BITCH! BITCH!

If you live in San Francisco, it is best to have an apartment mate to share expenses. And, for many rational people, it is a good idea to choose a small Cantonese woman, because they occupy far less space, and it is easier to move around cramped quarters. But it is not entirely ideal, as they can be surprisingly adept at both snark and insult.

The discussion this morning, when she finally emerged from her bedroom for her breakfast and a hot beverage, dealt with "Pregnant Barbie". Go ahead, use 'image search'. My eyeballs are seared. I'm now wondering what horrid things like that teach young girls about reproduction.
It's staggering.

This, naturally, leads to the toy-concept "interchangeable plastic foetuses". So that interracialism is given a nod. Little black, brown, and yellow babies, with their pointy plastic arses pointing into the sternum of the blonde spazzbrain doll. Which would upset folks in Mississippi and Texas.
"Your people, boy" in her words.

Good thing I'm already on my third cup of coffee.
I think I'm awake enough for this.


Afterwards while we were in the kitchen cleaning our utensils, we discussed bathroom needs. Who goes first, and how fast can you be. Now, being a middle-aged white man living with a non-smoker, naturally I prefer to take my own sweet time in there, before emerging fresh as a daisy nearly an hour later. So I explained "think of me as an old lady trying to give birth to a rhinoceros, or sumpin'." A vibrant mental image to match the various "Pregnant Barbie" dolls on the internet. Graphic visual metaphor.
The bathroom in the morning means quiet time, and a cigar.
A man must contemplate deep things in there.
It cannot be rushed.

First she informed me that for several years I've already been an old lady.
Or at least, she's thought of me like that.

I chased her out by mentioning that I was going to light up, which is why the kitchen window was wide open.

Moments later, she stuck her head back in to flippantly remark that I've been an old lady for fifty years.



Ten minutes afterwards she was using a stuffed animal to guilt-trip me about smoking. Apparently, if the small creatures end up smelling like tobacco fumes, they'll end up at the curb, with no one wanting to adopt them.
It will be heartbreaking. And all my fault.
Bucky Beaver weeps.



Yeah, okay, I feel very sorry for lighting up in the kitchen near the wide open window now. But I'm certainly going to do it again, just more circumspectly, like when she isn't in. And, despite her unkind old lady remarks, I need to stress that I am still young and spry.

It's a holiday, and she's off today. So I'll probably end up in Chinatown by myself for much of the afternoon, because everybody there has friends and relatives who still smoke -- heck, many of them actually are those friends and relatives who still smoke -- and no one objects to a fellow wandering around with a pipe in his mouth.

Holidays mean either porkchops, rice, and soup, or baked Portuguese chicken rice. Both with hot Hong Kong milk tea.
Haven't decided which yet.


I am NOT an old lady.




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