Say what you mean and mean what you say

For every courting ritual, there are a few tasks that need to be accomplished in order to achieve the final result… whatever it may be. Some are successful, while others, not so much.

One of the worst methods of courtship - ironically - is talking. There’s not enough of it, and when there is, no one knows what the hell the other person is saying.

Conversation goes around in circles, rolled-up in entendres. No one says what they want; it’s always shielded in code. But, not everyone knows how to read code, and some people don’t know how to read, at all.

Just say it, damnit. En anglais, por favor!

Only a Scottish toilet has been plugged more times than you. Your headboard has whittled its way down to a toothpick. There is a medical study at the Mayo Clinic that is using you as an example of how to cure multiple STIs at once.

Ok, being an asshole won’t help things, since there are other people's feelings to take into the equation.

But, put it out there. Lay it on the table in plain view. If you get hurt, know that it’s better that you know in the beginning than when you’re in a harness. Say what you mean and mean what you say.

I like you. I’m not interested, thanks. You’re pretty hot. You’re not my type. Coffee, tea, or me? I won’t do caffeine and I won’t do you.

It’s simple when you want it to be. Make it easy for everyone to understand.

Time is of the essence, so make the best of it. You’re not getting any younger, you know.

Dead bed head

The morning I wake up…

Every morning, I go through the same series of steps in order to get myself ready. After rolling out of bed, I feel my way towards the bathroom - eyes still closed - and do my business.

When it’s time to wash my face at the sink, I tilt my head up, squint open one eye and look up at the mirror.

The horror! Oh, the horror!

The follicles on my head have planned a vendetta against me and made my hair stick straight up. It resembles the Bride of Frankenstein. Total dead bed head.

It’s flat on the sides, but vertical on the front and back. There are no waves and no curls. It’s just flat.

For someone who lies in bed face down on the mattress, does the dead man’s float pose (face down spread eagle) and doesn’t use a pillow, only my clothes and face should be lined with wrinkles. Instead, my hair is a set of freaky, planar lines.

Even when the hair is done from the night before, loaded with product, it still looks like this every morning.

After performing my morning hair constitution (water, product, brush/comb, hat to smooth any unruly curls), I’m ready to start my day.

Fuck. There are some days I wish I was bald since I wouldn’t look like a horror movie come to life before breakfast.

Secrets and lies and guys

While going through the phenomenon of the simple genius that is the Post Secret art-project, you can’t help but embrace a range of emotions that you never thought existed – all due to a few anonymous words, scribbled on a piece of cardstock.

After glossing over the postcards, you get a sense 98 per cent of them are written by under-medicated and overstressed soccer mommies who live in Bumfuck, USA, or bi-curious, female college students who have serious problems with telling the truth to the father’s of their children, and issues with their GI tracts and PMS.

Not once do you read a card that’s written from a man. And, when you do, they’re boring. Nothing about being molested by your neighbourhood priest, nothing about having your grandmother catching you masturbating, nothing about cheating on someone and giving them a "mysterious" rash. Nothing.

Who knew men were yawn-inducing blokes?

Get out there and do something freaky so the world can read about it, and if you can’t do that, make up some shit! The nastier the lies, the better the chance they'll be online (and later in a book). That way, when they’re posted, you can get a good laugh. It's twisted, but oh so fun!

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to drop off some postcards in the mail.

Part-time stripper

There’s music in the background. A light thumping sound and a bassline. It’s enough to make anyone move their bodies… so I accept the invitation.

Due to the small space, the moves are nothing if not restricting. There are reaches, arms moving up and down, side to side, squats and lunges, forward and back. I have to do the best I can with what I have.

Out of nowhere, I hear something that breaks my concentration.

“Take it off!”

The three most disconcerting words for anyone to hear, especially when they’re coming from that said person’s mother. A small shiver runs up my spine.

As I continue, more and more people come to see what's going on. They're my mother’s friends. She begins to tell them how well I’m doing and how I should do it more often. Apparently, I'm good.

“I wish my husband could do that,” says one.

“My kid doesn’t have the talent,” says another.

“Can your son come over to my house and do the same thing?” asks a third.

Suddenly, my mother is a pimp and I’m her whore.

When I’m done (and a few numbers are exchanged), I’m spent. My muscles hurt, top to bottom, and my body is covered with a layer of sweat. This is something I don’t plan on doing on a regular basis... especially with this audience.

Note: For a booking, please contact my mother.

To the fuck driving the Ford Ranger

Hey.

You don’t know me, but I know you. I know you pretty damn well. In fact, I almost rammed my car into the highway guardrail because you were driving parallel to me and wouldn’t let me merge. If I sped up, so did you. If I slowed down, so did you. After I finally merged, you slammed on the brakes, even though there was no one ahead of you. It was like you wanted me to hit you. Being the better driver, I didn’t.

So, you wanted to fuck with me, huh?

Well, just so you know, you just fucked with the wrong man.

Thanks to a camera phone and a friend who works at the DMW, I was able to ascertain your home address in a few minutes.

You know what I did with this newfound information? Come on. Guess. That’s right, I went to your home.

Too bad you weren't home. Your mother was. She opened the door for me. She’s nice. And hot. Your mom is pretty hot, dude. A total MILF. Your brother was there, too. Said he was waiting for you. He’s pretty hot, too. Funny how you skipped out on the hotness gene.

But enough about you.

Remember what I said about your mom? Hot, right? Yeah. She was so hot, that I couldn’t help myself. So I fucked yo momma. I fucked her good. In your bed. She said it was the best fuck she ever had. Her husband never fucked her the way I fucked her. And, I fucked her. Hard.

Oh, and your brother? Fucked him, too.

Dude, your bro’ was hotter than yo momma. No matter what he told you about his girlfriend, he’s lying – he likes dick, any which way he can get it. His performance was like an audition for Sean Cody. He was so good, I fucked him twice. In your bed.

Where was your hot MILF in all of this? She was watching me fuck your bro’ while fucking herself with a 14-inch dildo. Black. Belonging to your bro'. Yo momma is a total freak. So is your bro’, by the way.

In case you’re wondering about your father, don’t worry. He’s alright. I didn’t fuck yo daddy. He didn't show up. Doesn’t matter, though. He'll find out what his wife and son did earlier on in the day. It's all on DVD.

Just remember, I know where you live. Keep your doors locked and don’t answer if somebody knocks. It might be me.

By the way, change your sheets, you cheap bastard. Those things were so rough, I practically exfoliated a layer of skin off my body.

And to the douche driving the dark grey, two-door Honda Accord coupe, circa 2000, who was always swerving around, practically side-swiping other cars, then wouldn’t let me merge in his lane, slammed on the brakes, and made me almost slam into him, I got your licence plate number, too.

493-RKM.

You’re next, you fuck.

Best,
Steven.

Seasons change

As each season changes in climate, so do relationships. Although not every relationship is the same, they do follow similar weather patterns in the four seasons.

Love blooms in the spring, like the blossoming of trees and tulips. Summer is about passion, and the heat generated between sweaty bodies that causes steam to rise from their skin. Walking hand-in-hand along leaf-covered paths, and cuddling under warm blankets is essential in autumn. Winter is about hibernating, gaining 15 pounds from eating too much food, having your lover leave you because you’re fat, and wishing it was spring so you could fall in love again.

Out of the four seasons, one element that stands out (for me) is that of romance in autumn.

Lord knows people fall in love left and right, you can make your eyes roll back in your head by yourself, and breaking up results in solitary confinement.

Romance makes all the difference. You can’t have romance by yourself. Kissing and cuddling doesn’t make sense. Candlelit dinners look absurd. And, you can forget about pawing at each other on the bearskin rug in front of the fire. Ain’t. Gonna. Happen.

Romance isn’t a lonely endeavour, and no one wants to be lonely.

So, enjoy autumn, because you aren't going to like winter.

Note: Happy Thanksgiving to everyone in the U.S.A.

Trading spaces with reality

Being someone who has always been interested in the creative aspects of design, HGTV has been both a godsend and a curse of massive proportions.

After watching any show, you’re inspired to go out and redecorate/renovate a room in your home. A little paint here, some throw pillows there, and you feel like your place should be photographed for House & Home.

If only it was that easy.

So many of these shows don’t show their viewers the nitty gritty; what lies beneath the surface. Old wires cause fires, asbestos isn’t your friend, and the removal of a load-bearing wall effectively collapses the backside of your home in slow-motion.

Most important, they never mention…

You can’t do 95% of the stuff yourself.
Even if you own every B&D power tool, you’re still not Bob Vila.
Nothing is ever completed in a ½ hour show.
It will take months longer than you planned.
For $1,000, your place will look like crap.
Renovations cost money – HUGE amounts of moolah.
You will spend at least 20 % more than you bargained for.
Designers will make you feel stupid because you don’t know the difference between Art Deco and Art Moderne (the main difference is an angularity in the finishing details).
Designers will make you think you have no taste.
Designers will coax you into buying a $20,000 sectional sofa from Knoll even though you’re aesthetic isn’t monastic modernism.

And, that’s only the tip of the iceberg blue paint, courtesy of Sherwin Williams.

I could go on, but Design Inc. is on and I want to watch Sarah Richardson do her thing, then I’m off to Home Depot to get me some wood and build something using my power tools.

Slather it on

The tester comes inside one of the magazines which I subscribe to. Within the bronze-toned package lie promises of tight and toned skin. In fact, the hyperbole is in English and in French: Suractif. Bilingual beauty.

The minute I dab a few dots of this cream on my skin, the dermis begins to pull tight. My skin glows. My fine lines disappear. My eyes are brighter. I look almost fetal... in a few minutes, that is.

Until then, I wait.

Beauty companies develop so many dream creams, it’s a wonder they’re not sued by consumers, angry and bitterly disappointed after using these products without a realistic outcome - except for an emptier wallet.

But, then I think if this dream cream (not the same as cream dream) delivers, there are other things it can be used for. If this said cream can tighten the skin on your face, imagine what it could do on the rest of your body.

Ass not as perky as your personality? Rub some onto your cheeks.

Can’t get rid of those pesky love handles? A few pats should take care of that.

Possess lunch lady arms that wave like a flag on a windy day? Sorry, they said promises, not miracles.

As my friend and I are walking down the street on a particularly windy say, I mention this to her. She’s not particularly impressed with these false promises. Apparently, she thinks she has no issues with puffiness. She should think that through, especially when day 28 rolls around.

Later on in the day, after looking in the mirror, I see my skin looks smoother and the texture is softer to the touch. Hallelujah! Thank the patron Saint of Estée Lauder!

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to slather a few inches of cream on my stomach to see whether it works on tightening my abs after eating too much Hallowe'en candy.

Deck the halls

It’s perfectly normal to be shopping in a store, packed to the brim with product and people. But, there’s something inherently wrong doing that out of season.

Walking through a store in October, seeing Hallowe’en candy and costumes on the shelves next to Christmas trees and cards is disconcerting.

Although I do realize stores lay out product almost two months in advance of actual holidays, it not only feels weird, but looks it, too. Who wants to think of Back to School during a July heatwave? Who wants to deck the halls while still wearing t-shirts? Who wants to look at heart-shaped chocolates in January after gaining 12 pounds over the holidays?

Not a fuckin’ person. No one. Nadie. Nessuno. Ninguém.

Store displays should correspond with the appropriate time of the year. Let it be cold when I’m buying things for the holidays. I want people to walk into the store with their coats and caps on, rubbing their hands together for warmth while stomping their feet on the slushy entrance mats. It’s more convincing. Just thinking of that smoosh sound snowy boots sends a chill up my spine.

Literally.

Although, I wouldn’t mind it being 25 degrees in December.

Note: It snowed last night. God works in mysterious ways. Bastard.

Remember when...

It’s a little disconcerting when someone recalls your past when you can’t even remember these moments. It’s even more disturbing when they know more about your life than you do.

“How about the time…?”

“But, you said…”

“Did the penicillin really work on that infection…?”

And on and on.

Of course, it doesn’t help that your “duh” expression, or one of total shock (both are very similar, as they entail a gaping mouth), says a lot more than an actual response.

Sadly, as much as you wish it’s a case of early-onset Alzheimer’s, it’s actually a case of blogger brain – too much tattling, too little thinking.

Maybe it’s time to go back and review some of my old posts to jog my memory because I have no idea what I’ve done for the past year, or so.

Do you remember when...?

Well, I sure as fuck don't.

Why does it hurt so bad?

Why does it hurt so bad?
Why do I feel so sad?
Thought I was over you
But I keep crying when I don’t love you…

These lyrics, written by Babyface, exemplify a modern relationship: People meet, enjoy each other’s company, begin to form attachments, and then nothing. No phone calls, no e-mails, no text-messages, no follow-ups. Nothing.

Yet, instead of brushing them off as another flake of dandruff, there’s always that pang of hurt, when they don’t reciprocate.

Your mind begins to wonder about how/when/where did it go wrong. What did you do? What did you say? What the hell is wrong with you? It’s always something you did, because they’re perfect and without fault.

But, the irony of it all is that you don’t love the person, but you feel something. What that feeling is, you have no idea, but it’s something; something tangible, something promising.

You put a semblance of something in someone else’s hands. Then, you wait. You check your messages for a note, you listen to your voicemail for a reply. You grow impatient. The hours turn into days. And, you wait… and wait. It hurts you inside and you want a Pamprin for those unbearable cramps. You reach a breaking point after two days of no communication and you realize you have no time for this shit. You deserve more than that. You’re a person, damnit! A person with – deeply, deeply hidden – feelings.

Before you’re ready to give up, move on, and tell them off with a nasty phone message, suddenly, out of nowhere, you receive an acknowledgement from them.

Then, you mind goes back to where it was. Back to where you were at the start, with the promise of something; something that can stop these feelings of hurt and sadness because you like them and want to get to know them. Maybe even, someday, love them.

And, you begin to wonder about their message...

Can't make it tonight? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

Overdone and undercooked

It’s lunchtime and I’m hungry. And impatient. Thankfully, there are turkey leftovers that I can heat up in the non-stick frying pan. The only thing I have to do is a simple side dish of pasta to go with the protein.

With the frying pan already on the stove, I grab a small pot, fill it with water, throw in some rock salt, cover it and crank up the heat to the maximum setting for the water to boil.

Since the stove is electric and not gas, it takes almost a minute to heat up. I walk into the living room to change the channel on the TV.

Thirty seconds later, I hear crackling. A lot of crackling.

It's boiling? I think. Already? That was quick.

Before I reach the kitchen, I see the red filament radiating from under the frying pan.

“Oh, fuck.”

By the time I turn off the burner, the turkey has already burned. The water in the pot, unfortunately, is still cold.

“Awww, crap!" I place my index finger inside the pot to test the temperature. "Crap, crap, crap."

As I crank up the heat on the right filament, I look at the pot. It’s true what they say about watching a pot boil. It takes for-fucking-ever. When the water boils, I throw in the pasta and wait. Impatiently. I want to eat, now.

After 10 minutes, I take a few pieces and taste for tenderness. They’re still fairly raw, but I don’t give a fuck. Ideally, I should’ve thrown it all out and started from scratch, but I’m too bloody hungry.

Anyway, it all balances itself out in the end: Cajun turkey and very, very al dente pasta.

Jean Georges is considering stealing the recipe.

People, can you hear me?

Karaoke is immensely popular in Japan for the reason that many businessmen dream of becoming famous singers. Due to societal constraints, they settle in a life of anonymity. But, give them a microphone and a Celine Dion power ballad, and they feel like they're on the hull of the Titanic.

Even though I haven't been to Japan and sung karaoke, I do sing whenever I hear a song on the radio (or in my head).

Fuck. I crank that shit up.

There doesn’t need to be a microphone or an amplifier, since my voice carries. A lot. It also doesn’t help that my choice in songs are physically difficult to sing, like Mercy On Me.

Unfortunately, I forget there are people around me, like my neighbours, who may begin to question what's going where I live.

What the fuck is that noise?
Can he please turn down the music?
It sounds like a live cat being slaughtered.
Wow, he’s really amazing!

Ok, so the last will only happen when Paris Hilton learns a new trade, like talent.

It doesn’t matter, anyway.

As long as there’s music, I’ll be there to sing along with it... like bad karaoke.

The Church of Scientology wants you!

If you turn on the TV, flip a page in a magazine, listen to the radio, or walk along the sidewalk, there will always be someone hawking religion. From Christians to Muslims, they’re all persistent in their pragmatic ploys, like they’ve got too much time on their hands.

Didn’t anyone ever tell them idle hands are a sign of the devil?

Anyway, seeing as I’m bored, I decide to try out some religious rhetoric and call T to start off my weekend on a high point.

After I dial the number and the phone rings a few times, I go over a few lines in my head. So that I won’t break character, I remind myself to stay calm and not laugh.

"Hi!" I say in a chipper tone after T picks up. "Could I speak with T, please?"

"This is," answers T.

“Hi, my name is Thomas and I’m calling from the Church of Scientology. How are you doing today?”

“Uh. Good?” T sounds a little weary.

“That’s great! I was just calling to see whether you’d be interested in joining our religion. I had some information passed my way, saying you were wondering about Scientology and I am giving you call to see if you were still interested.”

“Uh…” There’s an uncomfortable pause. I can only imagine what’s going through T’s mind.

“T, I’m kidding,” I break character and begin to laugh. “This is Steven. You know, Steven." I let my name sink in for a few seconds. "I’m not from the Church of Scientology. I was just joking.”

“Oh my God,” T laughs. He goes on to say that he went on some religious sites, and thought they were now coming after him.

“I hope not,” I say. “Anyway, I had this whole spiel planned out. I was going to invite you to a private wedding ceremony from one of our most famous members, happening next weekend, blah blah blah. And, if you were really good, you would be one of the very, very best men. Hint, hint.”

“That is too funny,” T says in between laughs.

“I know. I think I spent more time on this than I should have, huh?”

After we finish our conversation, I sent T a note in a follow-up e-mail that asks if he’s interested in coming to a Scientology seminar on the weekend.

Clearly, like all of those religious nuts that are tough to crack, I have a lot of free time on my hands - it’s the only way to free myself from going straight to hell.

Fat attract

Even though the media is overpopulated with the ideal image of beauty, they (conveniently) forget to mention that not everyone is supposed to be tall, thin and toned. Beauty comes in all shapes and sizes: small, medium, large and extra-large.

For some reason, the only type of beauty that I attract is of the fuller-figured variety. Apparently, there’s a magnetic force around me that pulls in every one of them. It’s like I’m a free buffet and they haven’t eaten for minutes.

Don’t get me wrong, they’re lovely people. They’re friendly, jovial, and are comfortable in their bodies. Unfortunately, due to their size, they take up a lot of the precious, personal space I sorely require to stay sane.

It happens all the time - where I work, where I eat, where I shop, etc. and especially whenever I have to take the train.

On the way home, I’m not usually first person on the train, since there are people who have been waiting on the platform before I get arrive (I don’t always take the same train home, so I don’t know the exact train/platform schedules, whereas they do).

So what happens?

Since the seating is designed with four seats (two facing each other) per cubicle, I may find a seat with a vacancy beside mine, but the rest are quickly filled with heifers. Not once, but every single fucking time. They see the empty seats and think, Hey! If that lean piece of 140-pound brisket can fit into that tiny seat, so can my 450-pound body!

If I’m not so lucky, I find the last seat that’s located in-between three fat people.

The reason why the seat is empty is that no one can pass between these three people in order to fit in the seat. Being slim, I slide in and place my ass as far forward in the seat without falling off since the fatty beside me is so huge, his width oozes over my seat like he’s the Exxon Valdez, spilling untold gallons of crude oil into the ocean.

The rest of the journey is spent with me curling inwards, clenching every muscle, and praying that I don't slip off my seat and fall face forward into the crotch of the woman who is three times my size.

Fuck. Why does this happen time and time again?

Anyway, as much as I need my space, I’d rather sit beside three people whose weight totals that of a Hyundai than stand for an hour.

I may be lazy, but I'm not stupid.

Fashion victim

There is one particular fashion crime that is sweeping across every nation. Style arbiters shudder and design capitals of the world weep at the mere thought of it. It’s despicable and disgusting, yet millions of people follow this sartorial dictum.

And, no one is immune.

**

Due to the heat generated by the sun and sanding of some wood, I’m wearing a t-shirt and a pair of ratty shorts. On my feet are socks, so I don’t get them covered in dust. It’s not particularly stylish, but it’s the most effective way to eliminate fine, brown shavings from sticking to my bare soles.

No one can see what I look like, unless I have to go outside (which of course, I do) to put out the garbage. Realizing I don’t have a lot of time to change clothes, I slip on my sandals and run outside.

It’s not as if I’m walking the runway in Paris or Milan. And, if I was, I’m sure D&G would charge an arm and a leg for my look.

When I get back inside the house, I pause after closing the door. I look down at my sandals and socks. Terrible. What’s worse is that my socks are hiked up as far as they can go up my legs, leaving only a small gap of flesh between the socks and the shorts.

If it wasn’t for my posture, I’d look like an old man at the beach, sitting under an umbrella and reading the newspaper.

After countless years of giving people subtle suggestions on how to dress, I have officially become a 65-year-old fashion victim… or my father.

Update: Thank you for your words of concern. I'm still beyond any emotional reproach. If you hear about a homicidal rampage in the following days... uh, it wasn't me.

Inside

Sometimes the biggest catastrophes begin with smallest provocations.

Like a phone call.

**

In between errands, the house line rings and I expect it to be telemarketers. Those people never know when to give up. Whether it’s Jesus or Jehovah, they’re always pushing something on unsuspecting victims.

It’s someone whose name I don’t recognize. He says that we met before and I begin to remember. Without wasting time, he tells me his reason for calling. It goes from bad to worse.

Shortly before hanging up, my body begins to feel the ramifications of the call.

When I put down the receiver in the cradle, I begin to feel sick. Nauseous. My head is both light and heavy. It’s spinning. Shoulders rise up towards my neck, and the muscles tense up.

Nerves are on high alert. My body is tense. Muscles tense and release, tense and release, each time quicker than the last. Over and over again. My heart beats erratically. I can’t breathe.

When I sit, my insides begin to rumble.

It’s like acid is running through my system, eating me up inside. There should be a hole where my stomach is. I can feel parts of me disintegrating into mush. The mush wants to push its way out, but I don’t vomit because it’s too messy and the last thing I want to do is grab a bucket of warm water, throw in some Lysol, find a cloth, get on my hands and knees and wipe down the formerly spotless floors.

The feelings of anger and frustration begin to form in my mind. I want to scream, let off steam. I want to yell. I’m so fucking angry. Pissed. How dare he say that to me? The nerve. The meaningless tone of voice. The nonchalance of it all. I want to swing my arms around and punch a hole in the wall.

That doesn't happen.

I remain sitting, with my legs up to my chin, holding them with my arms, my chin resting in between the crook of my knees. My body trembles and I can't feel my arms. If it wasn't for the fury, I'd think I was having a small stroke. I’m tense. Very tense. My body spasms continue. It’s almost volcanic. It wants to rupture. Bubbling. Bubbling closer to the surface. It’s on the verge of exploding.

But, I don't want anyone to know that I feel this way because of this fucking phone call. At least, not for the time being. So, I'll be keeping it all inside.

Update: The rage continues. Must find a wall to punch.

Saving grace to self-efface

There are certain unapproved behaviours that are typically accepted as part of your personality. Whether you’re lewd, rude or crude, sometimes people don’t say a thing and let it slide. Other times they don’t.

Recently, someone called me out on a particular behaviour of mine, and I wasn’t expecting it.

“Why do you do that?” he asks me on the phone after I give a personal excuse on why he had to leave earlier in the week.

“Do what?”

“That. Turn everything around.”

“What do you mean?” I have no idea what he’s talking about.

“I gave you a compliment and you don’t accept it.”

Oh, that thing.

The self-effacing thing.

When younger, whenever I did something that deserved merit, I was complimented. Afterwards, I felt like I could do no wrong because I did something right.

Unfortuantely, people thought I was full of myself and tried to break me down every chance they could.

“Who do you think you are?”

“You’re not better than anyone.”

“You’re nobody.”

“You’re nothing.”

From there on, I stopped accepting compliments. From work to looks, I brush them all off like cracker dust on my lap. I know when I’m good and I know when I’m not, but I'm also the first to say something negative about myself. Although I don’t want anyone to validate my work (even if it feels nice), I don’t want to feel the wrath of others when they don’t approve of me.

So, I’ve stopped.

It’s been my saving grace, yet some people still don’t like the fact I don’t take compliments well.

Maybe I should become celibate on being self-effacing.

Mixed messages

The main difference between humans and animals is the ability to speak. Unlike animals, humans are able to fuck up the most basic of communications by giving, receiving, and processing mixed messages.

There are times where women are guilty of reading into actions that mean one thing instead of another. We met for coffee means we’re going steady. We took a walk around the neighbourhood becomes we’re buying a house. We had sex turns into a wedding announcement in the Times.

You’d think that men don’t think that way, but you’re wrong. Some of them do, and they’re just as bad as women. You gave me a nasty look in a seedy bar means you want me. You didn’t throw a drink in my face when I slurred something dirty in your ear means you’re turned on by me. You stopped slapping my hand away after repeatedly groping you means you wanna get fucked by me.

But, in the end, when it comes to communications, it’s all about a ring: a diamond one for her, and a cock one for him.

Maybe Tiffany’s does both.

Note: I'm pretty clear in communicating with people, unless I'm being vague.

Call me a bitch 'cause I speak what's on my mind

Guess it’s easier for you to swallow if I sat and smiled...

Christina Aguilera sings Can’t Hold Us Down as an anthem of standing your ground. The lyrics are hard, speaking up for yourself and never laying low for something you believe in.

Unfortunately, some people voice their opinions, even if no one asks for them. They’re ostracized and are often the black sheep of the family. Being a black sheep myself (it’s slimming and goes with everything), I know outcasts need to stick together.

**

For my friend C’s wedding, I go alone due to my date cancelling two days before the out-of-town trip. Since I’m a singleton by default, I spend the day with the bridal party and become a member of the family by proxy.

Throughout the day, I follow the bridal party and end up becoming the unofficial date of her sister, D. This, I later find out, is a blessing to everyone, because someone needs to watch over her.

D is like the little voice inside your head that comes to life. And this voice is loud. She speaks her mind, often, and there’s no mute button.

When driving around the city, looking for parking, we pass by a wedding that’s exiting the church.

“Well, there’s a fat people wedding,” she says of the zaftigs.

“Don’t say that,” I say between a smirk.

“Well, they are fat. I can’t do anything about that,” she replies.

Touché.

As she’s pointing out the bride’s invitees, she says out loud, “His nickname is Gargamel, like from the Smurfs. Just take a look at him and you’ll know why,” when describing one bald groomsman, and, “That’s my cousin Heidi-Ho. There’s a good reason why we call her that.” I can imagine why, although, I think her real name is Maria.

At the reception, she never stops talking to the point that our table is agape with shock at some of the things she says.

“When I was your age, I would never say things like that,” says D’s godmother.

“When you were my age, you didn’t say anything because you were afraid the secret police would come after you in the middle of the night and take you away,” snaps D back, pointing at her godmother.

Damn.

She has the biggest set of balls I’ve ever seen on anyone.

Not only doesn’t she care about what she says, but she isn’t afraid of the repercussions. Whether you agree or disagree with her, she’ll stand her ground. She’s strong, intelligent. She doesn’t care what you think, and for that, I'm in awe of her.

Call her a bitch ‘cause she speaks what’s on her mind, but beware of what she says afterwards.

Personal history lesson

You never really know someone after meeting them. It takes a while. It doesn’t matter if you have long conversations, similar likes and dislikes, or exchanges of bodily fluids. Not long after, a concept is based on what you know, and this “person” is created in your mind.

But, sometimes that image is blurred when other, more knowledgeable, opinions come in to play. There are other people who know this person more than you do. But, should you believe what they say, or learn about them on your own?

It’s like a history lesson: Should you read up on the past to know a little more about the present? Each word gets you more interested. Every action, more aroused.

Although I don’t think Jewish people would say, “So Hitler killed many of us, but you have to admit he was a snappy dresser!” I do believe they’d give him a chance if they knew nothing about his plans for world domination.

This person can be different things to different people, but you have to spend the time with them to know who they really are.

In the end, a potential friend/lover can be an amazing person, but if they start talking about how much they love Auschwitz, I won’t ever answer their calls.

Note: So sorry the phone died last night. But, it ended quite nicely. Huge thank you.

Hard wood

Designers praise the virtues of hardwood floors to every – potential – client because of their beauty, durability, functionality, and flexibility. What they don’t mention are hardwood floors are hard wood floors.

**

Realizing that I’ve left the small pot of soup simmering for 10 minutes on the stove, I jump up from the sofa, and take a few quick steps towards the kitchen.

When my right foot lunges, it gets caught in my left pantleg, makes me trip, and pulls my weight forward as I fly through the air. My right knee lands on the ground with a thud, my left elbow hits the ground, my body slides on the floor and my head whacks against the wall.

Then, I stop.

“Owww… That hurrrts,” I simultaneously laugh and whine, knowing how ridiculous this looks to the casual observer. As I get up, I rub my tender knee, elbow, and head. Since I don’t have three hands to accomplish this feat, I take turns.

Thankfully, by the time I limp into the kitchen, the soup isn’t burned. I pour it into a bowl and wait for it to cool. It’s placed on the table in the family room where the slide-and-smash incident occurred.

My head doesn't hurt much, but my elbow is still tender. And, don't get me started on my knee.

To hell with designers and their hardwood floors. It’s times like these where I wish I had carpet. Even on the walls.