It seems that the highlights of my existence these days are constantly falling in my weekends away from Ridgeway, going shopping with my mother, or cleaning my boyfriend's condo. While this not only triggers an overwhelming sense of desperation, it ultimately makes me feel completely and utterly womanly.
Did I mention that I was excited about cooking a potroast?
I'm not sure why I'm coming around to the idea of being a, "wife." Perhaps it's because my hormones are kicking in and I've suddenly realised that I feel important when someone needs me to take care of them. This does not mean that I do want or will ever want children.
I however doubt this conclusion entirely and will always, forever, ever, ever, chalk it up to wanting to be Martha Stewart.
So on Friday I, hung the drapes, disassembled a desk, moved the desk upstairs, reassembled the desk, put away three sets of dishes, one set of glasses, three sets of coffee mugs, silverware, bowls and enough paper cups to supply an army. I cleaned the oven, mopped the floors three times, did all the paint touchups, tried to get the shower to work, put away ten bars of soap and then sat in the leather chair in my living room, air conditioner blasting, ate Pizza Pizza from the shop on the corner and drank diet pepper. I was a true house wife and it was great.
Unfortunately, by the time four o'clock rolled around I was bored stiff and I was in desperate need of an adventure. So I worked up the gumption to txt msg Rents and when he agreed to meet me for dinner the amount of butterflies that were bouncing around my belly almost made me ill. Thankfully Mamma Keenan had cleaned the toilet.
I'm sure you're all thinking, "You dirty slag, you went out to dinner with a guy that makes your knees buckle!" But it wasn't like that at all. I had to meet him, it was supposed to happen and I'm glad it did, 'cause it completely solidified my relationship with Andrew, in some twisted and demented way.
First impressions went as best as first impressions will always go. He smiled at me, I felt like a fat pig. He sorta laughed at me for being so nervous, I felt like a fat pig. He asked where I wanted to go for dinner, I said I didn't know anything in Toronto and felt like a fat pig.
He was wearing a bright red t-shirt with a bunch of commies throwing a party. I think. He had thick brown frames perched on his nose and he was at least an inch shorter than myself. He had some rad bowling shoes - I was digging the bowling shoes.
We settled into a tiny Martini Bar around the corner from the condo. It was nerveracking being there 'cause it was a pretentious art-fag bar and art fags are quite possibly the most scariest things on earth.
The portions of food in the restaurant were ridiculously small and ridiculously awful. If I'm paying eight dollars for a plate of gnocci, I want it to be as big as my head. It's fucking potatoe noodles man. You can't get anymore budget than potatoes and noodles. Thankfully the gnocci was bite sized, so I only felt like a bit of a pig while eating. He ordered potatoes and I thought that was ironic fun.
I can't remember a thing we talked about other than that he had to eat all of his food 'cause his Irish Catholic guilt was overwhelming and his mother would be terribly disapointed in him. He ate the parsley. Blech. There was that and my neverending praises of the Vanilla Chai tea and it's deflightful foam that rocked back and forth on the pleasant waves of my sweet-tea goodness.
I expect to go there every day for my Vanilla Chai fix. The joys of moving to a city that serves such excellent delicacies (I know, it's not that delicate. Shut the fuck up).
He ordered a raspberry vanilla tart that was more raspberry than vanilla and very disapointing. I recited the ingredients to the graham cracker crust and John looked stunned. He questioned the butter at first, but eventually decided that I infact, was right.
We went for a walk down the Danforth after dinner. We looked in bookshops and weird market-esque buildings that had fake pig limbs hanging from the ceiling. We decided that I am living in the ghetto and while I sighed to make it seem like I was a maiden in distress, I secretly loved the decision.
Eventually Andrew called my cell and I regretably told John that it was time for me to go.
He looked sad. I think.
I knew the minute I saw John that I didn't have any type of attraction to him. He was a strange little man, a clever little man and a kind little man, but he wasn't a man that I could be with and I'm sure he felt the same.
I'm glad I met him and I hope he likes me enough to stay friends with me. I imagine that there is a lot I can learn from him and I'm happy that I've made a friend in such a big place before I actually end up moving there. It was really, good times.
As I was turning to leave he grabbed my hand and planted a sweet kiss on my hand. I was confused by it and blushed the whole way home.
When I told Andrew what he had done he became a little flustered and said,
"I don't like that at all."
I was a little stunned. Andrew never gets jealous. Why he would get jealous of John is beyond me.
"Why."
"Cause that means he wants to fuck you."
"No it doesn't."
"Yes it does. I'm going to have to find a white glove and slap him across the face with it to defend your honour."
"Shut up Andrew."
"Seriously Anna, men would kill for lesser deeds!"
"You're such a dork."
And I comfortably sat in the presence of my brooding boyfriend through a shitty Johnny Depp pirate movie, thinking contently to myself,
"How could I ever want another man other than him?"
