Tell them to be careful

The family has just finished dinner and we’re all sitting and standing around the table. I have already started to clean up and putting things in the sink to wash.

While I’m walking back and forth, my mother asks me if I have any plans for the weekend. I tell her that I’m going out on Saturday, and she doesn’t believe me. She thinks I’m lying, as usual.

“You know what?” I tilt my head to the side, my tone peeved, “I’m going to start telling you lies whenever you ask me something to see whether or not you’ll believe me then. Because, from the sounds of it, you never believe me when I tell you the truth,” I say in one breath.

“Fine. You’re going out. So, where are you going?” she asks, exhaling.

“I’m going to have dinner with S and a friend because it’s her birthday.”

“In Toronto, right?” She raises an eyebrow out of suspicion.

“Of course, in Toronto. That’s where our friend lives.” I scrunch my face and raise my left eyebrow because I haven't trained my right eyebrow to arch accordingly.

“You better be careful,” says my father, still munching on a piece of meat. I’m just waiting for him to tell me that there are people that can kill me if I’m not vigilant. This conversation has been playing on repeat for the past 20 years, and the needle on the record still hasn't work itself out.

“Of course, we’ll be careful. It’s not like we’ve never been in Toronto before.” Did he also forget that I work in the city and spend most of my day there?

“No, not because of that. The streets are really slippery.”

“Who cares if the streets are slippery. I’m not driving.” He looks up at me with a face of incredulity.

“Well, you should still know that you shouldn’t be driving – “ I cut him off.

“Dad, I’m not driving. S is picking me up and she’s driving there. If you want to tell someone to be careful while driving on the highway, tell S, not me.”

“Well – “ I cut him off, again.

“Dad, when S comes to pick me up, tell her to be careful when driving. It’s not going to make a difference if you say this to me because I won’t be behind the wheel.”

“You know what? This conversation is over. It’s no use talking to you.” When he says that he doesn’t want to talk anymore is when he knows he can’t win an argument. It’s his passive-aggressive way attempt to get the final word.

If that’s the way he wants it, that’s fine with me. I’ll just wait until Saturday to see whether, or not, he’ll dispense his sage advice to my friend. He’ll get his final word, even if he sounds like a total idiot.

Fat skinny person

Not too long ago, as I was hugging someone goodbye, did I realize something that I didn’t realize before: I’m squishy.

Even though my body-type resembles that of a playing card – broad from the front, but paper-thin when turned on its side – it still doesn’t mean there’s an inch to pinch. Abs and flabs. Truth be told, I’m a fat skinny person.

But, what is a fat skinny person, and how can you spot them in a crowd? It’s quite easy. In fact, the only way you’ll ever know if they're a fat skinny person is by hugging them. If they give, like a loaf of bread, you’ve found one.

Unlike a fat fat person, a fat skinny person is thin, but they’re not necessarily toned (contrary to popular belief, a fat fat person can actually have quite a bit of muscle tone).

Once when I mentioned this to another kin, he recoiled in horror. He didn’t consider himself to be a fat skinny person (even though he was, and still is). We’re no longer on speaking terms.

That reminds me, only hug me if you really want to know what a fat skinny person feels like.

I don’t think you’re cute

There are some people who are complimented frequently by others. Quite often they are told they’re smart, funny, snappily-dressed, and quite flexible. Or maybe, that’s what they tell me.

Anyway…

There are some compliments I hear that bother me, especially when the person receiving them shouldn’t. When some people are called cute and aren’t, then I know a line has been crossed.

Cute is considered to be an innocent and (possibly) youthful sexiness. It’s not hard and overt, but soft. Basically, it’s a Bruce Weber photoshoot without glorious amounts of tanned and taut flesh.

Even though cute is subjective, there are some people who are or who aren’t. This bothers me because I don’t think they’re cute. In fact, some of them I think aren’t attractive, at all. Yet, it seems like everyone thinks they are. Is there something I can’t see, and are they really cute? Are they really not cute, and are people just complimenting them because they’re trying to be nice by inflating the other person’s feeling of self worth?

Then again, I shouldn’t talk about it because I have been called cute and I’m sure there are a hell of a lot of people who think differently.

Still, if Matt Damon can be called cute even though he resembles someone who was smacked with a case of Down Syndrome up side the head, then I know cute has lost all value as a word.

Don't Bogart my blog

Being someone who covets insignificant possessions the most valuable in my life, I hold certain things very close to me that don’t mean anything to anyone else. And, when someone else grabs a hold of them, I no longer feel like they’re special.

So, you can imagine what happens when I find that someone has been reading (and commenting!) on one of my secret daily reads. To cut to the quick, I am pissed. What’s worse is that these people always write little something because they’re comment whores. Log onto any 100 random sites, and you’ll find their words on ¼ of them, at least.

I mean, are they really interested in the mating rituals of castrated colobus monkeys who are only attracted to parasitic partners, like Paris Hilton (or some sorta shit like that)? I highly doubt it.

Sharing can happen, and I'm all for it. The only problem I have is when people have to take over something they don't care about to show their dominance. This occurs in every aspect of their lives. They're like a dog pissing on everything, marking its territory. And when they're doing their deed, they piss all over the place.

So, do me a favour and let me have what has an ounce of meaning because you don’t even care about the aforementioned monkey-thing from above.

Don’t Bogart my blog. It’s mine.

Canuck Canuck

When Anderson Cooper asked his mother, Gloria Vanderbilt, what he should do with his life, she answered him with three words: follow your bliss.

Of course, it’s easier to follow your bliss when you’re incredibly wealthy. When you’re living from paycheque to paycheque, practicality settles in rather quickly. Bills come first while bliss becomes an afterthought.

But, since my financial situation doesn’t – yet – depend on social assistance, I’ve decided to follow my bliss; if only for a short period of time.

Because of my love of finding what’s fresh in the world, I’ve started a site that talks about the newest and best of Canada: Canuck Canuck.

To quote the site…

The Canadian cliché of igloos, Eskimos, Mounties and moose still lingers in the minds of many. But, Canada is more than a series of stereotypes. Canada is a country of cities juxtaposed with wide open spaces, a land created to house various cultures, and a nation that’s home to millions.

It’s also the home to some of the best shopping, food, artists, entertainment, etc. in the world. And, that’s where this site comes in.

Canuck Canuck is out to find the coolest in Canadian culture and creativity. It’s about the people, places and things that many miss out on because they don’t know about their existence.

Canada is home to many things, and Canuck Canuck is there to talk about them.

O Canada. We stand on guard for thee.

Being the generous person that I am, I’ve welcomed contributors from all over Canada who want to talk about their experience with a certain person, place, or thing. It’s about community. In fact, Canuck Canuck already has a West Coast Editor, fellow blogger Hot Lunch.

Although it’s still in its infancy, I want to make the site a success - spreading the word through my eight readers, as well as having possible links on other sites. Positive word of mouth is paramount for a fledging endeavour.

So, take a trip to Canuck Canuck to see that there’s something else that’s cool about Canada beside the winter weather.

Eh?

Three years and twelve days old

In my agenda, I write down the anniversaries of people I am close to (and even those I am not very fond of, for some reason). Whether it’s birthdays, wedding anniversaries, or what have you, they’re all jotted down in those first few pages.

Being the selfless person that I am, I put these people ahead of me. Sadly, that means I come second (make what you want with that statement), after others have achieved their fill (again, make what you want with that statement).

And because of that, I forgot about Human Nature's blogoversary.

The only reason why I remembered was that I was going through the archives because I needed to find something that escapes my mind at the moment (anniversaries are also the main cause of early-onset senility, too).

If I was married, this is where my wife would stop talking to me because I didn’t make a big fuss over the date. Fortunately, I’m not married, but my ex-wife still reminds me every year about our divorce. Thank God I dodged a bullet with that one and several more after her new husband came after me with a shotgun. But, that's another story for another time.

So, happy blogoversary, Human Nature. You’re three years and twelve days old and aging rapidly unlike its youthful and wrinkle-free owner. Here's hoping you'll make it to four years... unless I forget that anniversary, too.

Who let in the paperboy?

Not too long ago, while making my way through an office building, I pass a co-worker in the hallway and tell her I’m on my way to a meeting. She scrunches her face in confusion while I walk past her. Uh, ok, I think. Maybe she didn’t hear what I was saying.

After my meeting, I enter the office and people look at me as if I’m a stranger.

“Who let in the paperboy?” asks another of my co-workers.

“Why do you say that?” I ask.

“You look like a little kid with that hat on.” I look down and take a glance at my clothes. I’m dressed casually, in a pair of brown, baby-wale cords, with a black, long sleeved t-shirt, and a black baseball cap.

But, do I look like a kid? That thought never crossed my mind until I see myself in the mirror later on in the day.

When I was in school, I was carded once when I went to buy a bottle of wine (how many underage drinkers buy Shiraz, anyway?). When I showed them my ID, they did a triple-take and asked me if that really was my age.

A few years later, the same holds true.

Luckily, I already look a few years younger than my actual age. It’s probably due to the combination of a tight frame, coupled with an innocent (at times) facial expression. If I throw on a baseball cap, I look younger still. Of course, when I open my mouth, people think I’m 4-6 years older than I am. It’s a fair trade – look young, sound old.

Hmmm… Maybe that’s the secret to looking young: wear baseball caps and stop talking altogether.

Agreeing to agreeing

Most blogs have places where you can comment on the topic being posted. But, even though most of them have the "password" feature to deter bugs from posting a virus, some go one step beyond that: they moderate comments.

Usually this tactic is used by site owners to eliminate the riffraff they perceive are below their recognition.

On Blogger, there are times when Your comment has been saved and will be visible after blog owner approval. Comment moderation has been enabled. All comments must be approved by the blog author is shown after typing your thoughts on the current topic being discussed.

Basically, this means is if the site owner doesn’t agree with your comment, they can delete it at a moment’s whim.

That doesn’t make any sense to me. Why would you want to approve the thoughts/opinions of others? Wouldn't that eliminate the need for commenting? It’s like saying "If your comment agrees with my argument, then it’s fine. If your comment doesn’t agree with my argument, then I won’t acknowledge your comment."

It’s twisted and undeniably passive-aggressive in a pussy-like way.

If you think someone won't agree with you, do one of two things: remove the comment feature, or grow a spine and live with the fact that not everyone will always agree with you because that's the way the world works.

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

Pop, pop, zit, zit, oh what a relief it is

Every morning, after I finish visiting the throne, I stand in front of the sink, getting ready to wash my face. After the water is splashed on my skin, I take a look in the mirror and let my eyes focus.

Hmmm… What is that? That small mark? I think. There’s another one. And, another. My finger presses against my cheek as I lean towards the mirror.

Awww, shit. They’re zits. Not one, not two, not three, but four of them. All in a row. All in the area between my nose and basolabial fold. Fuck.

I make an effort to keep my pores clean because, even though I have a luminous complexion, my skin can get oily if I exert myself physically. But, this isn’t fair.

At this moment, my skin resembles the episode of Family Guy where Chris, the dimwitted son, grows a talking (and homicidal) zit overnight and slathers some bacon grease on the rest of his face to multiply them because the talking (and homicidal) zit is taking over his life.

What do I do? I pop them. Every single fucker. What's left behind? Four red marks. Eight fingernail marks. Zero zits. And, I am elated even though my face looks like it was slashed by Freddy Kreuger.

Excerpt from an X-rated conversation with a centrefold

"Mmmm..."

Do you really think I'm one to kiss (surprisingly well) and tell?

I tried to tell you I love you

It’s the 15th of February - one day after Valentine’s Day - and I’m feeling a little down. The reasons aren’t obvious. It has nothing to do with being single, or not getting chocolates and flowers. In fact, I wasn’t alone on the 14th, and I did receive chocolates and a card (which is better than a bunch of roses that will wilt in two days).

The reason why I’m down is because I didn’t get to wish everyone a happy Valentine’s Day. True, there was a post, but only right people read Human Nature.

For the past several years, I’ve been sending cards to a group of people, wishing them love and happiness on that day in case they don’t have someone to remind them that there is someone (a.k.a. me) that likes/loves them. If I can’t have someone make me feel good, I might as well try and make someone else feel it.

But, there was a problem: Hallmark was on the fritz.

Frustration begins as I spend hours on the site, trying (almost frantically) to put in my order. It’s no use. Even after several tries, it’s not going to happen. I have to admit the fact that I can’t make everyone happy all - or even some - of the time. And, because of that, I’m a little down.

So, to any/all of those who didn’t receive a card, just remember that I tried to tell you I love you. Unfortunately, I have to say it a day late.

I heart you

Two girls and one guy

For the past several years, I have been going out to dinner with S for Valentine’s Day. Since we’re both - shockingly - single on that particular date, we spend some quality time wallowing in our cynicism of the holiday while chucking back a few drinks.

During our meals, we glance over at the couples around us and begin making bets, calculating how long they have before they break up. All in all, it’s not the worst way to spend a day because you’re making the best of a bitter situation.

This year will be different. I won’t be making any reservations for dinner with S. I’ll be doing something different. There will be no S, no drinking, no cynicism, and no betting on break-ups.

This year I will be spending Valentine’s Day with two pretty girls.

I’ll be their plaything and I’m sure they’ll take advantage of me every chance they get. We’ll play, dress up, dress down, eat, pee, and poo (not necessarily in that order). We won’t care if there are cards exchanged, because only one of the three can actually read. There will be plenty of chocolate consumed and fingers licked (and thankfully my sister will handle the clean-up).

Of course, if there are any poo-ey diapers that need to be changed, then I'd rather skip the holiday altogether.

Spread it around like manure

For some reason, I always think springtime is the season of love. The snow melts and so do hearts, and the flowers bloom along with romances. It’s as if love is being spread around like manure and growing in unexpected places.

But, it seems that nobody needs springtime to fall in love since when February 14th exits on the calendar of every hopeless romantic.

True, you can be in love any time of the year, but it seems Valentine’s Day is the one time of the year where you have to show it. And showing love entails spending money. Whoever says love is free does not work in the fields of advertising and marketing.

What about those who don’t have anyone to show anything to? They don’t get the chocolates and flowers, and dinner is probably out of the question. And, don’t even bother bringing up the topic of sex unless it involves your hand or an inanimate device that runs with an electrical current.

C’est l’amour, c’est la vie.

Sadly, it can’t it happen to everyone. Or, can it? Does it matter what time of the year it is, or is it specifically-related to a date? And, if you can’t get love to grow, is a load of crap all you need to make it bloom?

By the way, what’s that smell…?

Liar, liar, pants on fire

There’s nothing quite as delicious as catching someone in the middle of a lie, especially when you’re hungry for the truth.

**

After a series of frustrating e-mails, I finally give up and stop writing to G. He’s been playing with me and it’s pissing me off. Instead of being upfront about business, he’s promising things that he can’t follow through with. Being the chump that I am, I let him because I think he’s going to deliver.

As a fluke, I write him using another one of my e-mail address that I use for junk mail and contest entries. To my surprise, I receive an e-mail the following day about promises that were initially promised to me, now being promised to my alias.

Part of me is shocked because this is the way he does things, but the other part of me shouldn’t be because of the way he already treated me. Why do people treat others in this manner? Is it out of a need of superiority, of the upper hand? This time, I’m not too sure. I think G just likes screwing with people and that gets him off.

But, it’s going to be sweet to catch him in the act and slowly destroying his credibility; like eating a cheesecake only without the calories. In fact, I think I'm getting a sugar rush right now.

Hair apparent

As we’re sitting across from each other, both with our cups of coffee in our hands, the light from the window shines on his fine, strawberry blonde hair and makes it look almost transparent.

Then, I notice something. It looks like a piece of fluff that is flying around the room and has landed on his ear. The only problem with that thought is the fluff is on both ears and it’s probably not fluff.

While we talk, my eyes gloss over parts of his face and back onto his ears. No, it’s definitely not fluff. It’s hair. Random strands of hair. Fine hair. They’re sort of long, but shorter than the hairs on his head. There are a few that wrap around the cartilage of his ears; both of them.

When he moves his head, they don’t fall off. In fact, when he runs his hands over the side of his head, they bounce back into position.

Oh my God, they’re growing out of his ears! Can he not see them? He has to see them because even the blind man who just walked into the coffee shop noticed them. They’re just there. Two inches of strawberry blonde sprouts. If they were a little longer, he could braid them.

When it comes to the personal grooming of unwanted body hair, men are usually swift when it comes to removing nose and ear hair. The occasional hair is fine, because not everyone stands in front of a mirror, primping for hours. Apparently, this guy didn’t get the memo.

Making the matter worse is the fact he’s young and good looking. He’s not an old man with his pants hiked to under his armpits, wearing black socks with sandals, and talking about his childhood during the first world war.

By the time we say goodbye, I make a concerned effort to refrain from saying anything. I just hope that there's a wind strong enough to blow those pieces of fluff from both ears. God, I bloody hope so.

I know what you look like naked

As the newest edition of my nationally-recognized magazine comes in the mail, I take a quick glance at it before I throw it onto my bed. With the magazine in my hand, I look at the cover photo. My eyebrow raises and I smirk. The model on the cover is someone I know.

The only thought that starts to chime in my head is Even though I haven't fucked you (yet), I know what you look like naked...

Somewhat self-righteous

Looking back at the number of conversations I’ve had with people, I can’t help but notice a pattern that is unsettling. It’s not about what I’ve said and done, but how I’ve said and done it.

It’s not something that I do on purpose. In fact, it’s quite unconscious. I think I’m somewhat self-righteous without even realizing that I am.

Dictionary.com describes the term as someone who is confident of one's own righteousness, smugly moralistic and intolerant of the opinions and behaviour of others. I’m not that extreme, although the more I read the description, the more I think I fit within its parameters.

This behaviour comes into play because I live my life in a way that I won’t feel embarrassed or ashamed about my actions. The ‘pointing finger’ of judgement doesn't come into play because I expect the people I associate myself with (who are smart and bright) to act accordingly.

It doesn’t always happen that way, though. We all have barometers of behaviour, and they’re calibrated in different ways. Some of the things people do with their lives might be unappealing to me, and some of the freaky things I do with my tongue might be unappealing for others.

Will my somewhat self-righteous behaviour always be like this? Possibly. Will I continue to realize it only after the fact? Probably. Will I continue to do my tongue trick for those who are interested? Only if they pay me like all my other clients.

Explosive shit

There are some action films that suspend all forms of reality and disbelief because they’re over the top. Then, there are other action movies that make your mouth gape because they’re so bad.

Take for example, The Marine: A WWE production designed to synergize the wrestling worlds with that of film. Starring John Cena, the producers thought they could make a star out of him like Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. Sadly, Cena has the acting talent of petrified wood, even though his body is just as hard.

Putting aside all other elements of the film, the only thing that left me shaking my head is how many times his character survives several catastrophes without a scratch.

For example, he survives after being inside an exploding gas station, makes his way out of a car going over a cliff and exploding when it hits the bottom, and lives to “get even” after a house explodes with him still in it. And, I’m not even going to talk about the extended scene where he’s driving without a windshield and the “bad guys” shoot thousands of rounds of ammo at him and he doesn’t even muss up his hair or get any shit in his eyes and mouth.

It’s too bad all the money was spent on pyrotechnics instead of an actual script and a leading man who has one less facial expression than Vin Diesel because The Marine is pretty explosive shit.

The wrong kind of lips

Every once in a while, I scan through the stats on Sitemeter to see what brings people to Human Nature. It’s almost always the same thing; nothing out of the ordinary. There are the customary referrals and Web searches. But, sometimes there’s a link that makes me want to click it.

This time around, there’s a Google search for "leaking lips." There was a post written about my lips that appeared to be leaking from the side, and accompanying it was a photo.

Hmmm… I wonder what page I’m on. I hope I’m one of the top views!

Let me say it doesn’t matter what page I’m on, because the referral was a surprise. As it turns out, these were the sort of lips that you see on people’s faces. Oh, no. They’re women’s lips. Several of them. In fact, only the SPCA has seen more pussy than I have at this moment.

It’s not the lips themselves that’s disturbing, it’s what they’re doing. Oh, yeah. These flexible women are enjoying themselves, by the looks of their heavily made-up faces. They’re a collagen shot away from resembling blow-up dolls. The wacka-wacka guitar and heavy bassline is practically heard in the background.

And, in the middle of all of that, is a photo of me and my leaking lips. Great. Don't bother searching for images of "stretch marks" because that's even more disturbing.

Sup? Horny?

It’s the early evening and my cell phone rings. It’s a text message. The name doesn’t click in for a few seconds. Hmmm. Interesting. Haven’t heard from E in over a month.

There is one call right after another, hence the need for my phone to ring twice. The messages are interesting, to say the least. The first one is a rather vague Sup? while the other asks Horny? as if I need any clarification on what it means.

I put away my phone and enjoy the rest of the night.

The following day, while checking e-mails, I write back since my phone can’t write text messages (even though it can receive them).

The e-mail is short and to the point:

Hey,
To answer your questions from last night…
Sup? Not much.
Horny? At the moment, sadly no.

BTW, are you sure you meant to write me?

S.

Not too long after, I get a reply saying the message wasn’t for me. Fine. In fact, I’m relieved. I don’t give out such personal information to semi-random strangers who write me out of the blue - especially those who lack technical skills involving communication devices.

But, for next time, I hope E contacts the correct Steven because I’m sure he’d love to tell you how horny he is.