It’s All About Compromise…Usually Mine

“I want Indian for dinner,” I told Matt Thursday night. My day had been rough and I wanted to drown my sorrows in the rich, spicy goodness of vegetable korma and malai kofta.

“Okay,” he told me, not even looking up from yet another rousing game of Halo 3.

Some time later, after complaining of starving, my blood sugar, and wasting away (in that order), I managed to coax him away from the TV and away from the addictive properties of X-Box Live. I was practically giddy with delight (and relief) by the time we pulled out of the apartment complex (he managed to avoid parked cars), but the expression of glee fell from my face as he pulled into the parking lot of Subway.

“I meant Golden India, Matt, not an Indian owned and operated Subway!”

“I don’t feel like having Indian,” he said simply before getting out of the truck; that, it would seem, was that. I ate my spicy Italian in stony silence, and swore I’d scald him with piping hot palak paneer the very first chance I got.

Earlier in the week…

“Hello?” I said into my phone, but only after I’d gotten several dirty looks from the snooty shoppers I’d disrupted with my potentially obnoxious J.Lo ring tone.

“Are you out of class for the day?” Matt asked.

“Yes,” I said warily, hoping he wasn’t about to rope me into a favor.

“Are you at home?”

“No,” I hedged.

“Where are you?”

“Dillard’s, in the Oak Court mall.”

Silence, and then, “Are you in the purse section?”

“Maybe…”

“No. Whatever it is, you can’t have it,” he said immediately.

“I didn’t even ask for anything!” I wailed.

“But you were going to.”

“Well…”

“See?” He crowed triumphantly.

“There’s this red suede bag,” I started. “It’s big and soft and is the most divine thing I’ve ever seen (except for the Coach purse I’d been drooling over mere moments before, oh, and the fabulous Kenneth Cole…). It’s Lucky Brand, and only $148. I need it.”

“No.”

The refusal was flat and final. I knew better than to argue.

“I’m going to pawn your X-Box and buy it anyway,” I told him. We both knew it was a lie.

Two days later, at Target, I found a reasonable enough reproduction at the Matt-friendly, bargain price of $19.99. Of course, I bought it, and, of course, Matt hasn’t said a word about it.

Catty Behavior

Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve simply accepted that the universe is out to get me. I get it. I’m going about my business and looking forward to the day when I don’t have to deal with the extraneous bullshit I’ve been handed lately. Isn’t acceptance supposed to bring peace or enlightenment or something? You know what my (grudging) acceptance has brought? Pets that are determined to make me swallow an entire package of heart worm preventative in an effort to escape them.

The cat, bless her, that deceptively adorable face belies a vindictive nature I would appreciate, were it not directed at me. I brushed her, and she vomited on the windowsill. I applied flea medication on the back of her neck, and she vomited from the top of the refrigerator in such a way that it streaked down the front and formed a puddle on the floor. I trimmed her claws, which isn’t the ordeal one would expect. She sat, completely docile, while I trimmed her nails with the nail clippers from my manicure set. I praised her, telling her that she was the best cat in the world, even if she had taken to vomiting on every surface in my apartment. The little bitch even purred.

Now I know why. She purred in satisfaction while she calculated her revenge, knowing that nothing she did would bring my wrath upon her, and knowing that she was completely above reproach in a household where she reigns supreme, where even the humans are her loyal subjects. I left the room for less than five minutes, but when I returned, she’d vomited in my bed. I stood there staring at the dark red sheets, a fairly large spot now darker from a juicy hairball, and wondered if it would be possible for me to fashion a noose for myself out of a purse-strap.