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

Monday, January 30, 2006

Jack Nasty

In a pivotal scene in Brokeback Mountain, Alba finally tells her ex-husband, Ennis, that she knew about his relationship with his FB (fishing buddy), Jack, all those years and never said anything.

She breaks down at the kitchen sink and seethes at Ennis. There are no words to describe what he did with his FB.

“Jack Twist. Jack Nasty…” she spits out in her rage.

And, nasty it was.

But, her timing made me wonder, Why here? Why in the kitchen?

Is the kitchen the room in one’s home where all the nastiness occurs?


While at my sister’s house, my BIL searches through a couple of drawers to look for a serrated knife to cut some slices of cake. What he pulls out is not a serrated knife.

This thing is three speeds and a couple of D batteries away from being obscene.

And, it’s in their kitchen.

“What the hell do you do in the kitchen? That is just nasty. Y’all is nas-tay,” I say as I wave my finger, making small circles in the air.

“What is that?” my father asks, adjusting his glasses.

“It’s a fish pounder,” replies my BIL.

“Exactly. Pound her…” I murmur.

My sister turns around from her post at the stove. “Pound her. Ooh, that’s a good one, T,” she giggles.

* *

Years ago, families would congregate around the kitchen. It was the hub of the house. It provided the main source of heat and comfort for members of the household. It was where you felt loved. It’s what made the house a home.

Today, the truth still holds, but doing everything in the kitchen just means something else.

Which reminds me, never eat anything off my sister’s kitchen counters.


Friday, January 27, 2006

R.S.V.P. (pt. 2)

It doesn’t matter if I have plans. They don’t count.

After a lot of discussing (albeit, it resembles fighting, only there isn’t the requisite slamming of doors), the consensus is I have to go because. Because I have to. Because the rest of the family is coming. Because they can’t think of another reason. It sounds like the explanation of an 8-year-old when you ask them why they swung the cat’s tail (cat still attached) around their head and flung it against the wall – repeatedly.

Here is the dilemma…

Should you not go and wait until your family comes back from the wedding so they can tell how embarrassed they were because they had to lie when people asked them why I didn’t come? Should you go and be miserable while your family nags you for hours on end on why you’re so fucking miserable?

Tough call.

With a pen in hand, I check off the appropriate box and fill out the rest of the R.S.V.P. The card is placed in the small return-stamp envelope and the adhesive strip is licked with my moist tongue. Casually, I place the card in the mail.

In a few days, the groom’s family will receive their response.

I hope they weren’t expecting me.

Wednesday, January 25, 2006

R.S.V.P. (pt. 1)

Except for junk mail and bills, I quite enjoy receiving all kinds of mail. Whether it be the newspaper, magazine, a letter or a card (these come much less frequently), I get a little giddy with anticipation. The feeling of pulling apart the plastic sheeting, or slicing though the paper with a knife, gets me high.

That is, unless there’s an invite included in the pile.

Knowing that I will go to an opening of an envelope, some people believe that gives them carte blanche to invite me to all sorts of events: sales, openings, closings, etc. What they don’t know is although I may be easy, that doesn’t mean I’m not picky.

Imagine my surprise when I find an invite to someone’s wedding in the mail. What’s surprising is I have no idea why this person invited me to their wedding.

I haven’t spoken to the groom in over 15 years (the last time I saw him was at my sister’s wedding and that was only because his parents forced my sister to invite him and his brother since they would be crushed if he didn’t come – la famiglia has to stick together). I have never met the bride and couldn’t pick her out from a police line-up. And, I have a closer relationship with my hairstylist (who, ironically, is his aunt) than I do with the groom.

Without really looking at the date or my schedule, I say I’m not coming.

Apparently, it doesn’t matter what I say, because my decision has already been made for me – by family. I’m going.


Monday, January 23, 2006

Steamy windows

It has been said that the eyes are windows to one’s soul.

If anyone has ever seen my windows up close, they know the large panes of glass are made of high-grade materials and expertly cut to ensure the light is perfectly reflected and refracted.

Unfortunately, there’s always a touch of schmutz on the glass, marring the view.

So, what happens when someone is able to see beyond the schmutz and gets to the core?

During a fundraising event, various names and faces pass by you as you are introduced to them and them to you. A shake of the hand, a mention of a name, a nod of the head, a little smile, and you’re onto the next person in line.

This time is different.

While sitting at one of the tables, I’m asked to come over and meet several people of a specific organization. Within this group, I am introduced to someone.

When our hands clasp, our eye contact incites something inside me. A feeling of warmth beings at the back of my retinas, flows through nerve endings, up my head to my brain, and down my neck, past my chest to my gut. The warmth gets hotter. The heat is like lava, burning though me.

Internally, my windows steam up.

This set of eyes connects with me, knows me, wants me, and ultimately, scares me.

Then, I look away because I don't want them seeing what I knew is already there. I am a little uncomfortable with myself, in my own skin, but it isn’t reflected in my professional demeanour.

The hand-clasp releases and I am introduced to the next person. Nothing is felt. No warmth, no heat, no lava.

The temperature drops to normal.

The windows aren’t steamy, anymore.

Friday, January 20, 2006


To flirt is to “show sexual interest in (a person) without any serious intent” as per the definition in the Canadian Oxford Dictionary.

Really. No, really?

Shouldn’t the definition include anything about showing interest with the desire of wanting more, uh, interest?

It doesn’t mean it has to be sexual. But, don’t get me wrong. Believe me, I’ve compromised my virtue many a time to get my Blizzard topped off.

And, what exactly is "showing interest"?

Is it smouldering eye contact, whispering seductive words, whipped cream and a set of handcuffs?

Sorry, just reminiscing about the Dairy Queen thing, again…

Personally, I’ve been on the giving and receiving end. Sometimes it’s so blatantly obvious that you need a tissue afterwards to clean yourself up, and other times you’re so oblivious that you require orange pylons and a traffic controller to give you a sense of direction.

If only things were simple.

Which reminds me, how you doin’?

Wednesday, January 18, 2006

Peer pressure is a bitch

When succumbing to peer pressure, many feel like the fat and socially awkward kid in high school that would do anything to fit in with the “in” crowd. They’re desperate for the attention and crave the need to belong to the popular clique.

But, unlike so many teens, I felt indifferent to these people.

That, and I secretly knew I was better for following my own path, and not the one dictated by the future gaggle of fat and bitter soccer moms and a group of dads with a penchant for the nastiest pussy they can find on the Net.

But, it comes as a surprise - a reversal of irony, per se - when I am tagged to complete a list of five (personal) habits/behaviours that others may find strange.

Me? You want me to join in? Shouldn’t I be asking to be part of your group?

Yeah. Sure. Whatever (there goes the indifference, again).

Without breaking into a sweat like a guilty whore in a Catholic church, I’m following through with this challenge dry as a bone because that whole religious thing doesn’t work on me.

A warning: Although these behaviours may be considered to be odd to some, to me, they make logical sense.

Why wouldn’t they make sense to me? I mean, I am talking about myself.

* *

I tidy up displays while shoplifting in any retail environment. It can entail rearranging and folding of clothing, to the straightening up of books on a table. I like organized and pretty, I don’t like messy and fugly.

I walk with my mouth slightly open. Since my lips are full (no collagen here, folks), it looks like I’m pouting, but the truth is I can’t breathe through my nose because of my allergies.

I pick at the underside of my nails because I hate to see anything dark underneath my perfect manicure. Why spend all that time on something just to muck it all up with a load of crap?

I can't sit with both feet on the floor. One of my legs has to be crossed, or placed under my bum (sometimes both, so it appears that I’m kneeling in the chair). I can’t explain it and I won’t even bother.

I don't like to wear underwear, unless it's cold outside (frostbite - owie) or I'm at work (there is no binder or briefcase large enough to hide any form of enthusism). My friends are so lucky that I'm not a nudist...

* *

So, to continue with the peer pressure reversal, I have to select five others to complete the same challenge (it's the rules).

But, with this being me, I won’t.

Just add a comment on what you think others might consider being a bad habit. Come on, you can do it. You want people to like you, don’t you?

There you go. It wasn’t that bad, now was it?

You see? Peer pressure is a bitch.

Monday, January 16, 2006


There are quite a few things that make no sense to me. Acid-washed, high-waisted, tapered jeans. Super-sizing your meal and ordering a diet Coke. Paris Hilton.

The term menopause is also on that list.

First off, why is a term that applies to women called menopause? Men aren't on the receiving end. And, if menopause deals with the halting of estrogen production (rendering women unable to reproduce naturally – the major sex-related difference between the genders) is it really a pause? Technically, shouldn’t it be a stop?


Second, why is the male version of this called andropause? Andropause sounds like something that should be applied to androgynous people – like David Bowie during his Ziggy Stardust phase.

The term menostop isn’t applicable since men don’t stop being men due to the fact there is no halt in the production of testosterone (which allows them to be fertile until they die). This is one reason why rich old coots are verile enough to get married to women old enough to be their great, great, great granddaughters. They can still pass on their genes before they pass on.

But, shouldn’t men actually stop? Let them get sterile past a certain age. Allow the plumbing to work, but let the fluids run clean, not all cloudy like pre-Brita filtered water.

They shouldn’t be able to produce if women aren’t. Shouldn’t there be a sense of equality between the sexes, especially when you’re dealing with sex?

Who wants to be a 75-year-old parent to a newborn? You’ll miss so many firsts: birthday, steps, words, day of school, etc. And, I doubt children will be excited about going to the hospital to visit mommy and daddy when they’re hooked-up to a ventilator and drugged-out on pain killers.

Maybe that’s just me.

But, knowing my luck, I’ll end up having a litter of kids I never wanted, anyway…

Friday, January 13, 2006

The sexiest baby in the world

The news story heard around the world spread like the bird flu on crack. It wasn't about the war. It wasn't about the energy crisis. It wasn't even about anything relevant.

But, it was sexy.

The sexiest unofficial couple in the world announced they were officially becoming the sexiest parents in the world.

And, the world takes a collective sigh of disgust.

It's not fair.

Why should the sexy ones shack-up with each other? Shouldn't there be balance in the world? At least one of these two should be average-looking. Not too long ago, Brad was married to Jennifer Aniston (guess which one is the fugly one) and Angelina was married to Billy Bob Thorton (no guessing here).

If Brad had a kid with Jennifer Aniston, you know there would be a chance the kid would turn out a bit horse-faced like its mother (come on, look at the friggin' schnoz on her).

If Angelina had a kid with Billy Bob Thorton, you know there would be a chance the kid would come out covered in tattoos and smoking a cigarette (that would certainly cause some serious ooh-hoo burns during labour).

It won't matter, anyhow. This kid will only have one responsibility in life: to look hot. It doesn't need brains or talent since people don't care. Fuck, just look at its parents.

But, you never know.

God does have a twisted sense of humour. He can be a sick fuck, you know.

So, to the impending child, I say this: If you're not the sexiest baby in the world, your parents can always say you're adopted.

Tuesday, January 10, 2006

Give me that fuckin' piece of cake

Not even Jack Bauer - or Father Time, for that matter - could've stopped the inevitable.

Do me a favour, and just don't sing that song... you have to pay royalties.

My destiny of wearing a flowered muu-muu, chomping away on a box of bonbons and owning a dozen cats is about to be fulfilled.

Pass me a slice of cake. A bigger one. Bigger. No, bigger, damnit.

Who the fuck cares if I get fat? It's not like anyone thinks I'm hot.

It's my fucking birthday, so give it... give me that fuckin' piece of cake.

Monday, January 09, 2006


Just like Keifer Sutherland tries to save the world as his character, Jack Bauer, races against the ticking clock, I, too, am running against time.

Only this time, there aren’t any terrorists, threats of nuclear warfare, or promises of a crappier-tasting Diet Coke.

It’s another kind of Armageddon - my birthday.


Although the world won’t be coming to an end, my world, on the other hand, is about to collapse onto itself.

When I was younger (those were the days), I used to love this day. It was a day where you’d be celebrated with love and affection – not to mention gifts – for growing older and becoming a man.

Not anymore.

The older I got, things started to change. The overwhelming feelings of love and affection turned into ritualistic annoying and irritating rants on why I wasn’t doing this and why I didn't do that.

If I have to hear, “Do you know that so and so just got an amazing job that pays a zillion dollars a week… And, did you hear about so and so just bought an 18 bedroom palace…? Aren’t they a few years younger than you…?” one more time, I pull out the knife from my back and repeatedly run into it to stop me from listening to you.

Also, there are a slew of responsibilities that come along with the package of becoming a man. But, no one ever told me this package didn’t include instructions. Even if they screwed up the English points, I could still read the French ones. Fuck, I’d even learn Mandarin if it would help me out.


Now that I am not 16 going on 17, anymore, I know something terrible has to happen. No longer can I settle on my naïveté and youth (I sold them a while ago to pay for my VISA bill), intelligence and quick wit (I’ve learned that the idiots who run corporations don’t like smart people with senses of humour – they’re threats), or ambition and drive (I will still sell you out if it gets me one notch up the ladder).

So, it’s up to me to be the hero. Stop the clock. Stop this event from happening. Stop my world from coming to an end.

Fuck the candles on the cake.

Does anyone have any dynamite?


Friday, January 06, 2006

Return to sender

Recently, someone posted a comment on my site on what is the correct reaction after receiving a gift that isn’t wanted: Should you grin and bear it, or should you be the “bad guy” and ask for an exchange?

Personally, I’m the sort of person that never asks for anything. It makes my life easier since I don’t have to confront anyone with those uncomfortable talks that start with you saying, “Thanks, but…” and end with them yelling, “Next time, I won’t get you anything!”

When I do ask for something, it’s because I want it badly. I tell whoever is purchasing the gift what I want, the location of the store (with several alternatives), where they can locate it in the store (exact directions), and the cost (including tax).

Nice and easy!

But, with the irony that surrounds me in my daily existence on this planet we call earth (or is it hell?), things never roll smoothly, and a wrench must be thrown into the cog.

Without going into too much detail (yes, I do see the irony of me mentioning it here, and if you want to make something of it, get your own friggin' site), someone has offered me something that I didn’t ask for.

Quite frankly, it’s amazing, but it’s something I don’t want.

It’s the equivalent of the perfect pair of slacks that require no washing and ironing, make me look five pounds thinner (shut up for those who know how much I weigh) and make my ass perkier than Hilary Duff after chugging a six-pack of Red Bulls.

But, they’re radioactive.

Do you accept something that you really don’t want, but accept for fear of negative reprisals? Do you decline something that may be of (eventual) service to you, and that you could grow to love?

Either way, it’s a draw. There is no winner or loser.


I’d rather not get offered anything. It would make my life so much simpler.

Wednesday, January 04, 2006

Drake Hogestyn is a shitty actor

Intrigue, conflict and suspense are some of the elements required for drama. Soap operas have mastered the art of drama – some better than others (General Hospital rings a bell, time and time again).

Unfortunately, some haven’t mastered the art of acting.

There are some soap operas whose actors are uniformly excellent at portraying a range of emotions, while breathing some life to a character. There are varying degrees to this: There is the “real” type of acting (David Canary) and the “soap opera” type of acting (Susan Lucci), sometimes in the same soap opera - All My Children.

Other times, there are people who you want to boo off your television monitor. They aren’t bad characters. They’re bad actors.

Exhibit A: Drake Hogestyn from Days Of Our Lives.

He takes shitty acting to another level. His plateau peaks the exact moment before he enters a room. It’s so terrible, viewers can practically smell the crap emanating from their TV.

You’d think after being in the same role for over 20 years, he would’ve learned something by now.

Apparently, he hasn’t.

The man has one reaction to everything he says or does. I haven’t seen so much petrified wood since being in the stuck at my cousin’s cottage in the boonies.

For those who watch the show know what I’m talking about.

The way he raises his eyebrow, twists his head sideways, tilts his head to the right, arches one eyebrow (ARGH! that fucking eyebrow!) and the stupid way he mutters “Doc” to Deidre Hall whenever there’s nothing else to say.

Thankfully, I’m not getting into the beaver pelt on his head that he considers hair. That’s another pile I’m saving for a rainy day.

What’s worse, is he has played three (count ‘em, one, two, three) versions of the same character! Roman Brady. John Black. Some other guy who hangs around since the writers have no idea what to do with him. And they’re always Drake Hogestyn!

Fuck, dude. What is up with that?

Let’s hope that when you’re character is finally dead, you’ll be able to bring some life to the role.

Until then, it’s craptacular acting, five days a week, on NBC.

And, speaking of NBC, don’t get me started on Passions

Sunday, January 01, 2006

Suck it

The beginning of a new year comes with a slew of resolutions that no one can comply with. It’s like a set of rules that are obscenely obscure; break them, and next thing you know, you’ve become the prison bitch to some guy named Bubba.

Instead of telling myself that I’ll be a better person (how can you improve on perfection?) or a nicer person (even I can’t say that out loud without having a good laugh), I’ve decided to simplify.

This year I only have one resolution.

I’ve decided to stop counting.

Of course, my accountant will hate me for it, but I know it’s something I can accomplish with a little bit of effort and a lot of denial.

Why denial?

Part one comes on January 10. Part two is inextricably linked with part one (and let’s say that part two’s number is a lot larger than part one’s).

But, it’s not the actual number that I’m (somewhat) iffy about, it’s the emotional and psychological baggage I have to carry with me. Will people remember? Will they call? Will they care? Will they surprise you with something? Will they surprise you with anything, at all?

On and on…

On the bright side, there is one thing I won’t have to worry about: I’ve stopped counting.

No more numbers.

And, if you think my new years’ resolution is stupid, well then, you can suck it.

You see? The resolution of being a nicer person doesn't work.