I'm her bitch

It’s that time of the year, again. The kids have their costumes ready. The parents are decorating their front porches. The candy has been bought. And, dentists are expecting a lot of tooth decay in the upcoming weeks. It’s almost Hallowe’en and everyone is excited.

Except me.

I never really cared for Hallowe’en when I was a child, and I still don’t, now that I’m an adult. But, for some reason, a lot of my classmates want to wear costumes for the occasion for school. They’re even asking me to join in on the ‘fun’ but I’m just not into dressing up.

If anyone ever sees me, they know my look resembles the latest Michael Kors collection - clean, comfortable, and cashmere. And, even if I did dress up, it would be more along the lines of Dolce then Dracula.

But, just to shut them up, I go along for the ride, and pair up with A because two are better than one. We want to see the reactions on everyone's faces. To up the secrecy, a pact is made: All of the costumes are kept secret until the 31st.

**

Hallowe’en arrives and everyone shows up, one at a time. No one is dressed in their costumes, yet. We all get ready before first period. By the time we walk into class, there are some laughs and some quizzical facial expressions. The teacher walks in and sees that ½ of the class has costumes, the others don’t. He asks us who we are and what we’re supposed to be.

One by one, we give our answers.

There’s a French maid, the Uma Thurman character from Pulp Fiction (syringe, and all), a Jewish Pimp, and a couple of others.

When he approaches my partner and I, he looks down at her, and from the look on his face, has no idea what she is. She’s dressed in a halter top, short-shorts, fishnet stockings, high heels, and carrying a whip – all in black.

“I’m a dominatrix,” she says, a smirk on her face.

“Ok, then…” his voice trails off. “Uh, Steven, what are you supposed to be?”

For those who are accustomed to seeing the class smarty pants in sweater vests and turtlenecks, now see me dressed in a tight, black t-shirt and pants, with handcuffs, and a choke collar around my neck.

“I’m her bitch,” I say as I nod my head towards A.

The students laughter verge on hysterics. The teacher looks at me, nods his head, and goes back to the front of the class.

He should've known never to ask if he doesn't want to know the answer.

Note: This happened a couple of years ago (post-grad school), but I still think it's a funny story. And, it was the only time I was someone's bitch.

Scrubbing toilets

While perusing the Internet, I sometimes come across the lives of some who are well off. It's a fabulous life that they lead: travel at a whim’s notice, go to great parties, meet interesting people, and of course, do all of the above while wearing the latest of designer duds.

But, on closer inspection, you can see the money tree doesn't grow in their backyard.

They're not raking in the dough at their jobs. Many of them do not have jobs that pay more than six figures. In fact, many of them make about the same as me. Yet, when they spend, they spend big (creditors must love them).

How do they do it? Do they produce twenties on their HP printer? Are they blackmailing someone? Are they committing fraud? Do they have a sugar daddy/mommy to keep them living the life they’ve grown accustomed to even though they probably grew up in Bumfuck, Nowhere?

Nah. I'm thinking it's their connections. They know someone who knows someone who knows someone who happens to own a yacht, and lucky for them, they happen to be there with their brand spankin' new digital camera (courtesy of VISA) to capture the memories that are fleeting before the Queen Mary Jr. docks.

I have to get my ass in gear and find someone who knows someone who knows someone who can get me a job cleaning the toilets of these rich people. I mean, that's gotta pay, like, $20/hr, right?

Cha-ching!

Flirts are teases without the touching

Even though the dictionary describes flirting as the act of courting triflingly or act amorously without serious intentions, I don’t particularly enjoy it. It’s fine for about five seconds, but I stop at second six. Why? It isn’t beneficial for various reasons.

The first reason is because flirting is done as a means to get something out of someone else; a reaction, mostly. When I want something from someone, I ask for it. I don’t play games, or act coy. Impatience has taught me that a little too well.

The second reason is that I really don’t like is when the other person doesn’t stop… and then you start to get the wrong impression. And, that impression always leads you down the one path that the cynic in you doesn’t want. Do they like me? Why else would they be acting that way if they didn’t? But, if they’re flirting, then does that mean they don’t really like me and are just playing a game?

Of course, I’d rather know to save me from any potential heartbreak, but a part of me wants to keep believing they really like me because that thought is what keeps hope alive.

Do single people have better stories?

While persuing my list of daily reads, there are always a few that peak my interest more than others simply because of the people who are behind these sites. Quite often, their lives are full of interesting experiences that perk my brain into reading more, and knowing more about them.

And, they’re usually single.

Because they don’t – normally – have the additional responsilities of partners/spouses/children, they’re able to live their lives for themselves. It may sound selfish, but they’re single, not martyrs.

At the drop of a hat, they’re able to do what they want and go where they please, without having to check in. You read of great parties, dating horrors, amazing trips, and all of the fabulous people associated with them. You can just imagine them regaling others at a soiree with tales of their escapades. It’s like a Jackie Collins novel coming to life.

It’s not to say that those who are coupled/married are bores. They tend to go on about the same things, and most of them involves their families (and mortgages - yawn). Personally, I find a poo story or renovation-gone-wild excerpt more entertaining than someone’s weekend of binge drinking.

Of course, those that I do read, I read them for a reason. They are interesting in their own way. If I didn’t like them, I wouldn’t read them, at all.

Single, or not single, it’s all a wash in the end. No matter your relationship status, if you’re boring, you’re boring. And, that's even worse than being married.

Pick up the phone, but there's nobody home

Not too long ago, someone called me and left a message on my phone. Since I wasn’t home all weekend, I didn’t call back. When I did get the chance to call back, it was too late at night, so I thought it was a kind gesture to send an e-mail to say I was sorry but I was out all weekend and couldn’t return the phone call.

What I got back wasn’t what I expected.

Turns out, the caller is pissed. Pissed because I was inconsiderate and didn’t return the call immediately. And, now the caller isn’t talking to me. Ironic, n’est-ce pas?

Being diplomatic, I send another note saying I'm sorry, but I can’t return calls (or listen to messages) when I’m not near a phone.

Why, you ask, do I send a second note when calling seems to be the better route for reconciliation?

The reason is twofold: I'm expecting a passive-aggressive tongue-lashing, and by the time I call, they're already asleep because of their schedule.

One little phone call, one big problem. So, from now on I'm going to stay far away from all forms of communication because no one ever understands me.

Stop complaining

People should stop complaining for what they don’t have and focus on what they do. All of it is negative, and none of it is positive.

For example, last week I complained about a couple of situations in my life that are in desperate need of being rectified. I spoke of my past and my present, and said that my future should reflect all of my hard work up to that point. Of course, I received a couple of - paraphrased - comments telling me to shut up and quit bitching because I don't have it that bad. They're right, but I feel better after complaining. Doesn't anyone?

It's true that my employment situation varies, but it’s something I love to do. There is money in the bank, and I am not dead-ass broke like last year (or living under a bridge - yet). The list of friends is growing after a series of people decided to excommunicate me - near, far and in-between. My mind and body are in better shape than ever.

Even though I don’t have a ton of money, a nice place to live, the chance to travel much, the ability to make people disappear, and the matter of being single while scaring others away (the new new X-Men character, Repello, is based on me), I should be grateful for what I have.

It’s an automatic, emotional response. I should reflect on what is right with my life, instead of focusing on what is wrong. But, I'm still going to complain to anyone who will listen because it's a lot cheaper than talking to a therapist.

Paralyzed and analyzed

Every once in a while, someone writes a comment that puts a smile on my face. It’s not always the same person, and it’s not always a positive comment.

In fact, there was one comment that someone wrote that made me bust out in giggles. It was the most erroneous thing about me I’ve ever come across. Even though this person knows nothing about me, they felt it was their right to psychoanalyze and insult me by saying I’m judgemental by embodying a hatred of others. To put it in layman terms, I was being called a racist.

To some, that would be a shocker, something to be paralyzed about. For me, it was a case to smirk and raise an eyebrow.

First, for those who know me (and there are very few who do), know that I have a psychology degree. A study of mine has been published. And, I continually review reports and keep up on the trends of the field. So, to psychoanalyze a psychology major - when they aren't a psychologist themselves - is pretty inane, especially if they know nothing about the other person.

Second, for those who know me (and a little bit about my background), would know that I am not white. In fact, if you look back a few generations, you would see there's a whole lot of colour there. So, to say that I am a racist against my people would not only make me a hypocrite but also a bigot (amongst other hurtful things).

Lastly, don’t bother to point a finger at me when the finger should be pointed at you. If I was a judgemental person, I'd tell that commenter to take a good look in the mirror, but I'm not going to because that's not the sort of person I am.

Chocolatey goodness

Every year, around the same time, I make my trek to Wal-Mart to perform a series of duties that require my full attention. It’s sets the stage for the next six months of my life, and is an incredibly important event.

I’m talking about buying Hallowe’en chocolates.

Since I didn’t care for dressing up every year on October 31st, my parents would buy me a bag of mixed candies/chocolates, and let me stay home. It didn’t require them worrying about my whereabouts, and I was safe. Also, I didn’t have to walk around in the cold (remember, this was before global warming), and I got the best stash without having to exert myself in any way.

Now, I make my pilgrimage to the big box store to stack up on what will become a daily dailliance: eating chocolate.

If I don’t get enough of it, it won’t last until Christmas. If I do, then the Christmas chocolate will last until the beginning of the year when I get Valentine’s Day hearts. When that stash is finished, there comes Easter and the gamut of chocolate eggs.

Of course, I’ll need a respite from all of that for the other six months of the year when I’ll be burning off the 15 pounds I would’ve gained after eating chocolate for the previous six.

Anyone want a piece?

Awkward, line one

There are a series of rules as to when to call someone after a first date, and none of them are simple. If you like them, it has been said to give them a call 24-48 hours after the rendez-vous. But, you have to consider how long you spent with them, what you did, if there were sparks, and if you left your underwear behind. And, it is only then that you – should – call them to say how much you enjoyed your time.

But, what if it's a non-date?

Since I’m someone who doesn’t date, I find that I’m in the middle of something that I can’t get out of. It’s like peeing in the corner of a round room: impossible to do, but when you do it, you know you’re probably doing it all wrong.

Inevitably, my phone call would sound something like this…

“Uh, yeah, this is Steven. Hope you enjoyed yourself and that you didn’t get sick… from eating the ice cream, not because you spent time with me… although that’s always possible. Ha ha. Ummm, so… I’m not really sure what the rules are on the calling back thing after a date since we didn’t go on a date, we just hung out and did some things. Hence, this phone call. So, yeah. I think that’s it. Did I confuse you? Should I talk slower…? You’re probably laughing right now, aren’t you? Oh, God. Ha ha. Uh, ok, I’ll let you go. Hope to see you soon. Bye.”

Hello, awkward, line one!

There’s no way to mask the ickiness of that conversation. One big ball of nerves, smothered in a thin layer of vomit. Sadly, I would probably be worse in person, but at least I could guage their reaction – amused, surprised, repelled.

This is one of the reasons why I don't date.

And, I won't even get into the other ones. That's a whole other story.

Nose more hair

Even though I consider myself to be (somewhat) maintenance-free, there are some things that I cannot let slide: one of them is letting unruly nose hairs escape from their inner sanctum, otherwise known as the schnoz.

Recently, I went to an event and couldn't help but stare at the number of young men (some even younger than me – impossible to fathom, I know), with bushes of hair sticking out of their noses. It was rather inelegant – my staring and their respiratory tract toupees.

Do they not see it? Are they blind in both eyes? Do they think it goes well with the hair that’s on their head? If so, why don’t they add some styling product?

As much as I want to pull out a mirror and show them that Cousin It is currently renting out space in their nasal tunnels, I don’t. Lord knows there’s always a chance one of those little fuckers can escape from my nose, too.

But, I’d rather yank the sucker out before I hear the sounds of a lawnmower in my head.

Peaked

Mountain ranges are made up of peaks and valleys. Over the grassy knolls and rocky cliffs are a series of ups and downs. Sometimes the rise is easy, sometimes the fall is hard. Either way, mountains have a lot in common with life. Spefically, mine.

**

Towards the end of high school, I thought I had it all. I was an A-student, involved in school activities, President of Students' Council for two years running, worked for a respected company, and was going to University (with a small scholarship). People liked me and I was admired by adults for being a good role model.

University came along, and – after a few shaky moments involving chemistry class and psycho roommates – became a part of life. It didn’t take me too long to find a new group of friends (whom I still talk to), do well with my studies, become the treasurer of a club in University, and graduate with an A-minus average.

After graduation… nothing.

For some reason, I thought employers would be clamouring for someone like me: young, bright, intelligent, a hard worker, well-liked, and impeccably groomed. But, I couldn’t find work, except in retail (which was fine, but a demotion, of sorts).

After going back to school and getting a second degree, I thought the same thing as before: Who wouldn’t want to have me work for them? As it turns out, no one did.

It seems like I peaked in high school and it’s been downhill ever since.

For the past few years my life has been in decline. Friends have come and gone (mostly gone), respect has flown out the window, my attitude has been in freefall, and I’ve been working from contract to contract, making the same amount of money (or no money, at all). There are people I know who are mean/cruel, did terribly in school, are horrible employees, and end up making a good life for themselves. I, on the other hand, have been told that being ambitious, driven, hard-working, and passionate are the reasons why I'm not succeeding.

And it angers me that I see others around me who continually climb the corporate ladder while I’m at the bottom, with a series of broken limbs.

Am I meant to be the one who shows all the promise, but never is given a chance? It feels like it. I hope is that I can’t be that person for the rest of my life because I don’t want the next 50 years to be as shitty as the past few.

Um thick

There comes a point in the season that’s inevitable to escape. This point marks the first concession where you have to relinquish shorts, t-shirts, and flip-flops and throw on something warmer because if you don’t you’ll catch a cold.

And, it just happened to me.

Since yesterday, I’ve been sneezing and coughing, my body aches, my head thuds, my eyes burn, my throat is dry, my tongue feels fat, I’m thirsty, I’m lethargic and sleepy, and yet, I remain incredibly hot… although that’s probably due to the fever.

The reason for my cold could be one of three situations:

I was cold from the damp and rainy weather all week and didn't wear a warm jacket when outside. Sadly, it was even fuckin' colder at night, and I forgot to add any blankets to my bed.

I was at my niece’s birthday where there were a ton of snot-nosed little rugrats running around, spreading germs, and rubbing themselves all over any object while at the jungle-gym party location.

I was walking around the city, with the crisp air wafting through my newly-shorn locks, after a lovely dinner on Saturday night because I thought it was like a scene from a French film and I didn’t want the romantic feeling to end.

Whatever the reason, I don't look half-bad.

Must be the fever talking again...

Let's not talk about sex

Even though I consider myself to be a fairly open-minded individual, there are certain things said in conversation that I don’t want to listen to, or hear about.

Namely, the sex lives of people I know.

The reason for this is simple: I want to know people as asexual beings.

Although that sounds quite ridiculous, it makes sense to me. Humans are sexual and primal and without sex there would be no propagating of the species. Also, it feels good.

But, when it comes to people I know, the last thing I want to do is let my mind go there. And, of course when it goes there, I start to think of the wacka-wacka music, the dim lighting, the paraphernalia, and the bodies gettin’ it on.

Of course, some of those hot people would make an entertaining porno in your mind. Too bad you’d be aroused when talking to them because the only thing you’d be thinking of is what makes their eyes roll back in their heads.

And, when it’s not-so-hot people, then it’s like a horror flick waiting to happen. Ugly people bumping uglies ain't pretty. No matter how much you try, you can’t wake up from this nightmare. Based on statistics, the not-so-hot people are usually the ones who get it often, hence more stories.

So, please, next time you talk to me, keep the sex talk out of the conversation. I don’t want to know who you did, where you did it, and how many times you did it.

To the woman and her child on the escalator

Hey.

You don’t know me, but I know you. In fact, I think I know you pretty well. I even know a few members of your family, namely your cute little boy.

Now, before you think I’m a pedophile of sorts, think again. I love children (non-sexually), they love me (non-sexually), and have a brilliant (but stubborn) niece of my own. They’re cute, they’re amazing, and they make your mouth open in wonder with the things they do.

But, there’s a problem… two problems if you want me to get specific. One of them involves your child, and the other involves your parenting skills.

Do you remember when you were on the escalator with your son? You don’t? Well, let me remind you.

As you stepped on, you took his hand and stood on the right side with him on the left. Although he seemed a little apprehensive, he took one step forward onto the automated staircase. Then, he turned around and thought it would be a good idea to climb up the escalator while it was moving downwards.

This wasn’t the part that irked me. The part that irked me was that you didn’t pull him around and make him stand on the step. No, no, that would’ve been too simple. You egged him on, and you encouraged him! Why the hell would you want to do that? Did you attend the Britney Spears school of parenting?

If it was my mother or father, they would’ve yanked my arm, smacked me, and told me not to cry. I know from experience that when you don’t remind your child who is the parent, they will take over and never listen to you ever again.

I was waiting for your son to trip, fall, hurt himself, cry, scream, and gush massive amounts of blood from his wounds while you give me dirty looks because I didn’t do anything to help your kid.

And if that isn’t enough, I had a whole group of people waiting behind me, giving me the evil eye because I wasn’t moving forward. Like it’s my fucking fault. Jesus, lady. You’re so lucky I don’t throw you down the escalator myself to teach you a lesson.

Just remember for next time, if you see me approaching the escalator, and you’re near it with your son, stand to the right with your son and let me (and everyone else) pass on the left. If you don’t, I can assure you, your son will be making his way down and crashing faster than Brit Brit’s career.

Best,
Steven.

Jiggle

The people of my ethnic background have no problem exposing skin. Whether it’s on the streets, in the supermarket, or in church, they feel comfortable showing off their wares, even if the product isn’t perfect.

One of the places that clothing is usually optional is the beach. Natch. From there, inches upon inches of skin is kissed by the sun, sand, and surf. Just thinking about it gets me wet.

But, what’s different about these beachgoers and those in other parts of the world is the amount of pronounced jiggle. There is a little bit of fat that allows for the squish factor. It makes you want to go out and tap that tan.

When they walk, you can practically hear a samba beat. It’s Rio and Carnival. It’s the skimpy outfits and the larger-than-life personalities. Their asses bounce and move, like they should.

As much as I appreciate all the hard work that gym-goers go through to achieve bodies with little fat and a lot of muscle, I find it off-putting not being able to see their bodies move. I like to see a little jiggle. It’s hypnotic and you can’t stop staring.

Up and down. Side to side. Up and down. Side to side.

I'm sorry, where was I...?

Fuck Faulkner

English grammar teachers should be appalled at the state of today's writing. It’s even scarier to think that people who string together a series of words consider themselves writers. The last time I checked, writing doesn’t work that way.

Of course, many writers hide behind the reasoning that it's their style. True, everyone has their own style, but style shouldn’t be a replacement for poor grammar skills. Writing in a stylized way doesn’t mean you’re good, and copying someone else's style means you lack originality. The pretentious ones are even worse (and deserve their own rant).

And, don't get me started on people who write one, long, string of conscious sentence that makes no sense. It's like their brain is speeding at 100 km/hr, and their fingers can't keep up. What the fuck are you trying to say? Are the drugs finally kicking in?

But, what do I know? My work has only appeared several times in papers, magazines, and various online publications.

Don't get me wrong; I’m not claiming to be Faulkner. In fact, I don't care for his work. Fuck Faulkner. But, some people think that taking writing courses and receiving a piece of paper with an embossed signature is more than enough. It isn't. It doesn’t mean much, actually. Schools are money-making businesses. They’ll cash your cheque just as soon as it clears.

Then again, there are people who think my writing isn’t very good. And, those people I don’t care about their opinions because they probably can't write a half-decent sentence without a spelling mistake.

Note: I'm back to being angry. I miss the feeling.

Parity

With the Canadian dollar being equal (or higher than equal to) the U.S. dollar in recent days, I find it hard purchasing items above the border, when it’s always a better proposition to go below it.

Personally, I am all for a booming ecomony… especially when it benefits me.

But, I don’t understand this disparity between prices. I do realize when items are designed/marketed/sold to other markets, prices are set according to the stock market value of the currencies between the countries doing business. I don’t realize is why don’t they alter the prices afterwards.

If the gas station can change prices 18 times in a ½ hour period, why can’t a merchant do the same? It’s as simple as printing and placing a sticker on an old price – which I know is doable because I’ve worked in retail.

I was never one to buy a $35 hardcover book when it was $22 in the U.S. (I read them from the library, or buy them second-hand), but the issue of parity is pointless.

It makes me want to gas up my Little Lexus, drive down to the U.S., and do a little shopping. Oh, and visit a couple people while I’m there because I might as well get my dollar’s worth (even though hotel rates are crazy).

Gobble, gobble

It's Thanksgiving in Canada, and I am grateful for the fact that my ass won't be growing any fatter after eating for two days, non-stop.

To my readers north of the 49th parallel, hope you have a good one because our next holiday is a far way off.

To my readers everywhere else, shouldn't you get back to work? I mean, you don't have the day off, right?

Shrink-wrapped

As I'm lying in front of the television, watching an episode of Are You Being Served? and drinking a glass of wine, a friend of mine calls me just as I'm about to lose consciousness. She's driving around town to know whether I’m free, even though she realizes it’s last minute. I’m tired and don’t want to move a muscle, but since I haven’t seen her in a while, I take her up on her offer.

In 10 minutes, I take a quick shower, get changed, do my hair, and brush my teeth. She arrives soon after.

After our pleasantries, she asks which car are we going to take. I suggest mine because I haven’t taken it out, except for short trips. Also, I like to drive because I don’t enjoy being in the passenger seat of some of my friend’s cars (they’re scary drivers).

She looks at my car. ”Your car is spotless,” she says. “I don’t want to dirty it.” She giggles.

“It’s not spotless. It’s dirty. There’s dust everywhere.” I point to the one spot on the roof where there’s a water mark.

“Compared to my car, it’s spotless.” I roll my eyes.

“Well, since your car is on the street, let’s take yours.” It’s a quick concession.

When we walk to her car, I take a peek inside. She’s not kidding when she says my car is cleaner than hers. Hers looks like she uses it, while mine looks like it’s shrink-wrapped. There are things in the back seat, on the floor and in the cupholders. The only thing mine has is a couple of hairs that I can’t seem to remove from my centre console.

My father is always harping on me for not taking care of my car, so to appease him (a.k.a. shut him up), I try to wash it regularly and clean the interior. It’s a pain in the ass in the winter, but I don’t have an excuse when the weather is warmer.

We go on our way and I start to think about my car. Why is it that everyone is afraid of sitting inside? Is it because it’s clean? That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. If something gets dirty, you clean it afterwards. Period.

Of course, if the passenger(s) was/were a bloody mess, I would have to throw them in the trunk, alongside the window washer fluid and spare tire, because you can't remove blood from cream-coloured upholstery after it's set.

Under where?

There are certain conversations that you are never prepared for, even though you know there’s going to be one for the record books that will pop up at any given moment.

“What are these?” says my mother, holding up a pair of my underwear in her hand as if they’re covered in poo. Why she has my underwear in her hand is not known to me.

“They’re underwear.”

“I know what they are!” she says. “But whose are they?”

“They’re mine.” I roll my eyes. Why are we having this conversation?

“They can’t possibly be yours! They’re tiny! Look at them! They must be from some kid.”

Does she really think I’m some pedophile, collecting children’s underwear?

“No, they’re mine.” I’m already exasperated.

“What’s wrong with you? Look at the size of these things.” She continues to hold them at an arm’s length distance. “How can these things fit you? What? Do you not have an ass, or other things?”

“They fit me just fine. All of me.”

Why she even bothered with this line of questioning is beyond my comprehension.

This coming from a woman who wears the same bra, day in and day out, for years. This coming from a woman who only wears granny panties that ride up to a resting place under her boobs. This coming from a woman who wouldn’t know proper fitting undergarments if they grew in La Perla’s magical garden.

Why does she care what kinds of underwear I use? Shouldn’t she be happy that I’m wearing them?

I grab the underwear and walk out of the room. Next time I’ll make sure to hide my unmentionables so she won’t have to see what else I wear underneath my clothes.

Aloof

Throughout the years, I've been called every name in the book. Sometimes they're bad, while other times they're worse. Quite often, these descriptions are wrong, and hardly ever right.

On a recent phone call with C, I'm told something I haven't heard before.

"You're so aloof. I ask you questions, and you just brush them off," says C.

What the fuck is that? If you've ever speak to me on the phone, or in person, aloof isn't the first descriptive term that pops into your head. Annoying, yes. Irritating, yes. Impatient, yes. Aloof, no.

The only way I can reply to C's two sentences is by controlling my growing defensiveness.

"To start off," I say, "I have answered all of your questions. Whenever you ask me something, I answer it. I haven't lied. I always told the truth."

For the next five minutes, I go over a list of things that I talked about. It sounds like I'm living through an episode of This Is Your Life, only I'm the mystery voice behind the curtain, doing all the talking.

Inevitably, my tone goes from the comforting Tyra Banks of her eponymous talk show to the finger-waving, head-snapping, ghetto host of America's Next Top Model. The only thing I'm missing is big boobs, false eyelashes, and a hair weave.

If C wants to talk about aloof, C should watch it. Whenever I ask C things, I have to tread lightly, like I'm walking on eggshells because every repsonse is answered with it's private and I don't want to answer that.

After making my case and talking the pussy down from the big, old oak tree, we make plans to meet up on Tuesday night. Hopefully, the conversation is forgotten by then.

**

On Tuesday night, C ditched me.

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

Fashion crimes: Camoblahge

Being a member of the fashion police, I feel it’s my duty to report those who are enabling crimes of the cloth.

One of the most recent displays against authority is one of camouflage. It’s everywhere and on everyone: in major cities, small towns, young, old, men, women, and children.

What’s worse is that it’s being worn as shorts. Not the just-above-the-knee style that compliments everyone’s shape and/or size, but the they’re-too-short-to-be-pants yet too-long-to-be-capris/clamdiggers style. And, to top it off, they don't always wear sandals. Sometimes it's runner's with socks, and other times it's with - those sufugly - clogs.

The only time it looks good is if you’re in the jungles of South America and you’re trying to blend into the environment while you're acting as a soldier of war in a Vietnam-based film.

So, please don't wear camoblahge unless you want me to go all Rambo all over your ass.

Quote unquote

As my friend V and I being our walking tour of Nuit Blanche, Toronto’s all-night art extravaganza, I make a suggestion that we pass through the Ryerson campus on our way to Church Street’s “red light district” installation.

While turning the corner, we see low-slung fog. It’s emanating from the large pond that’s part of the school’s landscaping. There is a set of lights, pointing towards the man-made water feature, focusing on a series of white sculptures. On closer inspection, the sculptures are toilets, and the fog is a mist that slowly erupts from the bowls.

Before you can say Kodak, both of us pull out our cameras. Click.

When we get to the middle of the exhibit, a gentlemen in a khaki vest and outback-styled hat walks up to us, and begins asking a few questions. As it turns out, he’s a journalist for one of Canada’s national newspapers. He wants to interview us about the exhibit, and see what we think about Nuit Blanche.

Being a naturally witty person who comes up with snappy one-liners the way Dane Cook comes up with new ways to irritate millions of those with sight and hearing capabilities, I whip out a few things that makes the journalist laugh out loud. V comes up with a few good ones, too.

“That’s a good one,” he says as he scribbles down the quote.

Deep inside, I feel like I’m making Sidney Sheldon proud.

He asks us for our names, ages, and occupations, and when he’s done, he thanks us and goes on his way. V and I are laughing out loud.

Did this really happen? This is ridiculous, I'm thinking to myself.

“Tomorrow, I’m going to check online to see if they actually used our quotes,” she says.

“Oh yeah, I’m going to Google my name tomorrow,” I reply.

At the end of the night, I drive her back to her place and we mention that we both plan on checking the papers in the morning to see whether or not the journalist has the balls to use our quotes.

**

After I’m done checking my e-mail, I surf the Web to look for news on Nuit Blanche. I find the site that the journalist works for and search for any information.

In the only article about last night’s event, there’s only one article…

Getting a handle on Nuit Blanche – a swirling display of toilets gets things underway

Annick Mitchell and Colin Ripley had no trouble flushing out interest in their plumbing display on a pond at Ryerson University last night.

But it's not often you see a dozen mist-covered "politically correct" flood-lit toilets.

"Lo and behold, we have smoking toilets," said Steven X...

Immediately, I stop reading.

I can’t believe he did it! He’s added on a few years to my age! Now millions of people will think I’m older than what I pretend to be. Fuck. What a bastard!

I'm going to demand a retraction.