I'm no Picasso

Museum I wanted to visit today was closed (fucking Mondays and museums….) so I ended up…. taking a nap. Obviously that was the only reasonable response. I don’t take naps. Ever. I avoid it at all cost, because waking up from a nap to a dark, empty apartment puts me in the most apocalyptic state of mind imaginable for no apparent reason.

So now I’m drinking a bottle of wine. Because that’s the only reasonable response.

I’m pretty sure it’s time to go back to work. I wouldn’t make a very good woman of leisure. I’d be popping pills in no time.

(And I mean that phrase in the literal sense. Although it probably wouldn’t work out very well in the figurative one, either.)

Korean dramas have nothing on the French for making female characters look like complete fucking idiots sometimes. The closeups of wide, stupid eyes and pursed lips are fucking killing me. Jesus.

Saturday night at dinner, Busan and I were talking, while I tried to load some of the curry udong from his side of the table into my bowl. The noodles were slippery and heavy and far from my reach, so I was struggling. Busan sat there watching, amused, until some of the noodles slid through my chopsticks from a pretty good height and fell back into the bowl, splashing his sweater with curry sauce. “야!” He gave me a dirty look as he started tenderly dabbing at the microscopic spots on his sweater.

“Well, you could have done as any normal boyfriend would have done, and helped me when I was having a hard time with it, instead of just staring and then it never would’ve happened….”

“I’m — I’m normal! You know. You’re independent. You don’t like when I do for you!”

The next morning, in his spartan kitchen I was trying to work out how to stir the scrambled eggs in a way that would prevent them from burning on the bottom of the pan, while also not scratching his cookware with the cheap metal spatula that makes up his entire cooking utensil arsenal. I grumbled to myself about the eggs burning and what the fuck was I meant to do.

Before I knew it, Busan’s arm flashed out in front of me, as he just completely turned the burner off. With no warning. I turned on my heels and shot him a look. “What the fuck…..”

He smiled in such a way that I’m still not sure whether he was being a smart ass or genuine, and then said, “See? I’m a good boyfriend. I help.”

He’s right. I’m independent.

One of Busan’s former workmates (the one we used to call the hobbit, before I met him and realized he just doesn’t photograph very well) has got a new girlfriend. I mean, housemate. Oh whatever. They met two weeks ago (we’re guessing on the internet, although he won’t tell) and now they’re living together and madly in love. It’s got ‘disaster’ written all over it. Busan in all his smart assed wisdom decided it would be hilarious to propose a double date for next weekend so he could get a look at her before it goes up in smoke. It appears I’m being taken down with the ship. Something to look forward to, after vacation is over. The friend spent the entire evening last night spamming us with photos of his new “lovely beautiful girlfriend” making puffy cheek eye bulge faces, and even a few of them both doing it (that face, I mean) in bed together. Vom.

Haha I don’t want to go into too much detail about that, because it has stalker bait written all over it, but suffice it to say, it was really no big deal. Luckily, Busan’s perm is indeed late, but it was never great. Not in the conventional sense. Last night, after he fluttered about from menu to menu trying to decide where he wanted to eat dinner, like the proverbial girlfriend of mine that he is, no sooner had we been seated at the table than he asked me how his hair looked. At first I thought he was deliberately trying to be cute to make up for his ridiculous restaurant selection shenanigans, but then I realized that, of course, he was serious. Apparently he’s ordered, and I quote, “some chemical from the internet” that smooths it down in front and on the sides or something. His hair is back to presentable, anyway, and that’s all I’m worried about.

By the way, this morning while we were watching yet another film about the Nazis, my head was angled just so that I caught him checking out his own biceps out of the corner of my eye. He’s at the gym again, God help us all.

And just to clear up some issues about the photo from before, yes that was Nutella, powdered sugar, bacon and eggs on French toast. Yes he did fold it in half and eat it all smushed together, and no, it did not look good. It was revolting. But thanks a lot to everyone who decided to comment to that effect, because Busan, looking over my shoulder on my phone, was fully vindicated.

Ask me anything.