Dear Diary, November 8th, 2013
FAT.
STUPID.
Combined, he’s used seven letters from a twenty-six letter alphabet. If we were playing scrabble, I’m sure he would lose. You would think that someone as intelligent as him (Mr. IQ, I’ve nicknamed him) would be able to choose better words. But no, the man with the B.A. in English Literature, and a Master’s Degree in the same name, descends into common words used by “uneducated riff-raff” as he likes to call construction workers.
I told him my father was a Construction Worker. He bites his lip while smiling smugly at me. He doesn’t say anything. He knows better than to say anything else about the dead—and more importantly—about my dad.
And, I’m not fat. I’m rotund, portly, or big-boned. Seriously buddy, you can google synonyms.
Stupid? I hold a B.A. Honours in Sociology and Criminology.
So, there.
Never mind, that I barely squeaked by in finishing it. (Perhaps, I had one too many nights at D’Arcy McGee’s eating French fries while also pounding back Guinness with my two besties, Jan and Lois.) But I have the degree in a black frame, on a wall in my office, that’s above my desk.
I spent five years of my life and tens of thousands of dollars to complete it. (Okay, it was a four year degree that took me five years. What can I say? I take my time with things.) But I don’t regret one moment or dollar of my investment. The experience taught me to work hard, see things through, and to scale insurmountable obstacles. I’m proud of it.
Although, I’m not using my degree on the job now…But, that doesn’t matter…. For me, at least it sends a message that I’m willing to work hard to achieve my goals.
What’s the other advantage of having a degree? It allows me to point in the direction of my framed degree with a look of: TAKE THAT!
The name of a particular person comes to mind: Brent. He is the other person who inhabits this dwelling. Brent is the Loud-Food-Chewer, Remote-Control-Hogger, and Sheet-Stealer. I know, those aren’t horrible things. After all, I’ve heard no one is perfect. But when you add in: Domestic-Chore-Dodger, Manipulator, Cheater, Liar, and Verbal-Abuser—it paints a different picture of my live-in boyfriend. I guess I should be grateful he doesn’t hit me.
Oh shit! And…he’s home! Just drove up the driveway.
I suppose he’s going to want dinner? Maybe my resemblance to the Pillsbury Dough Girl would be less, if I didn’t have to make two meals a day? (Yes, I’m on the hook for breakfast and dinner. I cave in to Brent because he will start squawking about how lazy I am and he can do better than me. I’ve tried to tell him, “Go then!” and yet, he doesn’t. He just rambles endlessly as he lists all the things I haven’t done: the pasta pot from two nights ago in the sink that I didn’t wash; the dirty curtains; the three weeks that have passed since I last tackled the bathrooms; and how I broke his favourite beer glass.)
I hate cooking. I miss the days when I could have cereal for dinner and I would have the rest of the evening to do whatever I want. No peeling and chopping vegetables, frying or baking meat, and then wiping the counters, and doing the dishes. AGAIN.
Oh god. He’s calling me. I’ve got to go.
Kelli
Tortuous Tales 