I don't know, either.

I Simply Cannot Meet You On The Canadian Side Of Niagara Falls.

Listen, I think I've been MORE than accommodating when it comes to your requests and needs in regards to making this relationship work.

I've done things I never thought I'd do for myself, let alone for another human being, over the span of these past few months. Looking back on everything, it's a little shocking, in fact. There's been blood. There's been sweat. And there would have been tears, if I hadn't have had that highly involved tear duct removal surgery you so vehemently suggested at the start of our courtship. You've pushed me to my limits, and at every step of the way, I allowed those limits to be nudged a little further back, all for you. So, that being said, let me make this perfectly, absolutely, beyond-a-shadow-of-a-doubt clear: I simply cannot meet you on the Canadian side of Niagara Falls.

When you said you wanted to go see Bruce Springsteen in concert with me, but that you needed to sit four rows behind me so that you could properly observe how I act in the presence of an icon, I said fine. Keep in mind, I had told you that I do not particularly enjoy events that feature assigned seating or large group activities that do not involve some sort of prize that can be won and/or bartered for. Most of all, I had specifically told you that I do not like Bruce Springsteen. I used to tell people that I wasn't a huge fan, but that I did like that one song by him, "Hurts So Good." Then I found out that that song is actually sung by John Mellencamp, and that I didn't actually like ANY of Bruce Springsteen's music. But, nevertheless, I went, because I knew it was important to you. Did I enjoy myself? Not one bit. It was hot, it was loud, and I was forced to hold some large man from New Jersey's "sweat towel" for a good portion of the evening. And he didn't even play "Hurts So Good."

When you asked me to take a CPR certification course, not so that I would be able to save another human being’s life, but rather to confirm that I did not have any sort of strange, latent mannequin fetish because you “had been burned before,” I said fine. A big fat waste of a Saturday afternoon that was. All I can remember thinking was, “I canceled brunch plans for THIS?” It wouldn’t have even been so bad had we not been partnered up at the beginning of the SIX hour class. Lucky me, I got to do the whole thing with some Long Island kindergarten teacher who insisted on asking question after question about me and what I do and where I got my boots and what did I mean by saying her husband couldn’t be blamed for leaving once the baby weight didn’t come off. It’s sick, really, how some people use a nice, well-intentioned activity just to talk the ears off of innocent people. But I stayed there, all six, long, compression-filled hours, because I knew you wanted me to. And did you even ask me how it went when I came over that night? Nope! You just said, “Pool needs cleaning,” and went right back to stringing your cello.

When you told me that you wanted me to meet your parents, but that you didn’t want to introduce me to them, but rather, to have me assume a position as a waitress at their favorite local Cracker Barrel and get to know them through the development of a warm, tender client-patron relationship with them, I said fine. Every Friday night, they would saunter in at the cool dining hour of 5:30 PM, and I would serve them, under the alias of “Racquel.” In retrospect, it was a bit cliché of me, “Racquel the Cracker Barrel waitress,” but what could I do? You threw me into the situation before I knew which end was up. Nevertheless, your parents were absolute horrors. Your father with his blatant, reckless abuse of the free refills policy and your mother with her never-ending critique of Cracker Barrel décor. And don’t even get me started with their inability to remember the specials. Every time I came back with another Diet IBC, it was “Now, was there a WHITE fish on those specials you have?” But I kept up with it, because I knew you wanted me to get to know your parents without them ever getting to know me. Well, you and your parents can just kiss Racquel the Cracker Barrel waitress goodbye, because I’m putting her to bed. I don’t care how many embroidered souvenir pillows they’re paying me in.

Let the record state that I have really, truly bent over backwards for you. And I mean that both figuratively and literally, because let us not forget how you demanded I play Keanu Reeves in your regional theater production of The Matrix. And now, even after all this, after I have more than proven myself to you, you still come to me with your demands. Well, I’m sorry, buddy, but this well has dried up (again, I have been rendered physically unable to cry.) Do you get it? The buck stops here, the jig is up, the cheesecake stays in the glass display, whatever. Point is, I simply cannot meet you on the Canadian side of Niagara Falls.

I am willing, however, to take a trip to the American side of Niagara Falls. If you so desire, you may remain on your side, and when I arrive, I will make myself known to you with a hearty wave. Perhaps we can work things out from there. Let me know. I’ll be wearing that Hazmat suit you like me to wear on Tuesdays.