Me... (pt. 1)

You think you know someone…

That is a phrase used by those who are surprised when someone they think they know does or says something unexpected.

Personally, I try to make things perfectly clear so as not to confuse people. And, that is what I am going to do with a list of 100 things about me. Keep in mind, this is only a partial (and incomplete) list; sort of a best-of compilation of greatest hits.

For those who think they know me, read on.

For those who don’t know me, read on.

For those who have no idea why they’re reading this, it’s because you’re already psychologically invested in it (kind of like those food ladies at Costco who fry up those little pieces of crap on a cracker and guilt you into buying two boxes when all you were looking for was a jumbo pack of toilet paper).

Here goes nothing.

1. Is a contradiction of terms
2. Is either loved or loathed
3. Finds that those who love him are tolerant of his behaviour
4. Finds that those who loathe him don’t give him a chance to love him
5. Has no time for those who loathe him
6. Is (devastatingly) shy with a big mouth
7. Is reserved with a dirty mind
8. Likes to push the envelope
9. Enjoys provoking people
10. Likes to watch others
11. Does not like to participate
12. Leaves people guessing
13. Is sick of being misunderstood
14. Gets defensive when people misunderstand and misconstrue his sayings
15. Is a Roman Catholic
16. Was glad he never became an alter boy (wipes sweat off brow)
17. Loves taunting priests and teasing nuns, because...
18. Thinks it's a form of karmic retribution for torturing him when he was young
19. Prays each and every night, and...
20. Knows he’s going straight to hell, no pergatory

Moving violations

The words that I’ve been dreading for the past week have been made loud and clear. And, they couldn’t have come at a worse time: Steven, you’re moving to the other side of the office.

What are even more dreadful are the words that come after the first ones: You have to move, now.

It wasn’t too much of a surprise. I knew it was coming. There were whisperings in the hallways and offices for the past few weeks. And, since I have a supersonic ear, I heard every word.

Being a fighter - even in the most obvious of losing battles - I stand my ground. If they want me to move to Siberia, they will pay for it. Literally. Since moving time is not billable to clients, they will expense this out of their bottom line.

Opening one drawer after another, I meticulously remove every item and place it in a corresponding box and folder, then I walk over to the other side of the office and place it next to my new desk. I am nothing if not organized.

As I make my trek, back and forth, several co-workers give me looks of pity, shielded by plastic smiles. I know what they’re thinking. I’m not stupid. Some of them feel a little sad that I’m moving away (they can’t rely on me to do their crap work). Others are elated that I won’t be working with them, anymore (only I’m the one who is partying inside).

Feeling embarrassed would be par for the course, but I don't show it. With my head held high, I carry on until all of my drawers are empty and all of their contents are in their new (temporary) location.

The in-house IT man passes by my (soon to be former) desk and asks me whether I want my old hard drive, or if I can just use the new computer.

“No, I want my computer. I also want my monitor.”

“Don’t you want the new ones?”

“No. I have a few things on my hard drive that make it easier for me to do certain things, and I don’t want to move them around on the server, then resave them on my new computer. And, I like my monitor. It’s bigger than the other one." I am adamant. "No. I want my old ones.”

“Anything else?” he's such a nice guy. He knows this is hurting me.

“I also want to take my keyboard, my mouse and my phone," I reply as I point to every item. "I want it all at my new desk.” Yes, I’m being petulant. No, I don’t deserve second guessing. Yes, I’m being difficult. No, I don’t deserve third-class treatment.

He sighs as he starts to take apart the old computer.

While the IT man moves my equipment, piece by piece, I’m relegated to picking up a j-cloth and some Fantastik to clean up the mess the previous person left behind. Such a mess it was that there are still remnants of them.

Did I mention they moved 20 feet away and left behind ½ of their shit on my (soon to be new) desk? Uh-huh. Yeah, exactly.

Taking my sweet-ass time, the desk is spotless and smelling of lemon. All of my previous paraphernalia is in its new drawers.

When all is done, I sit down at my chair (which I brought from my former desk - again, I ain't stupid) and I sigh.

"Welcome to your new desk!" a few of my co-workers say as they pass by me. "We're happy you could join us." They're being nice in this transitory period. What's offputting (to me) is they mean every word.

While my other co-workers were too happy to see me go, these co-workers welcome me with open arms.

Maybe it isn't so hard to move to Siberia. As long as you have someone who makes you feel welcome.

Crossing the line

What exactly constitutes crossing the line? What is the moment that goes from permissible to unacceptable? And, more important, what is the line? Does it mean the same to everyone?

Whether it be something said on the phone, written in an e-mail, or acted in public, there will be a time when someone will not only dip their toe in the water, but take a dive off the deep end.

I’ve certainly been in the situation where someone has crossed the line – usually, me. But, it’s others who think I went "too far." I don’t consider it crossing the line when it doesn’t bother anyone. Correction, when it doesn’t bother anyone but those who are around me.

Unfortunately, even in today’s world, there are those who own chastity belts of the mind, who wear blinders to protect them from unappealing sights, who stuff their ears with wads of cotton so as not to hear shocking words.

Those people should be shipped to Mormon country.

There should be no need to self-censor one’s self. Who cares if you have to apologize for your behaviour? You're human, damnit.

There will be a day when something will be said or done, and when that day comes, they’ll have no idea how to handle the situation. That day can come this year, this month, or even today.

Which reminds me, I’m also typing with only one hand…

Shot in the ass

Those little cupids had a hard time spreading the word on Valentine's Day. Their chubby little bodies are a bit too heavy for those tiny wings to carry all that excess poundage when flying around the world, shooting unsuspecting people in the butt with arrows.

So, in order to spread the word (and to shoot the occasional bystander in the ass), I thought it would be a good idea to lend them a hand.

I mean, who doesn't want some lovin' on Valentine's Day?

Apparently, not everyone.

With a few clicks of the mouse and the occasional dial of a phone number, I spread some love around like a cheap hooker who has to has to work it because her rent was due. The reactions were mixed. Someone asked me who the hell I was, another person rolled their eyes over the phone, and (strangely enough) I had someone who blessed me.

And, I wasn't sneezing.

But, within those oddities, there were a few grateful (and pleasantly surprised) people. It took so little to make them feel loved.

In all honesty, I did have to work the pavement, though.

But, the rent was paid in full, and the johns were satisfied.

Old dog, new trick

Since it’s Valentine’s Day, I decide it’s best to spread a little of myself around to those in need of a loving pick me up. I like to give. Others like to receive. It’s win-win.

In between meetings, I call my mother to wish her a Happy Valentine’s day.

"Hi, Ma. Happy Valentine's Day," I say when she answers after the fourth ring.

"Oh, thank you."

"I bet dad didn't even call you today, right?"

“Do you know your father called me this morning to wish me a Happy Valentine’s Day?” She’s surprised.

“Dad? You mean my dad?” I’m confused. My father doesn’t have a romantic bone in his body. No, that bone doesn’t count.

“Yes. He was all giddy that he remembered…” her voice trails off.

Whoa. What?

My father never gave my mother a Valentine’s card (or a birthday one, for that matter), so I am a little taken aback that he put some effort into today’s phone call. Maybe this old dog has learned a new trick.

“Of course, your sister was listening to the phone call," she begins to laugh. "She said the reason why he’s being sweet is because he probably bought something expensive and wants to soften the blow by being nice to me.”

Ok, now I understand why he called my mother to wish her a HVD.

Human nature has taught us it is better to give than to receive. My father, on the other hand, has twisted this saying to his advantage. He will give to others, and then he will give to himself. Talk about win-win.

Apparently, this new trick was learned by a sly dog.

Valentine's Day - a brief history

Once upon a time, a boy had a crush on a girl. She liked him, too. They made a very cute couple.

Since it was almost Valentine’s Day, the boy decided to find the perfect gift for his perfect girl.

He bought a white, plush teddy bear, a heart-shaped box of chocolates, and a card that wasn’t too saccharine or overly romantic.

He brought the gift to class on Valentine’s Day to surprise her, but she didn’t go that day.

Maybe she's not feeling well, he thought. He called her and the machine answered.

He brought the gift to class a few days later, and much to his surprise, she didn’t go that day, either.

Maybe something is wrong, he thought. He called her, again, and the machine answered.

Since he cared for her, he was worried.

Finally, she showed up in class.

She said she had a few bad days and didn't want to go into details.

To lift her spirits, he told her he wanted to give her something afterwards.

Her mood changed. She was giddy with impatience.

Wanting her to like him, he presented her with the gift.

Here’s my heart, he thought.

Awww... That's so sweet, she said.

His spirits lifted.

She continues to say her boyfriend didn't give her anything this year as she unwrapped the package.

His spirits crashed.

In the months he knew her, she never mentioned a boyfriend. Not once.

She continued complaining about her boyfriend, all the while boy smiled and cried a little on the inside.

When she was done, he told her he was in a rush and would see her in class next week. In truth, he needed to get out of there because he didn't want to say or do something stupid.

The boy went headed for home. His pace quickened with every step, as did his pulse. He began to run. No matter how fast he went, he couldn't outrun the fact that she didn't feel the way he did about her.

His heart got cold on that day.

His heart felt worthless on that day.

His heart was broken on that day.

One year later

Today marks one year since Human Nature began.

And you thought it was around for longer than that.

With this particular passage of time, there have been ups and downs, highs and lows, smiles and frowns, friends and foes.

And, with each passing day, I am stronger and wiser... and a touch bitter - you can't win 'em all!

Miraculously, even with all of the drama, both the site and its owner haven't aged one day (in my dreams).

So, to those who have supported me, I thank you.

To those who exist only to be the bane of my existance, you'll be remembered in my book - Steven: The Miniseries (published by Randon House, 2008).

I don't heart you

Walking through the main doors of Wal-Mart, I am bombarded with the colour red. Shelves stocked with every permutation of cards, chocolates and miscellaneous lovey-dovey crap.

I love you. I heart you. I love you. I heart you.

This underhanded blackmail is the true meaning of love according to the marketing department of mega retailers.

They're telling the world if someone doesn't give you a card, a box of chocolates and a dozen roses, you're not loved.

Really?

What happens if someone doesn't show up at your door with these aforementioned affirmations of their affection? What then?

I tell my father about my experience and he says it's a man's responsibility to buy something for the love of his life - ironic since he never bought anything for my mother after almost 40 years of marriage - for Valentine's Day.

When I ask him what happens if "love" isn't waiting at the door, he responds with a shrug.

Clearly, my father is a romantic.

Although it would be nice to have someone offer me a little sumthin' sumthin' for Valentine's Day, I won't be sad if it doesn't happen. Believe me, there won't be a box of tissues and DVDs of sappy movies to keep me company.

Who cares if no one hearts me on Valentine's Day?

I don't heart you, either.

Crush on you

How did you know ‘cause I never told
But you found out I’ve got a crush on you
The words you read, my heart’s been displayed
You found out I’ve got a crush on you

Those lyrics are to a song first sung by The Jets (and later by – groan – Aaron Carter, of the illustrious musical family).

They exemplify what every person goes through when one begins to experience those feelings.

This song plays in my head whenever I fall in crush. Sadly, it's on auto-repeat. It's chronic. It happens with almost anyone who gives me the slightest bit of attention… or money.

A smile washes your face when you think of them, you jump over furniture when you’re expecting their call, you're giddy when you receive an e-mail from them, you act dumb when you’re near them, and you think everything they say or do is cute.

But, if I can't find something in particular because you moved my shit around, then it's so over.

God, I hate it when people do that.

God, I hate John Mayer

There is a list of people that bother me to the extent that I feel sick with any mention of their name, face or voice.

On that list is John Mayer.

Here is a man who has little talent, yet manages to achieve financial and critical success with his slew of albums, and wins several Grammy’s (including one for Song of the Year, I shit you not).

Here is a man who has the personality of a petrified log, yet manages to have legions of fans around the world because he can stand in front of a microphone and grumble a couple of words while strumming away - craptastically, I might add - on his guitar.

Here is a man who hasn't bought stock in the looks department, yet manages to have women (and probably a few men) thrown at him while resembling a basset hound with a mild case of Down Syndrome.

Jealous? No.

Envious? No.

Irritated? Abso-fuckin'-lutely.

And, if that’s not reason enough to hate him, he also fucked Jennifer Love Hewitt.

I rest my case.

Hard and happy

Yesterday, I Googled your name.

Yesterday, I wanted to forget you.

It was nowhere to be found.

It was as if you didn’t exist.

That made me hard.

That made me happy.

You're now nothing.

You're now forgotten.