I'm not your bitch, don't hang your shit on me.

Tuesday, February 10, 2015

Tenth anniversary

Having a full schedule means some things get put on the back burner.  That's not to say they're not important, but not important at that time.  Work will always come first, followed by errands, family and friends, social life and then whatever I write into my planner (who needs sleep?).

So, it didn't come as a surprise that this site wasn't updated as often as it should've been.  What did come as a surprise was how long I've been doing it.

Scrolling back through the archives, I see the first publishing year.  Shit, it's the 10th anniversary.  Ten years old.  A full decade.  Since this isn't a news platform that requires multiple posts a day, that's a long time.

I wish I had the time to post more regularly, but since I already write a lot for my career (I can see you rolling your eyes when you read that term), I sometimes think, What can I say that will be interesting and intelligent without repeating the same things as years past?  Then my brain starts to hurt, I grab a tumbler with Scotch and then I zone out in front of the TV.

Personal websites are like plants: if you don't take care of them and give them the attention they need, they'll wither and die.  Pretty gruesome way of putting it.

And with that note of positivity, let's see if Human Nature makes it to #11.

Monday, August 18, 2014

Crossfit sleepwalking

"The moment I wake up..."

There are some days when I roll out of the coffin that I feel like slipping back into it.  It isn't because I had a bad night sleep.  The reason is that my body is in pain.  I don't know why this is.

Of course, the simplest answer is that I'm getting older.  Not bloody likely.  Everyone gets older.

The not so simple answer is figuring out, through a process of elimination, what I did to get to this state.  Maybe I slept in a bad position.  Maybe I didn't have enough fluids/water before going to sleep.  Maybe all those years of "working out" had finally caught up.

Then I think I have the answer:  I crossfit sleepwalk.  For those who don't know what crossfit is, it's an intense workout for really crazy people who think they're getting in shape while continuously harming themselves.  Feel the burn, right?  It's more like, feel the injuries.

And since I sleep so soundly, I wouldn't be surprised if this did happen.  It could be possible another "person" wakes up after the other dozes off.  The pains could be explained by that.  Absolutely.  'Cause it sure ain't getting older.

Monday, June 16, 2014

When are you getting married?

Going to weddings is always a two-sided blessing.  One, you get to partake in a lovely ceremony of a bride and groom (or bride/bride, groom/groom), promising to devote their lives to one another.  Two, you get to be part of an unfunny joke for the rest of the day/night.

"So when are you getting married?" I get asked a few times.

"I don't plan on getting married any time soon," is my proverbial reply.

"Aww," is said with a tilting of the head and an occasional hand patting.  "Don't worry, it'll happen... someday."

And from there, the word quickly spreads amongst the guests and I become the "sad case" of the event.  I never understood the reasoning behind this.  You can have all the money and success in the world, but if you're not married, you're suddenly worthless.  Why?  They still believe if you don't lock it down is because there's "something wrong with you," as if there's a pox on your personality.  I've got people in my life; I'm just not married to them.
God forbid they didn't get my original answer when people asked my singleton's status.  "I just don't believe in marriage."  Now, that would've been a killer.  Literally.  Some little old lady would probably drop dead if she heard me say that aloud.

Fuck that.  From now on my choice will either be to lie about my single/marriage status to shut people up or simply stop attending weddings altogether.  It's just not worth the headache.

Wednesday, April 02, 2014

Package pants

The pants are hanging on one of the racks near the check out counter, by the back of the store. I’ve seen them there before and didn’t try them on because I didn’t have the time (or the patience) since H&M is always full of people and it’s hard to get a change room when they’re busy. Now, I do. I walk over to the rack and start to move the hangers so I can get a better look at the pants.

They’re made of brown tweed with black flecks. The fabric is wool and doesn’t feel cheap and flimsy. Also, they’re lined, which eliminates the scratchy feeling associated with many wool fibres. They’re flat front, with a straight leg, and a small cuff on the bottom. Let’s hope they look as good on me as they do on the hanger.

The tags are mostly hidden, or missing, from the pants, so I’m digging inside the waistband to look for the sizes. Success! There are small sizes, which is uncommon since most stores carry mid-to-large sizes because they sell more of them. I pull out a 30 and 31 (they don’t have any 28s) and make my way towards the change rooms.

The line-up isn’t excessively long at this time of day, probably because most of the tweens and teens are still in school. But, for some reason, the shoppers insist on bringing 10 different articles of clothing into the room at one time. I don’t understand why since they never buy anything and always use the insipid excuse of “nothing fits” when they throw their fashion rejects to the change room attendant.

By the time I get to the front of the line, both the attendant and I look exhausted (and a tad irritated). Out of a feeling of camaraderie, he asks me how many pairs I have slung over my right arm and ushers me into the disable change room. There are immediate stares from some of the other shoppers, but I don’t care. I thank him and give him a smile.

Once inside the rather spacious room, I throw off my mitchel onto the wooden bench, and undo the top button of my jeans. I walk towards the pants, hung up on the brushed silver knobs and look for the 31. It’s always a good idea to try on the larger size if you know they’ll be too large – instant boost of self-confidence.

After the shoes are slipped off my feet and the jeans peeled off my legs, I take the pants off the hanger and try them on. Before doing a little turn in front of the three-sided mirror, I know they’re too large. I don’t even bother slipping on my shoes. It’s not that they look terrible, but I can stick my hand down my pants and still have room for hard-cover book.

Off go the 31s and on go the 30s.

When I slip on the other pair of pants, the first thing I notice is they’re slimmer. Not by much, but it is noticeable. After pulling up the zipper and latching the clip, I look up at the mirror, and pull my shirt up to see the waistband. They fit quite well on my waist. The tweedy wool has a nice weight and falls nicely, with a little break over my shoe.

As I take a few steps towards the mirror I do a little turn. Even my butt looks good. Normally, designers tend to cut pants with too much fabric, as if every man is carrying a wide load. H&M know their customers are more body-conscious and wouldn’t approve of being able to insert a watermelon in their backside.

But, there’s something wrong with the pants when I turn around. It’s a bump, like a distinct fold. I brush my hand down the fabric and realize what it is. I begin to laugh. The sound echoes and bounces off the walls and high ceilings of the change room.

“Oh my God. Is that what I think it is?!” I brush the fabric once more to make sure and begin to laugh again.

“I can’t wear these out in public. They’re indecent!”

I turn around in front of the mirror a few more times, agape at the reflection.

“If the world didn’t know my religion then, they sure as hell do now.”

It’s not that the pants look awful. Quite the opposite. They look really good on me, as if they were custom-made. The only problem is they show my malehood to the extend that I should be walking around with a large, black bar in front of my crotch. They’re package pants.

A few more turns in front of the mirror justfies my answer: I can’t buy these pants. If I did, I couldn’t wear them in public.

The shoes are unslipped, I unlatch the clip, undo the zipper, and pull off the pants. I hang both of them up on their hangers, as they were before (working in retail for years makes me appreciate all the work that goes into presenting the product). My jeans come back on as well as my shoes. I throw on my mitchel, pick up the pants on the hooks, and walk out of the change room.

“So, how were the pants?” asks the attendant.

“They didn’t fit,” I say, knowing they fit too well.

I pass off the two hangers to him and he smiles. He knows I must’ve worked in retail before because they’re perfectly hung and folded on the clips.

To be honest, I do like the pants. Very much, so. But, I don’t know if I’d be comfortable telling everyone that I was a Catholic even without opening my mouth.

Wednesday, March 12, 2014

Blonde ballerina

Up in my niece’s bedroom, both she and I are sitting on the floor reading a book. The pages are filled mostly with simple images of common objects, colours, numbers, etc. As I turn a page, I point to an object and see how she answers. If she doesn’t know, I say the name and see if she can repeat it after me.

When we come to a page with people, she immediately points to a woman and says, “Mama.”

“Good,” I say.

She points to a male figure and says, “Daddy.”

“Yes, daddy.” I smooth her hair to the side.

Then, she points to an image of a blonde ballerina and says, “Uncle.”

“No, B. That’s not Uncle,” I say as I search for a more appropriate image.

“Uncle,” says my niece as she points to the ballerina, again.

“No, that’s not Uncle. Here,” I point to a picture of a young male, “that’s Uncle.”

She nods her head in disagreement. “Uncle,” she points to the ballerina again.

Can it be that she thinks of me as a blonde ballerina?

Later on in the day, my sister is cleaning up her office and I approach her, the confusion about the ballerina still on my mind.

“In that picture book, why is it that she points to the ballerina when she’s describing me?” I ask her about my niece.

“You know, I’ve noticed that, too.”

“I mean, I don’t look like a blonde ballerina,” I say as I move my hands up and down my torso. Also, I don’t walk around in tights and anything made of crinoline.

“But, she also points to a few other images and says they’re you. So, I guess she thinks all young people are the same as you.”

That’s a relief. Sort of.

As her cognitive thought develops, she’ll understand that people come in all shapes, sizes and colours. No one can embody all of those descriptions. No can one can be everything for everybody; man, woman, or child. Ballerina, or no ballerina.

And, just to avoid any further confusion, I’ll stay far away from anything made of tulle for the near future.

Monday, February 24, 2014

Hypocritical hooker

I'm on a coffee date with K and it's going well.  There aren't fireworks but there's the occasional spark between us.  We talk back and forth about nothing in particular then I ask him about his dating experiences over the past little while.

The response is surprising.  I get this rant about how everyone always wants to have sex with him because he's so desirable (his description, not mine).  He's attractive, but no supermodel.  In fact, for a personal trainer, he needs to hit the weights a little harder while running on the treadmill to burn off those excess carb calories.

After the date, I'm scanning the local weekly paper (I read them from back to front) and notice some sex/adult ads.  One of them is a "men's spa" that offers relaxation and... release.  Below the name of the business are a series of headless torsos and one looks very familiar.  It's K.  How do I know this?  Not only does he have this photo online, but the "stage name" used is his last name.

Interesting.  The guy who complains about people wanting him for his sex is actually a sex worker.  He gets paid to be intimate with men, yet he has an issue when guys (on the street, for example) treat him as if he's an object of desire.  Hypocrite.  And idiot.

Monday, February 10, 2014

Nine frickin' years old

Cannot believe it's been nine (nine!) years since I started writing on this site.  It feels like only yesterday (at least, to me - damn this dementia) that I needed a creative outlet for my writing that would catapult me into worldwide fame, funding my delusions of glitz and grandeur, all the while being able to connect to (future) friends and faceless commenters.

And, like always, I was right.  The web is a world-wide thing, I'm waiting for the cheque to clear, and people are still writing nasty things without knowing hardly anything about me (although many think they know it all).

Here's to another eight?  At least another two.  What do you get for a 10 year anniversary, anyhow?