     He always seems to have multiples of everything. 14 guitars, 5 amps, 4 DVD players, etc. And nothing gets thrown out. Ever.  He still has a laserdisc player! In fact, I think he may have two. The garage is full of empty boxes from all the electronic equipment he's bought over the years. He says this is because:

1. We may move, so he needs the boxes to pack the stuff up in (we've been living in this same apartment for 27 years), or
2. He may want to sell it one day, and it's worth more with the box.

     One bad outcome of clutter and lack of space is that there really is no room to do anything. It's hard to move around without bumping into things. Sometimes I feel like one of those toys that you turn on and it rolls around until it bumps into something, then it reverses until it bumps into something else, until it's batteries run down. Or, in my case, until I either go mad or die of my bruises.

     We get into fights, the bf & I, like rats in an overcrowded cage. One HUGE bone of contention is his guitar practice. When he's practicing, neither the dogs nor I am allowed to move, breathe, or distract him in any way. He could go in the bedroom and shut the door, but he seems determined to practice in the living room.

     There are only two places to sit in the living room: the chair and the couch. I call the couch my “office”, because I keep all my everyday stuff near by. Laptop, knitting, checkbook, sketch book, and anything I happen to be reading at the time. OK, I admit it, I do spend most of my day on the couch. But that's because there really isn't any other place to be. I hate the bedroom. It's too small and claustrophobic, and my back hurts if I lie on the bed too much. Or is it “lay” on the couch? I'm never sure about that one. I just asked the bf, and he said,

I'M NOT GOING TO TELL YOU. WHY SHOULD I HELP YOU MAKE FUN OF ME IN THAT STUPID BLOG?

     

     There's no room for a chair in there. So I camp out on the couch most of the day, writing my blog, surfing the net, and being a generally useful citizen, out of the way and bothering no one.

EXCEPT THE BOYFRIEND.

     

     For some odd reason I have never been able to fathom, he takes exception to this. He's jealous. He wants to sit on the couch. He wants to play his guitar on the couch. And he wants me to go away while he's doing it.   We had a big fight over it tonight. Well, he had a fight. I just sat there (on the couch). He was pissed at me because I sat on the couch while he was practicing.  I didn't speak to him or make eye contact.

I just sat in the corner and squished myself up real small.  

I wanted to use my laptop.  

He blew a fit.

I'VE TOLD YOU OVER AND OVER AGAIN!  DON'T BOTHER ME WHEN I'M PRACTICING!  I CAN'T DO ANYTHING I WANT. EVERYTHING IS AGAINST ME.

Then he went in the bedroom and slammed the door. 

     Several times. 

     He yelled at the poor dog, who came running out like her ass was on fire. 

(She's so gassy it's a distinct possibility.)

I want one of these:

I think I'd have more room than I do now.

The End.

The Man Who Thought He Could Drink

     My boyfriend thinks he can drink. He goes out with friends to bars, where he always imbibes too much. Is he drinking to forget his troubles? No. The reason he drinks too much is because he has many obsessive rules involving multiple aspects of his life, and one of those rules governs alcohol consumption. Here it is:

I must buy drinks for each friend I go out with, and then each friend must reciprocate.

     Let me try to explain (although it is complicated and I may not get it right). It seems that when a person goes to a bar with friends, each friend must pay for a round. A round is one drink for each friend, plus one for yourself. Let's say there are four people involved: Joe, Jack, Fred and Sam. The person who invited the other three (we'll make it Sam) buys the first round, meaning one drink for each friend plus himself. That's four drinks total. Stay with me, there's more.

     When all the drinks of the first round are consumed, the next friend must repeat the process, buying one drink for each friend and one for himself. This is repeated two more times, resulting in each friend buying and consuming four drinks. The more friends, the more drinks. Since the bf is only paying for one drink for himself, theoretically he is getting three “free” drinks. In practice, however, he is actually buying four drinks. This ends up costing him more than if each friend had bought his own drinks, because the bf probably wouldn't have had four drinks without the pressure of the rounds system (hereafter referred to as “trs”). You see, trs forces the bf to keep up so that,

1. he gets his fair share, and:
2. he doesn't lose face and undo all the male bonding that has occurred.

     Unfortunately, trs doesn't always work the way the bf thinks it should. (This happens with a lot of his rules). He seems to have a substantial number of friends who are both cheap and light drinkers.  Since the bf almost always pays for the first round,

these friends suck up the free beer, and never offer to buy an additional round. There always seems to be at least one friend like this. This is the guy that stays for three rounds, and then leaves just before his “turn”. Or, he may nurse that one free beer all night.  This drives the bf absolutely apeshit. He comes home drunk, complaining about how cheap and socially retarded his friends are. Then he passes out fully dressed and I have to take the dogs out late at night.  In the morning, he insists that he didn't pass out because he made it to the bed. This, according to him, shows that he went to bed, rather then passed out 

     Sometimes, he over-drinks and overeats. This usually occurs at parties. Then he comes home, throws up (with many dramatic, loud, sound effects), and becomes absolutely convinced that he got food poisoning from the snacks. The drinking, of course, had nothing to do with it.  He moans:

"I've been poisoned!  Call 911!"
He's not kidding.

Pathetic? Yes.
Kidding? No.


The End.