Crying is for babies

As my sister is getting ready for our trip to the store, she’s running around with my younger niece, holding her in her arms, while trying to get my older niece dressed. She looks a little frantic because she’s trying to do several things at once while getting nothing accomplished.

I’m sitting on the second-last step of her curving staircase, watching her go back and forth in the foyer.

"T, can you hold the baby while I get the other one ready?" she asks, brushing away some hair from her face.

"I don’t know," I reply. "Remember how it was with the other one?"

When my older niece was a baby, she didn’t like me. Whenever she was passed to me, she’d squirm, frown, and start to cry. I’d try to hold her close, but her little arms would push me away. After the rejection, I’d hold her at arms length to see if her crying would subside. It wouldn’t. The moment she was passed along to the next person, she’d stop. It was like a scene in bad sitcom. Being a spectator in the same room would make you wonder if I was pinching my niece under her clothing.

It was unsettling. She acted as if I was a stranger. It took her almost a year to feel comfortable around me. Until my older niece came into the world, every baby liked me and I liked them. The ick factor didn’t come into play when I had to change a diaper. Dressing them was fun because it was like I was doing it to a real-life doll (that pees and poos). Feeding them and playing with them didn’t bother me.

The crying, on the other hand, was when I had to pass them along to their respective parents.

"Come on, T," my sister pleads. "Can you take her, even for a sec?"

"Fine." I scrunch my face, waiting for the inevitable wailing that is about to commence. My sister unwraps my little niece, and turns her around.

She passes her to me and… nothing.

She doesn’t do anything. She doesn’t frown. She doesn’t squirm. She doesn’t cry. She just sits there, looking at me. Her expression isn’t quizzical. In fact, she opens her eyes to get a better look. When she opens her mouth, I’m expecting a wail. As it turns out, she yawns. I breathe a sigh of relief.

When my older niece is ready and waiting to go, my sister walks up to me – still sitting on the second-bottom step – and looks at the both of us. "See? She’s opening her eyes." My sister points to the baby’s face as she approaches. "She hasn't done much of that, yet. Maybe she wants a better look at what her uncle looks like..."

From that moment on, I don't mind holding my little niece. They grow so quickly, that each moment you have with them, you have to embrace because they'll never be that size, ever again. Their faces change shape, their limbs stretch and grow, and their mouths attempt to form words with their small lips.

Of course, the second she starts to cry, I'm passing her off to my sister.

Note: This Sunday is her christening. I hope she doesn't cry.

Clothespins don't work

When I was young, I didn’t like my nose. To others, it looked fine, but to me, it was ugly. With my face being round, with chubby cheeks and a double chin, the bulbous bit that protruded outwards didn’t help.

It was rather wide, round, and turned upwards at the tip, where you could see the olive pits that were my nostrils. When I saw the noses of other kids, mine felt out of place. I wanted an angular, aquiline nose; Romanesque, like most people from my culture.

Doing what every child does to remedy the situation of resembling Mr. Potato Head with better hair, I tried squeezing my nose with my fingers, using tape to hold it together, and clothespins to tighten the bridge.

Note to others: clothespins don’t work, they hurt.

As I grew, my face changed, but my nose didn’t. My face isn’t as round as it once was, in fact, it’s rather narrow. The nose is still rather wide, round, and turned upwards at the tip. As a matter of fact, there’s also a dimple under the bridge.

And, that’s what makes it distinctive. I may never get the nose that I want, but I got the nose that I was born with… unfortunately.

Red flag

A red flag is a symbol of upcoming danger or peril. It can range from a physical being (i.e. a pylon on the road), to something of a metaphysical nature (i.e. The Ides of March). Unfortunately, sometimes I’m blind to them, even if they’re waving in front of me, like a matador's cape taunting a raging bull.

So, you can imagine how I feel when B tells me the reason he stays away from me is because I wave red flags.

Not long after, he confronts (and begins to stalk) me on msn and tells me that I'm a strange person and he was "right about me" because I disappeared off the face of the earth and never contacted him. I, being like the defense attorney I play on Law & Order: T.O., tell him that I was the one who returned his last phone call and I was the one who returned his last e-mail (and I have documented evidence to support my case). He was the one who disappeared off the face of the planet, not me.

He retorts in saying that he lost his phone and didn't have my number (a lousy excuse), and with that, he lost all his other contacts (sympathy votes don't count in this courtroom). I tell him it happens and that he should've backed them up, like I do. And, if he really wanted to get in contact with me, he should've just checked his hotmail account because I know he had my name as a contact (that's how he was able to cyber-stalk me).

Whatever.

B is clearly off his rocker and should see a therapist to elicit medication and a series of shock therapy treatments (with the electrodes placed on his nuts) because, from what I can tell, he needs it. But, I shouldn't be too surprised at the end result. I tend to find every crazy person within a 100-mile radius.

Goddamnit, I must be colour blind.

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

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Every holiday season, my sister and I used to get excited whenever the Sears Wishlist Christmas catalogue came in the mail. It was our holiday heroin. We’d go through the pages, choosing what we’d want (which was almost everything), and tell our mom, only to have her dissent our selections.

When the catalogue stopped being shipped to our house, we were crushed. How else would we get our holiday jollies? We were too young to be alcoholics! We later found out Sears started charging for it. The horror. Our mother said she wasn’t going to pay for it and we practically mutinied.

But, as the time passed, we forgot about the book and began to spend more time on important things, like school and… well, that’s about it.

So, it should come as a huge surprise for me when I come across this brilliant site that makes me relive my Wishlist fantasies every day.

You May Also Like has enabled me to recapture my youth while reliving those awful memories of not having that fuckin’ catalogue around because my mother was too fuckin’ cheap to spend three fuckin' dollars on something that meant so much to me.

Anyway…

The owner of the site manages to find each and every cheesy item that existed in the early-to-mid 80’s, and makes me laugh at the absurdity of them. A piece of shit on a stick? I want two of them! A thong made out of barbed wire? I should've ordered it last week!

What's especially entertaining is realizing how insane you must've been to want any of those things in the catalogue. Why did I want any of those things? Was it out of fun? Was it because they were new and novel? Was it because I didn’t have them, and being a consumer at heart, felt like I needed them?

Whatever the reasons, I know that when I visit YMAL, it’s like Christmas… without all the awful memories associated with the holiday.

Mudslide

Even though the world holds over six billion people, it always comes as a surprise how much closer we are to each other than we think. All it takes is one random connection. And, sometimes the conversation involved is TMI.

**

P and I randomly connected with each other. It was out of the blue. We were two people who were just living life in our own towns, working at our jobs, and trying to find meaning in the world.

Recently, when talking to P, I mention I know someone who lives in his town. This person (who will be referred to as C) was in a relationship with a well-known newscaster, and I ask P if he knows this media personality. He does. But, there’s more to the story.

Apparently, the newscaster doesn’t work for the network anymore and left due to a – supposed – scandal behind the scenes.

According to P:

His departure was fraught with drama, I wasn't privy to it. Some of his sexual proclivities, however, were. He liked guys with a blue-collar look and enjoyed being... "taken." Apparently, so much so that he went to a party, did a bunch of drugs cut with baby laxative, and allowed himself to be "taken" several times, before earning the nickname "mudslide" publicly. Allegedly.

Pretty shitty, huh?

But, that’s all it takes to bring people together. P and I are just two people who happen to know two people in common who enjoy rough sex with a group of strangers, and the aftermath of mixing narcotics and stool softener. It's that simple.

By the way, I’ll never think of the word mudslide the same way ever again.

To insure proper service

To change our usual routine, B and I decide to have lunch somewhere downtown instead of meeting at the coffee place near his work. We’re both hungry, and he knows of a hideaway restaurant that only those ‘in the know’ know about.

After walking a bit, we turn into a street off of Dundas and make our way up a flight of stairs. Inside, the restaurant is humming and buzzing. Most of the large, round tables are filled with patrons. We’re asked if we don’t mind sitting at one of these tables because the smaller ones are occupied. We don’t care and sit down at the one nearest to the bar.

We quickly make our decisions while the server puts down two small cups and a pot of tea. Funnily enough, our orders are almost the same. In fact, my second choice was B’s first pick.

For the next ½ hour, we eat, drink tea, and try to avoid that lull in the conversation that occurs when both people are chewing simultaneously. While this is happening, a series of several servers pass by our table, clean up, remove plates, and replace the teapot.

When we’re finished and it’s time to pay the bill, I walk over to the cash and get my wallet ready. B has already paid for coffee on more than one occasion (and has invited me to dinner), so I think it’s only fair that lunch is on me.

I see the people in ahead of me in line, pay then walk out without tipping. Does anyone tip? I thnk. How strange. Are you not supposed to tip servers? And, if you do, which servers do you tip? All of them? There were about six of them who whisked by our table and I don’t even recall their faces; it was like a sea of black and white starched uniforms.

Fuck, I ain't tipping six people. Their tips will be more than the lunch I just ate; almost twice the amount. Oh, hell to the no.

Before I become a story on Waiter Rant, I pay the bill in a rush of confusion, and walk out of the restaurant with B. I don’t mention anything about the tip, and neither does he. I’m not sure if he noticed, and if he did, he doesn't say anything.

Hopefully, he doesn’t think I’m a cheap bastard. The last thing I want to be is known for this grave and social faux pas. But, there's nothing I can do about it, now.

At least when he treats me to dinner, I won't have to worry about tipping any servers.

Phantom grain syndrome

As I walk into my room, I feel something on the sole of my foot. It’s hard enough to make an impression, yet small enough to go undetected before stepping on it. Turning over my foot I see it’s a grain of uncooked rice.

What’s a grain of rice doing in my bedroom? I think. My room isn’t anywhere near the kitchen and I vacuumed a few days ago. So, what the fuck is it doing in my spotless room? I haven’t eaten rice for the past several days, and meals are usually accompanied with pasta, potatoes or vegetables. Hmmm...

To be honest, I shouldn't be too surprised since this has happened before; on many occasions. There is always a grain of rice that follows me around, and it's never the same one. Although I throw it in the garbage, it always comes back - phantom grain syndrome.

The first time it didn't bother me, but after a decade, it's pissing me off. Throughout those 10 years, there must've been millions of them. If I kept them all, I would've filled thousands of those 10 kg bags that are available at the supermarket. Fuck, if I get some strips of meat, soy sauce, and a flame, I can turn my bedroom into the fuckin' Korean Grill House.

I lay the grain on top of my dresser, right at the corner, so I won’t forget to throw it in the toilet. When it’s dropped in the bowl, I make sure it disappears in a swirl of rushing water.

If I step on another grain of rice, I know it's time to start bagging it.

Note: Happy Thanksgiving to my two U.S. readers!

These are a few of my favourite things

After watching Oprah's "Favourite Things" episode, I never realized people could go apeshit when given free cupcakes and foaming sponges.

Yet, out of desperation, I would act as her ultra-absorbant (and powder fresh) tampon, located deep inside her just to be a part of that fuckin' studio audience.

Gimme a fry

Being a connaisseur of various fast-food establishments, I feel like I have done my fair share of research on a series of restaurants. Even though my each place is different, there is always one thing on the menu that differs: french fries.

Sourcing out the best french fry is one of my greatest achievements. I have been to many sandwich-combo outlets, and they each have their benefits. But, there is only one place that I return to, time and time again, for their pommes frites: Wendy’s.

Before I hear the collective groan from the masses, let me explain…

Wendy’s always has the perfect mixture of thickness, crispness, flavour, and saltiness that others can’t meausre up to. They’re never too greasy, or oily, and they’re the perfect size to pop into your mouth after being dipped in a vat of ketchup.

McDonald’s, the fast-food king, makes fries that are too thin to my taste. Also, they tend to break easily. I do realize they’re trying to imitate frites (the shoestring fries seen at many French bistros), but they don’t make the grade.

Burger King’s fries aren’t that bad. Their only problem is they’re oversalted to the point of puckering your lips. Of course, when that happens, you take a sip of your carbonated beverage (usually Coke), and it makes it worse because it’s like having acid being poured on your tongue.

The fries at Harvey’s and Arby’s aren’t that special. Just a bunch of potatoes being fried. They’re so unmemorable I’ve already forgotten what they taste like. What is memorable is the amount of time I put into thinking about the benefits of french fries.

Anyway, I still haven’t been to Lick’s Homeburger or Hero’s Burgers, so I don’t know if they’ll be able to knock Wendy off that pedestal of hers. Let’s hope she has insurance in case she falls.

Fuck, now I'm hungry and have a craving for fries...

Ugly people get more action

Based on my experience of being a part-time social anthropoligist, I discover a lot of interesting quirks about the species known as man. One of these quirks is that of mating rituals.

From what the research I’ve done, the range varies and is as broad as a linebacker for the Dallas Cowboys. Out of all the material that has passed through my hands, there is one that I find incredibly fascinating: Ugly people get more action than beautiful people.

Now, before my inbox begins to fill up with a litany of dissenting e-mails, let me first state my case before the court before I’m judged and sent to the chair.

Without going into a dissertation, or thesis presentation, I know people on both side of the fence, and I can say that I know what I’m talking about.

The supermodels of the world are always complaining that they don’t get as much action as others think because they "intimidate" potential mates due to their stunning beauty. Also, they’re usually pickier/choosier since that’s a perk to being a supermodel, their aesthetic standards are higher since they’ve been raised not knowing otherwise, and they they’re attracted to certain physical traits that are visually appealing in case they feel the need to breed a pack of supermodel children (survival of the prettiest).

Those who aren’t supermodels (the "ugly" people), get the spoils. The spoils, being about seven billion people, minus the handful of supermodels. Naturally, that doesn’t also mean they’re not picky/choosy, have high aesthetic standards, or are attracted to certain physical traits.

What they do have over supermodels is the ability to be themselves. They know they’re not supermodels, and they don’t care. They’re normal. They have jobs, social lives, hobbies, and skills that don’t entail standing in front of a camera or walking down a runway. In fact, their confidence radiates because they know their talents won’t fade when they grow older (unlike the people seen pouting at your from a magazine advertisement).

Of course, if they’re ugly and think they’re a supermodel… that’s a whole other quirk that deserves more research.

Unattainable

You can’t always get what you want…

When The Rolling Stones sang this line, they didn’t know how prescient it would be. Even when life is filled with champagne wishes and caviar dreams, no one can snap their fingers and have anything presented to them on a silver platter. And when it comes to matters of the heart, there is no amount of wanting that can make someone unattainable want you in return.

Normally, there are three kinds of unattainability:

1. You like someone, but him/her doesn't know who you are.

2. You like someone, but him/her doesn't like you the way you like them.

3. You like someone, but him/her doesn't like you.

They all have their good sides and bad sides. Some may be better than others, while some may be worse than others. It all depends on the person and the situation.

The first situation is where no one gets hurt (usually). You see them from afar and you can daydream and plan your life with them. Quite often, these fantasies entail celebrities or those who are on a higher social echelon (money, looks, education, a combination of all of the above). The only vested interest is that of a visual nature.

The second situation is the most painful. It typically is the most emotionally draining. Quite often, the reason why they don’t like you is because they like someone else more than you (which is fair). But, if they are a flirt or enjoy playing games, they can lead you on for an undetermined amount of time. You end up wasting precious time and energy on someone who doesn’t want you even though you’re hoping that they’ll leave their current paramour for you (and it rarely happens, even in Danielle Steel novels).

The third situation is like a Band-Aid that is ripped off: a sharp sting, but then it’s over in a couple of seconds. There can be a red mark, maybe a bit of skin removed, and a couple of drops of blood, but you’ll survive since you have developed a thicker skin after situation number two.

In the end, no situation is ideal. Your heart can be lonely, played with, or ripped out of your chest while it’s still beating. If it was ideal, you’d always get what you want, no matter what The Rolling Stones sing.

Hairy mole

Cindy Crawford, the supermodel of supermodels, is not only known for her magazine appearances, catwalk strut, and Playboy centrefolds (both photographed by the late Herb Ritts), but also for her iconic beautymark, just beside her luscious lips.

A beautymark on a beautiful person, such as Cindy, is like punctuation at the end of a perfectly-phrased sentence. On someone who doesn’t look like her, it’s just a mole.

There are several beautymarks on my body (some of which very few people have seen), including one near by my left basolabial fold. But, there’s another one I have on my shoulder that bothers me more than the others – reason being is that a hair grows out of it.

Lucky for me, the beautymark on my face doesn’t grow hair. If it did, it would be tweezed as quickly as you can say “Paris Hilton is a talentless whore.” The sucker on my shoulder is a different mark of sorts.

Since I have dark hair, it’s more obvious. It stands out like it’s shouting to the masses with a bullhorn, “Hey! Look at me!” But, I don’t want it to. It’s annoying… and ugly.

Does it make a difference if I yank the hair and call it a beautymark? I mean, it worked for Cindy Crawford.

Back to black

There’s nothing like a song by Amy Winehouse that encapsulates how you’re currently feeling. I may not be addicted to drugs and alcohol, but that doesn’t mean I’m going through a rough period in my life.

In an exchange of e-mails with my friend, G, he tells me that he’s been reading Human Nature and finds that I’m going through another black period. I don’t disagree with him.

These dark times come and go, and they’re not – usually – around for long stretches of time, but they do pop up, here and there, in sporadic places in my life.

Unlike those who live a life of eternal sunshine, I’ve never had the chance to experience it. My life has always been clouded with something; something that I can’t put my finger on. It's not depression, or sadness. It's a feeling of darkness; of impending doom.

There are those who call me a pessimist, but that’s not true. A pessimist searches for the darkness; I live within it. Truth be told, a realist - like myself - knows the truth, and refuses to live a life of fallacy.

Being someone who is in tune with his mental state at all times, I know a pill won't make a difference. This is something that cannot be controlled medicinally.

And, since I'm talking about psychology, it is a proven fact that a person can think positively and good things will happen to them. It’s also a proven fact that a person can think positively and then die a horrible, horrible death. The first person is naïve to think it’s always going to be that way, while the second person is cynical because they think nothing good will probably ever happen to them.

Living the life I have, cynicism is what keeps me in check, and hope – with a touch of stupidity – is what gets out of bed every morning. As I make my way through the day, I expect the best, and stop praying for the worst. Sometimes it’s a good day, sometimes it’s a bad week.

That’s my life, and it’s my life to live.

If I don’t go back to black, I’ll never know what the light looks like.

Too young?

Society is focused around the virtues of youth. Everywhere you turn, you see fresh faces and nubile bodies plastered in and around every place you turn. They’re the future, and you must focus on them while in the present.

With that, it comes as a huge shock to me when someone tells me they’re not interested in someone like me because I look too young.

Part of me is flattered to think that I’m not considered to be an old fogey. The other part of me is insulted. What the fuck is wrong with looking too young? True, no one ever thinks I'm in my 30's, but that's due to cosmetic surgery. But, come on. Take one good look at me and you know I'm legal (in 48 states, at least).

Is this all due to a matter of experience? With people living well into their 80's, it's understandable that I have a lot to live. But, that doesn't mean that I haven't lived. There are plenty of people who have long quotidien lives - bland and boring. There are also those who live life to the fullest and don't see past 40 when they're speeding along at 120 km/hr.

Since when is being ‘of a certain age’ considered to be a negative? And, since when is being in your 20's considered to be too young? And, can someone tell me how my face and body can remain the same for the next 30 years?

Catching something from someone else

There is nothing that prepares you for the worst. You can read all the books and go through all the studies, but it’s worthless. And, when it happens, it comes as a total surprise.

When it comes to health issues, I’m always careful. Neurotically, so. I even double-up if necessary. But, I guess this is what happens when you go out and have fun with random strangers – you’re punished.

**

The night starts off with a degree of normalcy at the Umbra event. Karim Rashid is in town and the store is having a shindig to celebrate his arrival. The plastic store is filled with plastic people as the night treads along at a slow pace. The only form of excitement comes when a guest drops a glass on the floor.

Lucky for me, I have M around to keep me company. It’s platonic between us, but there’s some touching that I think might bite me on the ass later on in the night.

After dinner, shopping, and coffee, I drop by M’s house. He shows me around, and the next hour is a blur. When I look at the clock, I tell him I have to leave because I have to wake up fairly early.

By the next morning, I’m not feeling too well. There’s a burning inside, and it hurts when I pee. Why does it hurt when I pee? What is going on? Oh dear God. The random people. The physical contact. The bodily fluids. Ugh. Am I being punished for going out and having fun with people I'll forget in the morning?

The last thing I want to do is go to my doctor because he’ll end up giving me the face that translates to the look that means Shouldn’t you know by now? and I don’t want to deal with that while I feel this way.

For the rest of the day, I spend in the dark, hoping that it will go away. Prayer becomes a friend of mine, as I will whatever I have to go away. Besides the burning sensations, now there’s an itch that would not go away. Scratching is evident. The redness does not subside. It hurts and it burns.

It’s a fact that I was being punished for what I did on the weekend. I was careless and now I have to deal with the consequences, no matter how bad I feel.

Fuck. I hate catching colds from someone else.

To the guy with the dandruff problem

Hey.

You don’t know me, but I know you. In fact, I know you pretty well. Even though I didn’t get to see your face too clearly, I saw the back of your head… and your powdered shoulders.

I felt so bad you weren’t able to see the amount of dandruff you had. Seriously. It was like the several inches of snow fell in a centralized location. In cases that extreme, someone should’ve told you. Of course, that someone would’ve had balls of brass. Mine aren’t brass, they’re platinum, so I was out of the running.

To make matters worse, you were wearing a burgundy dress shirt (and that's a crime all to itself). When you know Desonex isn’t working, wear a white shirt. It’s so much easier and won’t make others snicker behind your back (and shoulders). Well, that and white goes with everything, including dandruff.

Even if I had the flakes (which I don’t, or ever had), I wouldn’t subject myself to making my scalp problems any more obvious to others. I know when to hide things that need to be hidden and when to show things off when they need to be seen (like my track marks).

For your sake, I’m praying God is watching and sends a strong gust of wind your way. It would make it easier on all of us.

Best,
Steven.

Make 'em laugh

In the iconic musical, Singin’ in the Rain, Donald O’Connor sings "Make ‘em laugh" by dancing a complicated routine while flailing about a stage set. It’s choreographed in such a way that the audience can’t refrain from smiling while watching his over-the-top moves.

Although I don't swing around with a dummy or do backflips off of walls to make others laugh, I try my best to keep them entertained.

Whenever I want to make myself laugh, I look in the mirror. The reason why I do that isn’t because my face is funny (actually, it’s hilarious), but because of what it means to me.

Whenever I look at the eyes, nose, lips, and lines, I can recall the past. Some of those events were hysterical, while others embarrassing. But, they're all entertaining, in a tragic-comic kind of way.

Even on my saddest days, there’s plenty of fodder to dissipate depressive thoughts. Of course, there is the occasional time when I look and well up in tears (usually because I find another white hair), but those are few and far in-between.

Because if you can’t laugh at yourself, who can you laugh at… except other people?

What kind of fuckery is this?

Confusion is the best description for my state of mind when meeting new people. At first they say one thing, and then contradict it by saying something else. And, don’t get me started on the problems that arise when you’re actually interested in them.

They say they’re looking for someone with dark features, intelligence, and a good head on their shoulders. You reply by saying you’re like that. In fact, you're practically raising your hand, and waving it around, going "Oooh, oooh! Over here! Over here!" like a brown-noser in elementary school.

Then they say they’re not looking for those qualities and are, in fact, looking for someone who is fair, an idiot, and a total flake.

You shake your head, like there’s a screw loose, and you can hear it rattle.

Then, the rest of the conversation entails you asking if you understood correctly, only to be confused and defensive because you’re trying to give them what they want even though they’re changing their mind.

What kind of fuckery is this?

In the end, they make you feel like you’re the crazy one while they are a few sandwiches short of a full picnic basket, even though they claim not to like sandwiches or go on picnics when they just said they ate a sandwich and went on a picnic last week.

This is the reason why I am never going to date because I don't have patience for this shit.

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

Don't worry, it grows back

Since I’m going over to my sister’s house, I decide it’s a good idea to shave. I don’t normally resemble Grizzly Adams, but my niece doesn’t like it when I have facial hair. She doesn’t get close to me, and says I have ‘prickles’ when I approach her for a hug and a kiss.

When I appear at the front door, my niece is the first person I see. She’s jumping up and down, like usual, excited that she has someone to play with.

I bend down, pull her close to me and say, “Come and give Uncle a kiss. See? He doesn’t have any prickles.” I smile and nod my head yes.

She takes a step towards me, places both her hands on either side of my face, rubs my cheeks, and looks at my skin as if she’s looking for blackheads without a magnifying glass.

“Don’t worry, it grows back,” she says while rubbing my cheeks. She then pats them a few times, lets go, turns around, and trots away into another room.

My face falls. Damn kid.

That's the last time I’m ever going to shave for a pretty face.

Fourty years

Fourty years of love.
Fourty years of war.

Fourty years of arguments.
Fourty years of making up.

Fourty years of yelling.
Fourty years of silence.

Fourty years of breaking.
Fourty years of mending.

Fourty years of distance.
Fourty years of hugging.

Fourty years of cooking.
Fourty years of pooping.

Fourty years of pain.
Fourty years of pills.

Fourty years of laughing.
Fourty years of crying.

Fourty years of family.
Fourty years of marriage.

Why my parents haven’t divorced yet is beyond me.

Change the channel

Just like when watching television, if you don't like what you read here, change the channel.

Dressing up, dressing down

When meeting someone for the first time, the issue of fashion is one that needs to be solved as quickly, even though it’s the last thing you take care of before you leave the door.

Depending on how much time I have, I usually wear what I wear to work. Thankfully, I don’t use suits too often, or else I’d resemble a sexy accountant; no one wants him around except during tax season.

So, I have a pair of trousers (usually black), a dress shirt (poplin and patternless), and a sweater (if it’s cold). If I have some time to change, then it’s a casual look of jeans, a t-shirt, and a jacket.

It’s incredibly difficult not to cross any lines, and try to appease everyone while impressing only one person. I don’t want to come across as uptight (suit), sloppy (sweats), or nonchalant (somewhere in-between).

If I think I'm going to get lucky, I just won't wear underwear... and pants.

But, I never get lucky.