Apparently The Brit thinks I am weird as fuck though. I'm not sure why, as my life is relatively normal (save the copious amounts of sugar free popsicles I consume, or the fact that I don't drink water and instead unsweetened barley tea or that I cannot stop bouncing my knee because I have so much pent up frenetic energy) and it's not like I'm a toebiter or anything. While I do have weird food habits, I would say that the one thing that bothers The Brit the most is that I'm a hoarder.
No, not in the animal hoarding sense. Or the "I can't see your floors" sense. I hoard money. It's a habit I picked up when I was little. Growing up in a house with an older brother and sister in which my sister, the protector, was often gone out with her friends. My brother, the torturer, used to tease me mercilessly (including one time when he was stoned with his friends, and offered me a dollar for every egg he could crack over my head. Five year old me stood there patiently while I dripped in egg goo, and to date I have never received payment for the 9 eggs!) and somehow, a thought stuck in my head that he would steal my loot. So I began to hide it. Not in large amounts, maybe a dollar here in that book, or two bucks in a china tea pot. I ended up carrying this habit into adulthood.
It served me well in college, as I always had beer money, or money for new books at The Strand or money for falafels ( I haven't yet pontificated my love for these little balls of heaven, but I'm sure that blog will come soon) and it served me very well in my early 20's when I needed tattoo money. Now that I am 30, I find it still serves me well but the dollar amounts are higher. I funded a new pair of Alexander McQueen booties without tapping into my bank account or credit card this way, as well as a random spa weekend in the same manner. However The Brit thinks it is bullshit (but to be fair, I think he is more than a little jealous. He can't even hold onto a dollar in his pocket).
It was late last night/early this morning that I truly found out how much this does, in fact, irritate the living shit out of him. It was circa 2 am and I was a wandering drone around Chateau Khan, waiting for the Ambien to kick in. I have a tendency to meander, wraith-like, around the living room so that if someone were to be walking outside, they'd think some bizarre ghostly creature was appearing in all the windows (#funshitidowhenimbored). But I quickly tired of that, so I decided to look around and make sure all my hidden money was where it was supposed to be. I should mention that I do that obsessively, too. Moving right along, though.
I walked into the kitchen, hoisted myself up on the counter, and grabbed the box of Special K. Looked under the cereal. And staring back up at me was a Post-it with a smiley face hastily drawn on it.
Now I admit. I began to panic. Not a full blown, all out scream fest, more like the feeling you get when you hear your parents begin to discuss sex, assuming you are adult enough to handle that type of psychological warfare (spoiler alert parents: your kids want to assume the last time you had sex was when they were conceived. and thats it). But still, I figured maybe I had taken the money before my trip to New York and totally forgotten about it. So I moved on to the next hiding spot. I crawled army style through my living room (this is 100% true), snagging my already sore shin on a safety pin that had apparently made its home pointed side up on my carpet. I yelled louder than I should have (but I had to have some sort of theatrical effect) and continued to crawl, convinced I was going to hemorrhage to death wearing an old Garfield nightgown that I got when I was 12. I pondered my impending obituary as I checked underneath my wall unit for the DVD case to Prenom Carmen, hoping to see the familiar envelope of cash.
NO FUCKING DICE. Instead in it's place was another menacing Post-it.
Replacing your cash with my molester smirk
Now, I may be scatterbrained. I may be neurotic. I may be melodramatic. But stupid I am not. I grabbed the phone, confirming it was only slightly after midnight in Los Angeles, which meant The Brit was either closing in on being drunk, or asleep. As it turns out, he was asleep which worked in my favor, as he was more apt to tell me what I wanted to hear rather than act like a dickhole and lecture me.
Me: Where's my money? (I may or may not have spoken in a Russian Lady Accent)
Britty McBritpants: What money? (Definitely in an English accent. No fun)
Me: You know what money (Taking obvious cues from Law & Order: Sumi K edition)
BMBP: Did you check all of your.... spots? (said with such disdain)
Me: No. What did you buy?
BMBP: Check all of them, then call me back.
Botheration. I went spot to spot, looking for my purple envelopes, only to find, yes, the rapey smile goading me at every turn. Unfuckingbelievable. I was pretty pissed at this point, but not really acting on it as the Ambien was starting to kick in and I was moving as if through quicksand. I finally gave up on my game of Cloak and Dagger, and called him back.
Me: What the fuck (At this point, sounding like my mouth was stuffed with marshmallows)
Him: Right bedside drawer, white envelope. Good night and you're welcome (a few kissing noises that I hung up on because I had mere seconds to uncover this mystery before this episode ended).
I tiptoed into my room and checked my bedside drawer. Tucked underneath a copy of 1984 was a plain envelope which I promptly tore open with my teeth. Inside was a letter that said the following:
You Dear Girl,
I leave home for weeks at a time and I do not like the idea of you holing money around and telling everyone about it. We know some shady people so for your protection I have deposited it into your savings account. You can thank me when you don't get raped and robbed. I love you.
And included inside the note was a deposit slip, dated the day he left.
Some may find this sweet, but I was infuriated. The whole point of this game was to have money for an emergency, and if I were in a situation where I was robbed and or raped, I'm quite confident a potential burglar slash rapist wouldn't think to check my cereal cabinet (and a note to potential burglars or rapists: I only have cereal in my cabinet now, so unless you really want some Special K with red berries, you are out of luck) and I also have a pretty advanced security system (which totally includes a war cry that I have perfected.. and a secret hidden cache of weapons procured from my psychotic ex). Now what would I do if I needed to buy something spur of the moment? Rather than having that Christmas morning feeling of opening money envelopes, I'd have to be a regular boring adult and use my credit card, or worse, go to the bank. While I appreciate the fact that he doesn't want me raped, he basically stole all of the joy out of my life.
Update. As of noon today, the dollar amount in my savings account mysteriously dropped back to the same level it was the day before my boyfriend headed back to Los Angeles. I may or may not have also bought a new box of envelopes. I've also found some new hiding spots.
Sumi: 1. Brit: 0.
2 comments:
This entire post is so full of comical win
Grrr@ mack being logged into my phone and having his name show up. The thomas comment is from me.
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