Burning off the buzz

After a night and/or afternoon and/or morning of drinking, sometimes the best way to feel better (and less bloated) is to burn off those extra calories by doing some sort of exercise.

It doesn’t always work out that way, though.

I can’t run because I already “drunk walk” when I’m sober, so you can imagine how I run when I’m buzzed.

I can’t do crunches because they make me want to puke from flexing and releasing my abdominal muscles.

I can’t do push ups because I can barely do them when I haven’t had a thing to drink.

I can’t do squats because the position reminds me something that I should be doing but can’t, so I end up in a fit of giggles.

I can’t do lunges because the forward motion makes me want to outwardly projectile whatever is left in my stomach.

In the end, I can’t do much (if not anything).

Maybe it’s better to vomit and get it over with.

It's a girl!

On Sunday, July 29, 2007...

My sister and BIL became parents, again.
My neice turned into an older sister.
My parents were grand once more.

And, I became an uncle for the second time.

How zitty

Puberty is a time where your body changes in ways you never expected. Some changes are good, some bad. And, some changes will stick with you, even though you’ve left puberty behind in high school with your acid-washed jeans.

You can never forget puberty because it’s a time in your life where it’s marked with a series of zits. And, some of those zits carry on into adulthood.

Even though my teens have passed, I still get residual pimples from not experiencing them first hand during the ages of 13-19. Thankfully, I don’t get many, but when I do, they’re in the worst possible places (and right before a special event).

Most of my blemishes appear around the sides of my face, which isn’t so bad. They’re usually due to ingrown hairs that never break the surface of the epidermis.

The other ones that show up are usually in and around my nose. If they were tiny, I wouldn’t mind. But, they’re not. They’re huge, honkin’ zits that look like red speed bumps on a freshly paved road. And, they’re hardly ever on the side, but on the front and near the tip of my nose.

The song, “Rudolph, the red-nosed reindeer,” can be heard when I step outside. It’s embarrassing because they’re noticeable; outer space noticeable. Putting on concealer brings more attention to it, and there’s no zit cream to make them go down, because they’re technically a tumour.

Is this payback for my zitless teen years? It must be.

Who wears short shorts?

Since summer lasts for a few paltry months in Canada, there really isn’t a reason for me to buy shorts, because the ones I have, I barely use.

Most of the time I’m wearing dress pants for work, or jeans/chinos for more casual outings. If I have to throw on a pair of shorts, it’s usually to wear around my place or if/when I have to go outside and mow the lawn.

So, I have to live with the ones I have.

With a belt, they appear to pouf outwards. For the fashion crowd, I could always say Balenciaga is playing with proportion this season to see if they shut up (or understand what I’m talking about).

If I don’t have a belt, they fall right off. And, since I don’t wear anything under shorts…

In the end, it’s a no-win situation. I can wear shorts that don’t fit, or I can buy shorts that I won’t wear.

Stood up while sitting down

It’s 8:25 and Starbucks is full of students, talking audibly over the light jazz music. J isn’t there, yet. I make a clockwise walk around the coffee shop, and I pull up a chair to a small table near the front so J can see me. Its comfort level is that of a block of wood.

For the next few minutes, I glance at the door whenever it opens - a couple of students, a few older couples, and the occasional yuppie. None of them are J.

Out comes some reading material to keep my mind off the wait. With each page flip, a minute passes. Before I know it, 15 minutes have ticked away on my watch. I call J, but there isn’t an answer. J doesn’t call or text me.

What’s going on? I wonder. Why doesn’t J call me?

As time passes, I read more and grow impatient. My fingers begin to tap the table in a percussive beat. The minutes turn into seconds and I start to stare at the door, thinking that if I concentrate enough, J will walk through. It doesn’t happen.

The baristas walk by my table a few times and give me look. I haven’t ordered anything because I thought it would be rude to be drinking before my guest arrives. I know it looks like I’m loitering, but if they knew what was going on, they’d offer me something to drink, like a scotch.

I pull out my phone and see if there are any missed messages. Not one. I make a few phone calls to friends to see whether, or not, they want to chat for a few minutes; my luck entails talking on the phone, and someone appearing. No one is home and every phone call results in a series of pathetic messages on voicemail.

It’s now 9 o’clock. I’ve waited more than ½ hour for J to arrive, and I am still sitting at Starbucks.

I’ve been stood up while sitting down. Fuck.

I hope J had a terrible accident and is lying in the hospital, with several broken limbs and a lack of pain medication.

Thinking of that is the only way I’ll feel better... for now.

Note: This post is brought to you by WTF Wednesdays.

Coke and bulemia

Whenever someone asks me what my secret is to keeping weight off, I tell them in three words: coke and bulimia.

For those who know me, know I’m kidding. For those who don’t know me, think I’m serious because I say this “secret” with a straight face, and flat, unaffected tone of voice.

In all honesty, I have never done cocaine. The strongest drug I’ve ever done was heroin, but I stopped because it was an incredibly expensive habit and I couldn’t continue being a call boy to pay for it because it took away from my other addictions that I had to support.

Bulemia just got messy, and I just don't have the time to be constantly cleaning up after myself. And, the dry cleaning bills were beyond.

But, the C&B answer is incredibly insensitive to those afflicted. There are family and friends I know who have been through drug addiction as well as eating disorders. What was initially intended as a joke, now seems cruel. I never wanted to make them feel bad, or worse, for what they’ve gone and are currently going through.

So, that joke isn’t said anymore.

Now, I have to say my “secret” to weight loss is a healthy diet and moderate exercise, but that sounds so boring.

Then again, I could always I starve myself.

Note: And, I have never done drugs. That was a joke.

Stuck on my forehead

It’s hot and I’ve been running from one side of the city to the other for the past hour. Beads of sweat are forming around my hairline and streams of it are rolling down my back. Thankfully, my suit jacket hides the perspiration marks.

To freshen up, I make a detour towards a chichi mall in the centre of the city. Years ago, their public washrooms were the crème-de-la-crème in restrooms. They’re not anymore, but they’re better than doing your business in an alleyway.

As I enter the restroom, I look for the paper towel dispenser. It's empty and needs to be refilled. There’s a hand-blower, but that won’t do much good. I need something to absorb the moisture. So, I step into a stall and pull out wads of toilet paper. The paper is dabbed across my forehead and face, around my neck, and under my arms. I can’t reach my back without taking off my dress shirt, so I leave it.

When I’m done, I flush the paper down the toilet and step out of the stall. A man appears and gives me a strange look. He must’ve seen me dry myself off. I walk out of the restroom and make my way outside.

Passing by a store’s vitrine, I see there’s something on my face. Something white. A big piece of toilet paper is stuck on my forehead. Not only that, there are also a few strips on the side of my face and one on my neck. I resemble a mummy that was just unwrapped.

I quickly pull them off. Hopefully nobody saw the mess I was in. Next time I have to make sure to check the mirror inside the restroom before I leave.

Type casting

For years, I assumed that my type was of the dark hair, dark eyes variety; a fact of similar likes attracting. But, recently, I’ve been looking at a lot more blondes. Opposites attract, too, apparently.

They can have light-coloured hair, or highlights. The hair colour can be natural, or processed. And, they don’t have to be blonde, now - they could’ve been blonde years ago, in their younger days.

Why is that?

Blondes aren’t always better looking, or more youthful than brunettes. They’re not smarter, wiser, richer, etc. than their raven-haired counterparts. In fact, when it comes to sex appeal, those with dark hair usually have a leg up on their flaxen-haired competitors.

It’s not about the psychological hoo-ha of (natural) blondes being rare in the world (L’Oréal took care of that). It’s not about innocence and purity, and capturing the essence of youth. It’s not the halo effect that occurs when the sun hits their hair, and a soft glow of light frames their face.

It’s not any of these things, yet they still make me turn my head.

And, I don’t know why that happens.

Fingerling Ling Ling

He’s sitting across from me at the table and I can’t help but look at his hands. Specifically, I’m staring at his nails. It’s as if he was ravenous after his meal, and decided to gnaw his fingers for dessert.

As good-looking as he is, his hands take him down a notch in the appearance category. And, I don’t want those nails anywhere near me because they look like they can leave a nasty scratch.

Ever since I was a young boy, my father always told me that your hands and your shoes say a lot about your appearance. Even the best suit, sweetest-smelling cologne, or snazziest haircut can’t hide the fact that you have hands that look worse-for-wear.

I understand his point.

In his youth, he didn’t have a lot of money to spend on his appearance, so he took care of what he had. As a manual labourer, his hands could get roughed-up, but he took care of them because even though he worked with them, he didn’t want to give the impression that he didn’t care about them.

Do you want someone to shake your hand who looks like they’ve been touching hydrochloric acid? Not me. Money can’t hide the fact that you don’t care about the basics.

So, my hands are always well-kept. They’re (typically) well-moisturized. The nails are trimmed and shaped, clean, with no sludge between them.


Ling Ling can’t do what I do for the price, which is, of course, nothing, because I take care of them at home and not at a salon.

The shoes are another story for another time…

Slutty cheerleader

Back in high school, there was a popularity hierarchy. The geeks, nerds, artists and social outcasts at the bottom, while the cheerleaders (and to a lesser extent, the jocks) at the top. They were the pinnacle of the social echelon – no one could outrank them.

Yet, amongst that group was – usually – one girl who wasn’t as pretty or talented with her tumbling as the other ones, so she made up for it by giving hand jobs, blowjobs and fucking any ranking male that asked. In short, she was a slut.

Some of those people are like cheerleaders of today. They don’t have the pom-poms, the short shorts, or the cheering, but there’s still plenty of screaming.

Quite often they're nice and friendly, since no one is attracted to a mean and bitchy slut.

Without probing their minds (unlike their other body parts), they're making up for some other vacancy (physical, psychological, etc.) by being promiscuous. They believe their availability will make others like them. What they don’t realize is they’re not wanted for their soul, but for their hole.

Will they ever learn that they’re not wanted for whom they are, but for what (and who) they can do? Will they care their reputation will be that of the loose girl that everyone talks about behind her back? I don’t know, but sluts aren’t hot when they're older and desperate (which means, by their mid-20s, it’s over).

One, two, three, four, you’re not cute, you’re just a whore!
Two, four, six, eight, slutting it won’t make you great!
GO TEAM!

Crackle and pop

Most people can crack their joints. Whether it’s their fingers, toes, necks, or jaws (ouch!), it doesn’t require much effort. The sound is what alerts people to a successful pop.

But, how does it happen? To quote Wikipedia…

“When a manipulation is performed, the applied force separates the articular surfaces of a fully encapsulated synovial joint, which in turn creates a reduction in pressure within the joint cavity. In this low pressure environment, some of the gases that are dissolved in the synovial fluid (which are naturally found in all bodily fluids) leave solution creating a bubble or cavity, which rapidly collapses upon itself, resulting in a "clicking" sound…”

Although I can easily crack my fingers (it relaxes them after clicking away on a keyboard), I’ve recently discovered I am able to crack my chest. It's audible and in stereophonic sound. It happens when I get up or sit down, and I have to use my arms to push my chest forward/backwards. Oddly enough, it doesn't occur when I'm krumping.

It could be due to odd positioning when sleeping (I don’t get to sleep much), improper form when exercising (I don't exercise, so that’s ruled out), or getting older (again, not bloody likely).

Is this unusual? Is it supposed to mean something? And, why do I immediately have a craving for Rice Krispies when it happens?

Rhymes with pucks

It’s difficult being the person who has an ear for listening, a shoulder to lean on, and an answer for everything. Like family, you’re there for them when they need you, because you feel like it’s genetically-ingrained inside yourself.

But, sometimes you don’t want to be someone’s friend for the reason that you want them to be something else.

For example, they ramble on (while you nod your head) about their boyfriends/girlfriends, their exes, their sex life, their family problems, their pets, their jobs, their home, etc., and then you start to wonder what they look like under their clothes, if their legs are flexible enough to reach your shoulders, and whether or not they like it quick and nasty.

They don't even realize you're not paying attention and their only reaction occurs when they ask you why you're looking at them strangely.

You come up with some lame excuse, begin to nod in agreement to their selfish discourse, and don’t do anything because you’re afraid of what their reaction will be, even though it would be interesting to see if they appreciate being thrown on a raggedy, wooden table at the coffee shop, squishing their danish on their backside while you attempt to tear the clothes off their bodies.

It never happens, though, and it rhymes with pucks.

It's so much easier being an asshole

Nice people have a difficult reputation to live up to because they are never allowed to be anything other than pleasant. If they have one bad day, BAM! it's all changed.

Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth being nice all the time. When I’m nice, things are great for everyone involved:

I write them a note when they’re not feeling well. I send my condolences about a family member or friend. I call them so they know they’re being thought about. I give them a gift to put a smile on their face. I make them feel like they’re cared for and someone is thinking about them.

That’s what I do when I care about someone.

But, then they turn it around on you. They tell you to back off. They want you to stop doing what you’re doing. It’s making them feel uncomfortable. You’re pushing yourself on them. They feel smothered. They can’t breathe. They need their space. And, they don’t want you anywhere near them.

You’re labelled an asshole because you're doing these things for them. I thought it was me being nice. Don't people want to be treated well? Apparently not.

On the bright side, at least when you’re an asshole, no one has high expectations. And, I don’t need that kind of stress in my life.

Why should I bother to care when it’s so much easier being an asshole?

Being mouthy

Ellen DeGeneres has said that people think she’s sad when she relaxes the muscles in her face because her mouth turns downwards and forms a frown. She then corrects others by telling them she’s fine, even though they show concern, thinking she’s not having a good day.

I can understand where she’s coming from.

When I relax the muscles in my face, I have people ask me whether I’m angry. To start, my mouth doesn’t turn up in a smile. Because of my jawline, my lips push outwards and it looks like I’m pouting (which I naturally do, but not on purpose). It also doesn’t help that I grind my teeth unconsciously.

When I do smile, my mouth shows a set of straight teeth, and I have a pair of dimples so deep you want to spackle them.

Unfortunately, I don’t always smile because I’d look like Jack Nicholson, playing the Joker in Batman, and that’s not a look that I aspire to. So for now, I’m going to have to hear people ask me if I’m angry… And, I'm not angry, goddamnit!

I'm sorta happy.

Mood swings

Looking back at the past few months of posts, I can't help but be amazed at how my state of mind fluctuates from one extreme to another. These mood swings go up and down, and back and forth.

I'm everything, and nothing at once; practically schizophrenic.

From my writings, I can see that I have been...

Angry, happy, manic, depressive, impatient, overly patient, mean, kind, nasty, bitchy, moody, broody, hot, cold, brutal, sensitive, crappy, sappy, stressed, chilled, disappointed, elated, expressive, repressive, flirty, frigid, etc.

And, those are the ones I remember.

Hopefully, I can forget them pretty quickly because I have another wave of mood swings about to come.

Bump on the noggin'

Even though I can’t stand my hair on days that end with the word ‘day,’ there are three reasons why I would never shave my head bald:

One is that I don’t like the shape of my head.

Two is that my head is much paler than the rest of my face/body.

Three is that I have a bump on my head.

Out of all of them, the third is the most disconcerting (and less vanity-ridden).

A few years ago, I went to my doctor and informed him of my bump. I asked if it was a tumour, of sorts. He told me it was nothing; a follicular infection in the inner layers of the epidermis. Since, he was my doctor, I believed him.

But, the bump has grown. It’s bigger. Harder. More obvious. It can be seen on the top of my head, whereas before, it wasn’t. And, there is no amount of thick and wavy/curly hair that can hide it.

Could it be The Big C? Could it be something life-threatening? Could it be psychosomatic and I'm just overreacting?

It’s probably nothing, though. Cancer schmancer. There is no one who has ever had a cerebral tumour for several years and live. If not, maybe I’ll be the first.

Flake out

Decisiveness is a virtue that many people don’t have, and those that do may consider it a curse, of sorts. You make a decision and you stick with it. You know what you want and you want what you know. Whatever the end result, you’re stuck with it.

Yet, some people are very indecisive. They’re like a set of fingers running through a dry scalp during the wintertime, and dandruff appears; really flakey.

And, I attract them. Every. Single. One.

At the start, they’re all, You're hot... When do you wanna meet up? then forget who I am like they have ADD. I tell them when and where I have time to fit them into my schedule - I’m busy and I’m not going to drop everything at a moment’s notice.

After I don’t hear from them, I tell them I'm fine if they don’t wanna meet up because I’m cool with that. Then they remember you and ask you when are you free. You give them the day (again), tell them to call you (again), and wait for a response (which doesn’t come, again).

Before cancelling, you send them one last note. You’re all like, Hope you had a great time, and shit, all the while you're hoping they're at the bottom of the lake, wearing the latest concrete footwear. Their response is akin to pretending like this is the first time you ever contacted them. Then they ask: When are you avail?

That’s when I officially freak the fuck out. I don't care how cute they are, treating people like that is a no-no in my book; a total turn-off.

What’s worse is I later find out they’ve been going around, trying to set something up with other people. What the fuck? Do you wanna get with me, or not?

Of course, this only happens to me because I’m decisive in the flakes that I hang around. Too bad I can’t treat them with Nizoral.

Blueberry milkshit

It’s a few minutes before I leave my place, and I have to put something in the trash outside. When I swing back the door, I look at my car and see them: a series of spots on the hood of my car. Lovely.

For some reason, the shit isn’t white. It's a blueberry milkshit; swirls of white and blue. It has streamed – diagonally – across the hood of my car, onto the roof and across the passenger side windows. This bird had a serious case of the runs.

I roll my eyes.

The trash is put away and I pull out the watering hose. The valve for the water is turned on. I’m not going to use soap, because I’m just trying to spray the shit off the car before it ruins the midnight blue paint finish of my Little Lexus.

While I spray off the shit, I rub my finger along the metal of the car because the shit hardened. The heat from the sun must’ve caked on the crap.

After a few more sprays with the hose, it’s clean. No more blueberry milkshit. While I’m near the trunk of the car, I hear a distinct sound before I walk towards the front. It’s similar to a small rubber ball hitting a piece of metal.

What’s that noise? I think.

I look at the hood and see a bird has shit on it. Whether it's the same one, or not, I don't know. The shit made a splatter so wide, it’s the size of a small pizza. This time it doesn’t resemble blueberry milkshit, but melted cookies-and-cream ice cream.

Still holding the watering hose in my hand, I look up to the sky, look down and start laughing.

“There is no way this just happened,” I say. It’s like symbolism on top of symbolism. “It’s too ironic, even for me.” The neurotic cleaner gets crapped on, again and again.

Up goes the watering hose and I spray the hood of the car again. When the hood is shitless, I get a shammy and dry the sopping liquid. What’s left is a gleaming example of Toyota’s technology.

When I’m done, I think, Of course, if I tell this to someone, they’ll think I’m exaggerating. All of my stories sound like stories because of situations like this. No one can write life better than how I live it.

Sadly, I’m not telling stories. My life really is full of irony.

And, shit.

A matter of inches

One of the greatest pleasures of losing weight is being able to fit into clothes that you weren’t able to not too long ago. The bad thing is that you sometimes have to get all new clothes while the pounds keep on dropping like bombs at Hiroshima.

There wouldn’t be an issue if I have money (and time) to replenish my wardrobe. But, I don’t have enough of one and I surely don’t have any of the other.

The moment I begin to lose weight, the inches immediately come off my waist and the rest comes off my ass. Thankfully, only one of them gets flatter.

There’s a growing problem when your waist shrinks from 30 inches to 27 inches. Huge problem. One of them is that there isn’t much of a selection for clothing (the kid’s section of the store is not an option because they're not long enough - believe me, I've looked). The clothes that are that size are made for people who have no body definition (I've got runner's legs and a round ass).

The other problem is that I used to be able to stick a couple of fingers next to my waist when I pulled my pants to the side. Now, when I pull them to the side, I can stick my hand down my pants.

If I jump up and down a few times, the pants come right off.

All of these problems make me want to gain the weight back so I can fit back in the clothes…

Picture this...

Recently, someone asked me the reason why I write about events that take place in the past and talk about them like they happen in the present.

The reason is three-fold.

First, I would rather describe what goes on in my life in an active, not passive voice (this ain't no "Dear Diary" shit). The feeling is evocative of having someone else sitting there and participating in the event.

Second, I find passive tense comes across as boring, and not exciting or entertaining. “I’m stripping in front of a crowd of oglers” sounds much better than “I stripped in front of a crowd of oglers” in my opinion.

Third, even though most of my posts are current, there are days when nothing happens and others where several things happen. God forbid if I went a week with only, "Nothing happened today. Nothing happened on Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday. Now, Friday... well, nothing happened on Friday, either."

To put it simply, if the post sounds angry, crazy, frantic or funny, it's recent. If the post asks a series of questions (of which, I answer each of them with an assertive flair), then it's not as recent.

To me, stories are memories. Some stories are told once a week, sometimes several a day. You pick one off the shelf and dive into the narrative, going with the current, feeling the story wash over you.

In a way, it’s almost as if Sophia Petrillo, from the Golden Girls, is telling you a parable.

Now, picture this… Present day.

You’re sitting in front of a computer screen, fingers diddling on a mouse, adjusting yourself in your seat. The witty words are entertaining and you don’t turn away. You’re mesmerized by the content…

Note: To all those south of the border, have a happy 4th of July.

To the woman sitting behind me in the movie theatre

Hey.

You don’t know me, but I know you. In fact, I think I know you very well. You may not recognize my face, but you know what the back of my head looks like since you were sitting behind me in the movie theatre.

But, I’m sure you weren’t interested in me. You, like everyone else in the room, were there to watch the Canadian premiere of Rescue Dawn, starring Christian Bale.

Now, I realize you and your girlfriend were excited about taking part in this event, but when the lights dimmed and the movie began, your overzealousness began rattling my nerves. Why, you ask? Well, let me remind you…

This is a film, based on a documentary, about one man’s war in a POW camp. It isn’t a comedy. The reason why I have to reinstate the fact it isn’t a comedy is because you and your chick friend were clucking all the way through it. True, there were some parts where you have to chuckle because of the fish-out-of-water situations Bale’s character is put through, but you don't have to be a hysterical hyena when people are getting tortured and slaughtered.

And, I know I wasn’t the only one who wanted to shush you (only because giving you the evil eye in the dark doesn’t make any sense, unless you’re Catholic). It's too bad I wasn't sitting behind you, because I could've thrown popcorn in your hair (if I bought any - $5 for a pocket-sized bag? Suck my dick!), or kicked your seat for two hours like those annoying 5 year olds who can get away with murder due to passive parenting.

Oh, and before I forget, shut the fuck up next time you’re in a movie theatre, filled with almost 100 people who want to watch what’s on screen without having to hear you roar with laughter every five minutes.

POW films are not funny, you fuckin’ idiot.

Best,
Steven.

Holid-eh

If you're living in Canada, you're probably not working because it's a holid-eh.

If you're not living in Canada, you're probably at work reading this because you're bored.

Either way, have a drink (or six) and enjoy the day because I'll try... to have six drinks, that is.