Resolute shun

Years ago, some doofus came up with an idea of creating a list of goals for people to accomplish in the following 365 days.

But, why did he choose New Years as its starting point? Because he was drunk.

And, for some reason, people have (idiotically) followed this dictum forever. If they're successful, kudos to them. If they're not, well... that won't happen, right?

There wouldn't be any issues with resolutions if they were reasonable. But, they're not. Some resolutions are so improbable that even Jesus (the only miracle worker) would throw in the towel after reading through some of them.

Which is precisely why I shun resolutions.

For years, my primary resolution was to be a better person and to be nicer to others.

That would last approximately five minutes after midnight when some woman (who was probably legally blind, and so old she didn't leave fingerprints, anymore) bumped into me while in her walker, so I snapped at her because she made the liquor splash in my glass.

Bitch deserved it.

And, don’t you tell me my reaction was harsh. I saw her giving me the evil eye as she passed.

So, ever since, I haven't made any lists and checked them twice; that's for Santa Claus.

Why try to accomplish something you know you're going to fail? Exactly.

Hence, no more resolutions.

Meh-ry Christmas

Every Christmas that my family spends together is always a memorable occasion… especially due to the drama.

But, this year nothing. And, if there was something, it was quickly extinguished like a small grease fire (which would never happen because my mother doesn’t do grease fires in her kitchen – too much cleanup).

Oh, how I miss those days of yore…

Gone are the prickly personalities invited over for dinner.
Gone are the false fronts put upon by the hosts and invitees.
Gone are the finicky eaters with overly-refined palates.
Gone are the one-sided conversations of the ignorant and/or ill-informed.
Gone are the alcohol-induced loosening of lips of husbands and wives.
Gone are the petty fights between the liquored-up people from above.
Gone are the plastic smiles and poses in the photos.
Gone are the “I always wanted this!” series of lies when opening presents.

Gone is the fun.

Here’s hoping for the shit hitting the fan next year.

Meh-ry Christmas, one and all.

Not so silent night

Family. Food. Farts.

Fuck.

It's just like every other (gassy) holiday.

All I want for Christmas is...

Whenever the holidays come along, inevitably I get the same question asked over and over again from my mother and sister:

What do you want for Christmas?

Since they’re the primary givers of gifts amongst my present posse, I know they’ll actually listen to what I want instead of going out and buying the first (and ugliest) thing they see just to check my name off a list.

“Oh my God, it was green and orange, made of polyester, 18 sizes too big, 583% off and I knew I had to get it for you!!”

But, this year I want something they can’t buy in a store, wrap up in paper and decorated with bows and ribbons.

All I want for Christmas is…

- To be happy after living through the shittiest year of my life (and I’m only 25 plus years old).

- The strength to get out of bed in the morning and not pull the covers over my head... especially when it's cold.

- A body that doesn't crack like a narc under pressure.

- A job that I like where I am not used and abused.

- Support when I need it and criticism when I don't want it.

- A car that doesn't scratch, ding, or dent, and runs on air, not gasoline.

- A kinder, gentler form of road rage.

- Patience (see above).

- A million less white hairs on my head (those fuckers grow like weeds).

- An extra two inches... in height.

- One-and-a-half abs to complete off my six-pack.

- The inability to make 30 million people hate me in one fell swoop.

- To have people like me for me, not for the person they think I am or for the person they want me to be.

- A group of friends who do what friends are supposed to do, and not what they think they're supposed to do.

- Time (just one extra hour a day).

- Cash. Can't forget that. Lots of cold, hard cash. Dirty, dirty cash. Rubbing it all over my body cash. Yeah. That sounds hot...

That’s all I can think of right now.

Is that too much to ask?

Note: Have a great weekend and get your heart on.

Cut off

In every relationship, there is a time when things end and moving on is the only logical option. If it’s done diplomatically, hopefully no ill feelings will be felt towards one another.

Then there are times when one person cuts the other person off with no good reason. No more phone calls given or received, no more e-mails written or replied, no more house visits with baskets full of goodies.

Unfortunately, they’re not severing a limb to stop gangrene from settling in, but ending something that involves another person.

But, doesn’t the other person have a say in this, or at least know why it’s done and over?

Personally, I begin to wonder what I did wrong, thinking I’m the guilty party. But, after sobering up, I know there are (or is it were?) two parties involved. What is the problem? It can’t be entirely my fault, can it? And if it is, what can I do to remedy the situation? I can change. What if it’s the other person? What are they going through? Can I help? What can I do?

There is a lack of communication between two people, but since one of them doesn’t acknowledge the existence of the other, how can it be resolved?

I don't know. I just need an answer. Any answer.

Pummel that horse

Watching gymnastics on TV can be an interesting venture. While these lycra-clad athletes are running, flipping, and twisting themselves in almost impossible combinations, my mind begins to wander about the human form.

And, I'm not even mentioning how their drool-worthy bodies make action heroes/heroines weep.

Unfortunately, gymnasts don’t get enough credit for their talents. It’s hard. The strains and injuries take a toll on them.

Unlike basketball, baseball, football or - for the Canucks - hockey players, how many of them are going to use the uneven bars, or the rings in their daily life?

Personally, I'd love to see a football player attempt to do a flip over the pummel horse, but he never will; people play sports, they don't play gymnastics.

Although some of them may become coaches, that rarely happens. If they’re fortunate to win an Olympic medal (gold, if possible), they may find themselves on a Wheaties box, have a couple of endorsement deals, and land a job as a commentator on NBC sports.

And if they’re really fortunate (and hot), they’d land on the cover of Maxim, or in an A&F calander.

Anyway, nobody really watches televised gymnastics, but I’d love to see someone to a run-and-tumble down the aisle of a grocery store, to get from one end to the other.

Now, that would be something I wouldn’t mind watching on TV.

Boonga?

While my niece is busy moisturizing her hands with Vaseline Intensive Care (the girl loves her creams) in my bedroom, I suddenly get a tickle in my nose that I know will result in a sneeze. But, I’m wrong. It results in a series of sneezes; five in a row.

My niece stops rubbing her hands together and looks at me.

“Boonga, Uncle?” she asks.

“Boonga?” I say as I rub my nose with my hand. What the hell is she talking about?

“Boonga?” she repeats as she hands me the hankie I have on the bed.

Ah, boonga! Now I understand what she’s getting at.

In her learning the grasp of several languages and slang terms that her inclusive family throws out in a typical conversation, she creates her own vernacular of verbs, adjectives and nouns.

Boonga is a mixture of booger and funga (the noise a person makes that is stronger than a sniffle, yet weaker than a sneeze).

“Boonga. Yes, yes, boonga,” I say as I take the hankie and blow my nose. “Thank you, B.”

Smart kid. Who knew a two-year-old could come up with such a useful word, especially during cold and flu season?

Canada Post can make you go postal

The holiday season is about the formality of family, forgiveness, and food, culminating in the motherfucker of all holidays: Christmas.

This year, as a token of kindness, my mother decides to send a care package to some underprivileged mothers from her homeland. She buys baby outfits, accessories, and some odds and ends.

Because the package must be shipped from point A to point B, she wraps them in a comforter bag (about the size of a throw pillow for a sofa) and takes it to her local Canada Post outlet.

What happens next will make anyone go postal.

Even though the package isn’t very heavy, it’s an odd shape and too large to fit in a regular carrier. Fine. It will cost $74 to ship. Not so fine. I’m shocked my mother doesn’t have one of her passive-aggressive fits, but since there is no one around, she doesn’t bother.

At home, my mother removes everything from the package, divides it into two and sends them. The cost difference (she saved $50) is evident as she doesn’t have to tear the CSR a new hole to stuff.

It’s sad. Even when someone wants to do something nice for someone else, you have an organization - designed to keep people connected - trying to screw you over.

A loaf of garlic breath

Every meal I eat usually consists of a protein and a side dish. Coincidentally, just recently my mother taught me how to make tomato rice, and since I have so many tomatoes from the garden in the fridge, now is the best time to make use of them. Also, it’s incredibly delicious, which is always an incentive.

It’s fairly simple to make: put some oil in the bottom of a pot, place a crushed tomato in the pot and let it boil down to a semi-paste, pour in two cups of water and one cup of rice, and add salt and pepper to taste.

Normally, my mother places some crushed garlic for an extra punch of flavour. I don’t have any garlic. I don’t buy garlic. But, there’s garlic powder in the cabinet. It’s practically the same thing, right? And, because powder is concentrated, it must be better since you only need a small amount.

Since garlic is loaded with antioxidants, if a little bit is good for you, then a lot should be better, right? So, a pinch suddenly becomes a large dash.

After the rice had been cooking for almost 15 minutes, I take a wooden spoon for a quick sample. Is it almost cooked? Does it need another five minutes on the stove? I ask myself.

I put the spoon to my mouth, blow to cool it down, take a bite, chew and swallow.

Ho. Lee. Fuck.

The next thing I remember is taking a few swigs from the wine bottle on the counter.

Shit. That was six shades of nasty.

Now I know why God made this stuff so pungent. Damn. Who needs enemies when you’ve got a loaf of garlic breath?

Now, I’m walking around the kitchen with my tongue sticking out and a bottle of wine in my hand, waiting for the rest of the rice to cook.

Urgh.

I try to dilute the flavour with some water and wine. As the liquid evaporates, I mix its contents; over and over.

When it’s time to eat, I’m a little apprehensive. What will it taste like? Bad, or worse?

As I sit at the dining table, I take a sip of wine, then a forkful of rice. It’s ok. Not bad, and could be worse. The wine helps with a multitude of sins, too.

Note: Did you get your heart on this weekend?

Sauce

There’s a single moment to capture the attention of someone else that you’ve had your eye on and it’s up to you to make the best of it.

**

When someone is eating BBQ wings, there will always be a drop of sauce that lands on the side of their mouth. Since they don’t realize it’s there (mostly because they’re scarfing down fatty pieces of chicken), the sauce is like a sweet spot that marks the opportunity for flirtation.

The ideal scenario entails telling them not to move, leaning towards them, extending your arm, taking your fingers (index and thumb) to wipe the sauce with one swipe, retracting your arm, bringing your fingers to your mouth and sucking on them nonchalantly.

But, I don’t do that.

Inevitably, I turn into my mother. I end up telling them they have something on the side of their mouth, pointing with my finger, doing the mad-cow tongue wag, picking up a napkin, moistening it with some saliva, reaching across the table, grabbing their face with one hand, and rubbing the spot with the spit-slick cloth just like she used to do with me when I was a kid.

Because, you know, that's like way hotter.

A talking cake

Most of the parents are in the kitchen and the children are running around the main floor of the house. It’s my niece’s birthday party and the walls reverberate with the sound of voices squealing, screaming, taunting and talking.

My sister, her husband, and I are in the dining room. The three of us are eating a piece of the Dora the Explorer ice cream cake from Dairy Queen. It’s delicious. A layer of vanilla, soft-serve ice cream, followed by crushed cookies, fudge, a layer of chocolate ice cream, another layer vanilla ice cream, and finally a ½ inch of whipped cream.

Looking at the cake from across the room instantly adds two pounds to your frame.

With the plate close to my face, I fork a piece and place it in my mouth. Out of nowhere, I hear a distinct voice.

“¡Vamonos!”

“What the hell is that? You bought a talking cake?” I mumble with the melting ice cream in my mouth, sounding like a reject from a Martin Scorcese film.

“Steven, it’s the book,” says my sister.

“What book?”

“The book on the table.”

“What book on the table?”

“This book,” says my sister’s friend, N, as she points to the table.

With the plate so close to my face, I wasn’t able to see anything except for the Royal Chinet logo. From my perspective, the book didn’t exist since it wasn’t in my field of view.

“Oh, that book,” I say as I place the plate on the table. Beneath the plate is a talking Dora the Explorer book. “I can’t see anything except for this.” I make a large circle on the table. “You know, I was beginning to wonder…”

And, I’m sure so was my sister.

DIY makes me high

The worst part of every paint job isn’t the prep, the trim work, or the actual painting. The worst part entails the clean up – specifically, anything that has to do with the brushes. It’s messy, but someone has to do it. And, that someone is usually me.

Since the paint is latex-based, a little bit of water and a lot of patience are the only things required. But, this time, the paint was on one brush for a little longer than normal. It’s dry and hard. The bristles don’t bend. So, out comes the paint thinner.

The brush is placed – vertically – in a can filled with thinner for it to work its magic. When it’s time to wash the brush and remove any excess paint, it bristles are rinsed under a running tap of hot water.

As I’m rubbing the bristles with my thumbs, I lean in over the sink, not expecting anything in particular. Then it hits me.

“WHOA!”

The smell slams into me like a brick wall accelerating at 200 km/h, my face ramming into the powerful aroma of the paint thinner. My head spins from the impact, I bounce back, and my ass hits the ground.

Although the scent is almost undetectable, it’s incredibly potent. It’s no surprise addicts soak rags with this shit. Inhale a few times and get lost in the reverie. Unfortunately, the high is as great as the crash.

Should I purchase new paint brushes, or should I let someone else paint the room for next time?

Whatever happens, I'll make sure to have some extra paint thinner on hand.

25 plus

It's Sunday afternoon and my father, mother, and I are all watching the sun set while drinking coffee at Tim Hortons. As I blow the steam off the top of the cup, I listen to my parents guesstimate my sister's age.

“She’s turning 34 next year,” says my father.

“No, she’s not,” scoffs my mother.

“Yes, she is. She was born in 197-“ I cut off my father while he’s counting with his fingers.

“She’s turning 35,” I say holding the cup, trying to warm my hands. “And the reason why I know is because I’m turning 25 in exactly one month.”

My mother looks at me with a don’t fuck with your mama face.

“Well, it isn’t like I don’t look my age.” I almost bury my nose in the cup, take a sip of my coffee and glance upwards.

“You look like a 17-year-old boy,” my mother says as she points at my chest, disappointed that I don’t look as haggard as I’m supposed to look.

“I wouldn’t say 17, but I get 24 a lot.”

“Hmph.” She turns away from me and towards my father. “Look at me,” she says, turning her head side to side as if she’s in a shampoo commercial. “People think I’m 50.”

“Too bad you’re really 62.” I reply a little too quickly out of habit. Both my father and I giggle and a few drops of coffee splashes from our cups.

“Shut up.” My mother slaps my arm with her coffee-free hand.

“Well, if you can be 50 plus, then I can be 25 plus,” I say.

And, thanks to dimmer switches, dark sunglasses, delusion, and decades-older people by my side, I will be for as long as I can.

Crack of my ass

For years, women have had a difficulty finding the perfect bra. The cups are not the right size, the straps dig into their shoulders, they don’t provide enough support, are just some of the complaints.

So, companies listened to them and made multiple varieties of sizes and styles to fit the varying shapes of the womanly form.

So, why don’t they do the same thing with underwear for men?

Men come in all shapes – around the mid-section. They don’t all look like the Ken doll that is featured on the packaging. Some are thinner, some are thicker. But, even with the S-XL sizing, there are other problems with underwear:

- Too much cotton, not enough stretch
- Too much stretch, not enough cotton
- Too big and baggy, or too small and confining
- They ride up with wear, or they sag where they shouldn’t
- Too much space for small behinds
- Too little space for, well… you know

For me, finding a half-decent, modestly-priced pair of underwear (I don’t wear them that often, so they shouldn’t cost a fortune) takes forever.

And, I’ve had practice.

Once, I had a pair whose elastic wore on the right side and not on the left. After a day of walking around, I was left with a ½ thong – the stupid underwear on the right side bunched up and rolled up my ass crack. So, the rest of the day was spent twitching and picking at my ass, pulling out the offending fabric, only to do it again if I walked more than 10 feet.

Whatever.

Maybe I should give up and wear the ones I own… Or, maybe I should just move to a climate where it’s underwear optional.

Note: If any underwear company reads this, I’d be happy to take anything you send me (size small). I'd even take photos if you send over a few pairs. It's free PR! It's win-win for everyone!

You like to watch, don't you?

There are people who like to watch and not participate. Their eyes do it all. They get more pleasure out of being passive. They’d rather see other people do their dirty work, then having to break into a sweat.

It’s like those people who visit your site and never bother to comment.

You know who you are, and thanks to the creators of sitemeter, so do I.

Although there’s no law that says they have to comment, but if you come back time and time again, there must be a reason for that.

True, there are times nothing interests them and a comment isn't required. In fact, there are people who comment all the time who have nothing to say… thankfully, none of them do that with this site because they’re all brilliant and beautiful.

So, to the returning customers (we both know who you are), it’s not polite to ask for the washroom key if you’re not going to buy something at the counter.

I’m not saying that you have to leave a comment whenever you pass by, but it would be great if you said hello.

And, a bundt cake would be nice, too.

Waking nightmare

It’s late and I can’t sleep. The minutes pass and turn into hours. I’m rolling around in bed, uncomfortable. My mind is going in all different directions. And, all of this is about my day tomorrow.

For the first time ever, I am going to take care of my niece – alone.

Although I have played with her for hours before, there were always responsible people around (her parents, her grandmother). But, since no one will be around, caution shouldn’t be thrown out the window, but rolled-up in bubble-wrap and wearing a safety helmet.

Being one who has a semi-active imagination, there are endless scenarios of horror running through my mind.

She chokes on something. She crashes through a window. She learns a curse word (from, uh, Sesame Street). She falls down the stairs. She severs a limb. She wears an outfit that doesn’t match and has her Dora the Explorer undies peeking from her waistband.

The terror is enough to keep me awake through the night.

The next day, I stick to her like velcro.

I place pillows on the floor in case she falls. I hover over her at the park while she's on the jungle gym. I cut her food into teeny-tiny pieces to avoid choking. I hover her over the toilet seat so she doesn't fall in when tinkling. I keep an eye on her while she's drinking her milk before I put her down to sleep for her afternoon nap.

Even though nothing happens to her, I'm paranoid. The last thing I want is to to face her parents after they find their child looking like Mike Tyson went six rounds with her in the ring.

When my sister comes home from her day of work, I’m ready for her to take over while I have a drink… and take a nap.

Green sateen

Although style is subjective, there is no grey area between good and bad taste. No one knows this better than me, and knows it least than my mother.

“Steven, what do you think about this?” says my mother as she opens a Linens ‘n Things flyer in front of me.

“What?” I search the page with my eyes.

“This.” She points to a comforter set, with a black-cream-green stripe pattern in a shiny sateen finish. “I was thinking of getting that for you because I don’t like the one you have on your bed right now.”

“I don’t care if you don’t like my comforter, because I like it,” I say. “And, anyway,” I wave my hand over the photo, “that’s ugly.”

“UGLY?” She’s clearly insulted because I made a negative comment about her taste. For years, she’s been imposing her sartorial selections on me, to no avail. She thinks I should buy clothes three times my size because I shouldn’t show people how thin I am, because thinness is an inverse reflection of prosperity. “That’s your style.”

“No, I don’t like that. THAT,” I point to the page, bending it under the pressure of my index finger, “is ugly.”

“Why do you say it’s ugly?” She puts her hand on her hip.

“First off, it’s sateen. Sateen looks like cheap polyester.” Not to mention that you slide off the bed the moment you sit on it, and it looks like it came off the set of a bad porno movie. “Second, there’s green in it. I don’t like green.”

“There isn’t green.”

“Yes, there is.” I point to the green stripe that repeats every third band.

“That isn’t green,” she says as she leans in closer to the image.

“Right there.” I point to the stripe. “It’s green. And. I. Don’t. Like. It.”

“Ugh,” she huffs. “No wonder you don’t like anything. You’re so picky.”

“I’m not picky. You just don’t have any taste.”

She turns around and walks out of the kitchen while I put the Linens ‘n Things flyer in the recycling bin. There’s no arguing about shades of grey, especially when it’s green sateen.

Back in the day

Being someone who has been online for a while (and way too long, in my opinion), I find that the more things change, the more things stay the same when it comes to blogging. The popular sites are either about politics, sex, sci-fi, sex, religion, sex, nudity, sex, and, of course, sex.

As time moves on, people change – sometimes for the best, and other times, for the worst. I have nothing against change. Change is good. Change signifies progression and (hopefully) development.

But, it can also signify pandering, and – ironically – laziness.

Back in the day, I liked visiting certain cites while in their infancy, and read up on people unsure what they were doing online. As the days and months passed, they grew into fully-fledging humans, learning how to do that along the way.

Now, some of those people who I found endearing have become totally different beings. I feel like I don’t even “know” them anymore. They were so young and innocent, but turned into raging Christian, political nymphomaniac porn stars with a Star Trek/Star Wars fetish.

For some reason, it’s become an online popularity contest - who has the biggest tits, or longest dick?

That makes me sad.

Maybe I should start talking about Battlestar Galactica, or something.

Get your heart on

Just like a baseball player on a losing streak, there are countless people in the world who strike out in the game of love. It’s not that they don’t have skills or talent, it’s just that not everyone follows the same set of rules.

With over six billion people in the world, there should be a lot of love to go around. But, that’s not always the case. Love is fickle and - sometimes - non-reciprocal.

It souldn't be.


Love is love. It's free and is meant to be shared. Sometimes a little bit of love is all we need. Remind them that you’re there and you’re thinking of them. Say it with words, or show it without - it doesn't make a difference how it's done, as long as it makes a difference in the life of someone else.

So, as a token of selflessness, give a heart to someone you care for. Someone you’re thinking of and about. Someone you like. Someone you love.

Get your heart on.

Note: Make the most of this month, and remember this day.