A Bad Day.

So Valentines Day has crept up on me again and again, I have nothing to show for it except a $45.00, amber pendant that I bought myself for a necklace I have yet to make. I've wanted it for ages, but couldn't bring myself to spend close to a hundred dollars on it. By some random act of God, I stumbled into the Pen Centre on a half off day and scooped up the charm with only an ounce of guilt associated. Thank you Jebus.

"What asshole made February 14th, 'Hate Your Boyfriend Day,' 'cause all the women you know are making you jealous by showing off their pretty presents?" Is Andrew's question.

My boyfriend, the most sentimentally retarded man on the face of the planet.

I tried to tell him that to me it wasn't the present, it was the thought (an idea that seems to be lost on him, time and time again), and that I don't get jealous of other women getting silly gifts on a day that means nothing, but more so, left out. No man has ever adorned me with love in such a way as the typical Valentine's Day stereotypes flow and I'm sure I'd hate it if it happened, but that doesn't mean I don't want to know what it likes.
Andrew still has yet to grasp how the female mind works. I don't blame him, but he should really just catch the hint and act on the crystal clear point that I just illustrated for him.

His response to my comment was, "Well you can tell all your friends that your boyfriend is driving you to New York for a vacation."

Oooo a two day vacation in New York that I'm paying for, that is just as much for you as it is for me. Forgive me if I'm not overwhelmed with happy-love tears.

I went to Toronto last Friday to start off my vacation with a giant bang of normality. Going to Andrew's is always such a social event.
Experiencing Andrew's family is like running a manner marathon. First you have to fake interest in whatever rubbish Diane is on about and then nod in agreement over recipes and proud stories of her daughter-in-law. Before dinner you have to chop the vegetables, make the salad, set the table and during dinner, have to fake interest all over again in the midst of their family debate-athon where they, batter eachother with historic references to upset their daily news updates.

IT'S HARD.

After dinner you clean the dishes.
Cleaning the dishes wouldn't be so awful if Andrew helped, but he never does and so I stand alone at the sink, in my boyfriend's mother's house, scrubbing her dishes. She of course, watches with a scrutinizing eye, making sure that I clean each one properly. Brutal.

Hanging out with Andrew's friends is equally frustrating. I'm only a shy individual in social settings when I have something to loose. If Andrew wasn't friends with his friends, I would be as blunt and awful as I wanted with no thread of regret or care, but because they've been his friends for ages, I have to keep myself in check. All significant others have this problem, all significant others hate this.
Tony and Krista aren't difficult to be with. They're funny and strange and are generally easy going folk, but they're semi-rich potheads that have a bar on top of their fridge, whom like to play poker.

Whatever.

Smoke your dope, drink your booze that's tackily located on your fridge that you call a bar and play your poker, just don't make me do it. When I say I don't want to play poker, that I'd rather watch, I mean it. So take your fucking chips and shove them up your arse, I DON'T WANT TO PLAY.
But they made me play anyway, and I won everything, so bully for me and your shit game. I showed you whose boss.
Most times I'm sure Andrew's friends tolerate me because I'm with Andrew. I wonder if they'll be absolutely offended when I decide to just not hang out with them in the future? I wonder if Andrew will be?

We spent a couple hours at Casa Loma which was a bizarre experience. Walking into a grand castle in the middle of Toronto is fucked. Walking in rooms that are nearly a hundred years old and then walking into a cafeteria/gift shop in the basement is absolutely evil.
The castle itself was absolutely stunning. There was secret passage ways, an elaborate shower with all sorts of nozels and pipes, winding metal staircases that scared the poop out of me, a conservatory where X-Men was filmed, a weird peacock light and a very badly written, but beautifully illustrated story that was plaqued on the wall for all of the tourists to read. It was definitely something, let me tell you.

I suppose I'm a writing a pre-entry to mask my excited state. Well to be honest, I'm not really excited at all. Perhaps when we cross the border I'll be a little more thrilled. Probably not though. Crossing the border for me is like stepping into my backyard.

It's strange to think at that this time tomorrow I'll be standing outside the Late Show entrance, waiting to get my tickets for the event. It's strange to think that I'll be wandering around New York with my massive bastard of a boyfriend, looking at museums and street vendors the days that follow. It's such a bizarre difference to my day-to-day life, but not one that I actually consider a vacation. Probably because it doesn't fit the stereotype. OooOoo! Are Galleries and the cheap thrill of being on the border of almost always being mugged! Yes please!

I realise that I am always doubtful of what my trips will bring me. I realise that I'm quite worried about interacting with Andrew for such a long time in such a cramped environment. One hundred and thirty dollars only allows you a room the size of an outhouse. I hope it does not smell like an outhouse.

I guess I just expected a much more grand time away during my two weeks of time off. This time was designated for England and even though I'm not sulking over not being there, it still is rather crap to think of the multitude of differences between the two places and my huge desire to rather be in one, than the other.

I wonder how much longer I'll have to wait before I can go. At least a year. How awful.