Turn off the lights

On Saturday, milions of people around the world celebrated Earth Day. Inevitably, the goal was to turn off the lights from 8 - 9 p.m., trying to decrease the global consumption of energy.

So, in an effort to comply, I did the one thing I find more pleasurable performing in the dark than with the lights on.

I might even do it again this week.

Losing weight while asleep

With all of the diets that exist (and the ones being created on an almost weekly basis), it’s difficult for those who want to lose a few pounds to find the right plan that will work for them.

Just like everything else in my life, I have discovered the perfect diet by accident. Sadly, it's not the Hollywood Cookie Diet; I found out the hard way that you can't substitute Chips Ahoy for their stale pieces of fibrous cardboard.

The five simple steps to effective weight loss are:

- Work erratic hours
- Be busy all day
- Get home late
- Skip dinner
- Crash into bed

This diet is so successful that I’ve lost two pounds in one week. I haven’t weighed this when I was 10 years old. If I say the number, I'll have a group of people telling me I’m too thin – but they’re jealous, so whatever.

Due to this, I also don’t need to exercise. There is little fat around my pork loins, and my abs are prominent. I could post a half-naked picture, but that would be rude of me. Why rub my body in the face of others? I mean, only if they’re paying me like they used to.

Try the sleeping diet - it’s fast, effective, and it can be done while unconscious. Sound like the best way to shed those pesky pounds.

Good morning

There's nothing like having a peek under the covers at the person beside you in the morning, and making you smile. Unless they have good morning breath, but that's a moot point if you're still half asleep.

Note: Hint, hint, I'm talking about you, B.

Secret lovers

While I’m talking to my friends S and V over drinks at Lola, I bring up the topic of relationships, specifically that of secret lovers. They know what I’m talking about without going into too much detail because they’ve had their own.

One was going out with someone for six months, while the other was seeing her man for a year. That doesn't compare to one (former) friend who I only got to meet her man at the wedding for the first time (after she was going out with him for two years).

The reason why I want to talk about this issue is that I see it happening all the time. For years, whenever one person was dating another person, you’d know it. In fact, they practically registered for flatware on the second date. Now, that doesn’t happen as frequently, and when it does, you feel sorry for them because you know it’s going to end by the time they disagree on flat vs. filigreed patterns.

But, what is the reason for secret lovers?

It makes sense if you’re still in the beginning stages. You don’t want to tell anyone because you don’t know what’s going on and what you’re doing. Is it a one-time thing, or is it more? Is it casual or is it serious? And, you don’t want to tell your friends because they’ll probably make a snide remark like a typical relationship cynic.

It doesn’t make sense after you’re seeing each other for several months. Why wouldn’t you want to talk about the person you’re dating if you're seeing them on a regular basis?

For some reason I think it’s due to some form of shame. If you don’t want to introduce someone to someone else (especially if they’re a friend), then there’s something wrong.

Is it due to looks, age, race, upbringing, education, financial status? If you’re seeing this person and you’re serious about them, those things shouldn’t faze you and they wouldn’t matter. If they do, then you’re insecure about your relationship. Who cares if your friends don’t approve? They’re not dating him/her. If a friend makes a comment, it should roll off your shoulders like water from a duck’s back.

Still, it makes me wonder why some people can be insecure over something that shouldn’t be.

Comments schmomments

Not too long ago, I talk to C about the number of comments he receives on certain posts and the number he doesn’t receive on others. He feels like there are posts that he considers to be quite good (if not sparkling) that no one makes a comment on, and they should.

I tell him that it happens.

There are times where I write and consider my words to be verging on brilliant, and not a peep is heard from my peeps. Then, there is a time where I post about making couscous (which I thought was ridiculous) and BAM! fourteen comments in one day.

What’s even more interesting about the semolina story was that I didn’t throw in a filthy sex story, or a naked picture of me to get the audience’s attention - that might turn people off, or attract them in droves, like watching a bloody car accident on the highway.

So, after mulling this in my head, I play Devil's Advocate and ask whether the number of comments matter in the end, or is all about a ratio of hits-to-comments ratio?

Maybe I should start writing about food on a daily basis to see what happens. That, or I'll post some naked pictures.

What are you wearing?

Being someone who works in the media, I have the opportunity to go to a lot of events for free. Even if you don’t go to them, it’s always great to be put on the guest list. It’s better to be on the VIP list, but then you have to go in order to be seen.

This time around, I’m going to a show at Toronto Fashion Week. Specifically, it’s L’Oréal Fashion Week because they’re the sponsor. Same shit, different pile. Next to the Toronto International Film Festival, it’s the most glamorous time in the city.

The air is ripe with kisses that barely brush the cheeks of another, and the word fabulous is heard more times than at a Chelsea bar during Pride. Everyone is beautiful, and/or thinks they are. It’s the perfect time for the deluded and delusional.

Just like every other fashion week in the world, the most important thing is who sits where at the actual show. It’s all a competition, after all, and their dominance is demonstrated by who gets a prime seat. Even though I have a seat reserved in the middle of the runway, I decide to stand up. It’s easier to get a better view of the front row, where they’re sitting in relation to each other.

Also, from where I’m located, I get to catch a glimpse where the celebrities are. True, these are Canadian celebs and not anyone from Hollywood’s A-list (or even D-list). But, if you watch television, chances are you know a handful of them. And just like every person you seen on TV or on the big screen, they’re much, much shorter and thinner in real life – fuck the metric system.

The lights go down, the president of the FDCC slurs an almost incomprehensible speech (which will be talked about for weeks), the music blares, and the show begins.

A series of models walk down the runway in similar and almost interchangeable outfits. I’m bored if not for the fact of watching those sitting in the front row. Why I didn’t bring my camera with me, I’ll never know. At least I can watch the face of the most influential fashion buyer in Canada stifle yawn after yawn and try to stay awake even while the music thumps loudly in the background while competing editors glare at one another from across the runway.

The show ends after 12 minutes and everyone applauds. I pick up my bag, and begin to make my way out. I’m asked if I’m coming to the after party, but I decline – I’m tired. I don’t want to pretend I’m feelin’ fine when, in fact, I’m exhausted.

Well, that, and I don’t want Jeanne Beker, the doyenne of Canadian fashion and host of Fashion Television, ask me what I’m wearing. I’d probably give her a heart attack and kill her because my response would entail describing $20 jeans from Zellers, a dress shirt from the Bay, and a Calvin Klein undershirt worn as a topper.

Then again, I’m wearing black, so I’ll have no problem fitting in at her funeral.

Note: Have you checked out Canuck Canuck lately?

New definition of frustration

The new definition of frustration: Trying to find your underwear the next morning in the bedroom of your hook-up’s niece.

Not that this is based on me, or anything.

Unrealistic in the real world

Known as the doyenne of domesticity, Martha Stewart created a billion-dollar empire out of S&M: sweeping and mopping. No one ever expected keeping your house running efficiently would be enough to make you rich, but she had other ideas.

From her daily talk show to her magazines, everything is perfect. Nothing is out of place, or incorrectly measured. The linens are ironed to eliminate unsightly creases. And, I’m pretty sure her shit smells like lavender.

Herein lies the problem: she can’t accomplish any of this without a staff of several hundred people. It's unrealistic in the real world.

Even if she didn’t have several homes and successful business, she wouldn’t have enough time to do half of the things she inspires others to do. It’s impossible. It took me almost a month to go through and clip five years worth of magazines for interesting articles. It would’ve taken less time, but I had other things to do.

There are even days where I get home at 9:30 p.m. and I still have things to do, only to go to bed in an exhausted heap of worries because I have to do it all the next day. And, no one can do my work for me (because no one wants to). Sometimes I even wonder if there's any point in wiping my ass.

Scarily enough, if you throw in a spouse, children, pets, and the occasional in-law into the mix, then you wouldn’t be able to do anything. God forbid if you didn’t have a lock on the bathroom door, or else people would be walking in to ask if you’ve made dinner while you’re shampooing your hair.

I so need a series of minions to work for me… for free.

When I close my eyes at night

It’s nighttime. The day is over and it’s time to go to sleep. The sheets are turned, and I’m settled in, between two layers of crisp whiteness. By the time my head hits the pillow and I turn off the light, I lie still in the darkness for a few minutes until I close my eyes.

But, I can’t sleep.

Night after night, I think of D. Since we last met in December, D has been off the radar. I tried to reach out, to no avail. No phone service. No text messages. No e-mail. Is D mad at me? Is D pissed at me? There wasn’t anything wrong when we were together, or maybe there was and I didn’t see it.

Still, every night, before I fall asleep, I think of D. I worry. Being someone who finds refuge in spirituality during hard times, I pray for things to be ok. Beside that, there’s nothing I can do. You can’t find someone who isn’t there, or who doesn’t want to be found.

On Sunday I get a call. As I look at the display, I see it’s D. Quickly, I pick up and hear his voice on the other end. His first phrase sounds like a question, as if he isn’t sure about something, and I’m taken back to the first time we talked on the phone. For the first time in one month, I smile, knowing he’s alive.

That night, when I’m settled in between two layers of crisp whiteness, my head hits the pillow and I turn off the light, I lie still in the darkness for a few minutes until I close my eyes.

And, I fall asleep.

Giving you the worst that I got

Reflecting back on these past few weeks, I’ve decided it’s time for a change. There is something broken that needs fixing, and it should be taken care of immediately.

There are a lot of things about me that are repellent to others and I have to make a concerted effort to remedy them.

First, I’m going to gain those 30 pounds that everyone wants me to put on. No one likes the fit body that I have, so I might as well start eating my weight in food in order to gain those necessary kilos. I’ll be going from six pack abs to six packs of everything I can put my hands on.

Second, I’m going to stop caring about my general appearance. No longer will I keep my looks presentable by shaving, using the occasional scrub and moisturizer, and no brush will pass through the curls on my head. And, on top of it, I just might start pulling out large chunks of hair from my head to appear balder, ‘cause it’s so hot.

Third, I’m going to start dumbing myself down to the point that I’ll be studied by the MENSA people as a former member who “let himself go” to the other side. And, while I’m at it, I’m going to talk less and say a lot of monosyllabic words, like yeah and dude. Oh, yeah, I’ll grunt, too.

Fourth, I'm going to start acting like an asshole. More so. It's true that when you treat someone like shit, they respond by liking you and throwing themselves at you. Put politeness to the side, and throw a large piece of rudeness on the plate; this motherfucker is going to make you feel like the biggest piece of crap and you'll love me for it.

Why go through such a change? Easy. These are the kinds of people who – it seems – everyone is attracted to. The more I hear about people who fit these criteria who have plenty of fun in their social life, the more I think it works. I always thought the fantasy guy on the cover of Men’s Fitness was the one who made hearts palpitate, but I was wrong (change number three is already taking effect).

Let’s hope those four changes will have an effect. They have to. It can’t get any worse, right?

Funding my study

It’s early morning and I’m sitting at the computer with my cup of coffee. When the internet is connected, I check my e-mail and then log onto Sitemeter to check my stats.

It’s still early, I think, so no one hasn’t read any of my ramblings for the day.

What comes next surprises me.

On a good day, my daily readers max out at eight. This morning, they’re in the middle triple digits. It’s not even 10 a.m. What the fuck is going on? Who found my site? Did someone find my X-tube video?

When I click onto the referral page, I see one link coming up, again and again: a discussion board on condom usage. As I scroll down the page, I see one person used my non-scientific study about ugly people (according to my study, non-models) getting more action than beautiful people as a reason for higher sexual activity amongst the non-models in society.

What really intrigued me was there were several other professionals who concurred with my "study" by saying it makes a good point, and although it’s not a study, per se, its argument is sound.

And, because of that, people were coming to Human Nature by the assload.

Now, the only thing left to do is to come up with another "study" group to see if I can get some (government - cha-ching) funding.

Morning face

With all of the work that we go through to look our best when going out (and hopefully, getting lucky), it’s a wonder why we spend so much time to look good when the aftermath is so bad.

The morning face is definitely not a pretty one.

There’s the messy hair, the lines on the face, the crusty stuff in the corner of the eyes, the open mouth, bad breath, dry lips, and probably some dry bodily fluids somewhere. It’s almost as if you rolled out of a dumpster (and in some cases, that probably isn’t far from the truth).

To solve this problem, I propose something that may be considered somewhat radical: Go out in public looking like you do in when you wake up.

Basically, you end up showing potential partners what you’ll look like after you have your way with them. They’ll see you looking like shit eventually, so what’s the problem? An added benefit is you don’t ever have to spend another second getting ready because you’ll look the same every second of the day – awake, or asleep.

Of course, some faces need a little extra attention and I would suggest having them wake up extra early to get ready before their bedmate wakes up in order not to scare them shitless when they open their eyes.

Codeine coma

The only good thing about being sick is taking medicine with codeine. Mmmm. It's so good that I can barely stay awak... zzzz...

Speechless

The kind of work I do requires me to talk. A lot. So, it would be a negative, of sorts, when I open my mouth and no sounds emerge. That's what's happening. I lost my voice. I'm speechless.

**

Even though I am a little under the weather with the flu, I still go to work. It's a selfish thing to do because I can - possibly - spread the virus to co-workers. But, since my parents always taught me that unless I'm on my last breath, I should be a man and carry on with my day... even though I'm sick.

If I thought having my muscles and joints ache, feeling feverish/chilly, and miserable (not to mention unconscious for two days), not being able to breathe tops them all. My lungs are on fire whenever I cough (which is often) and my throat is constricting; I can barely swallow.

When I tell my co-workers I'm leaving, they're not too impressed. True, I don't look sick, but I feel like shit. Unfortunately, I can't prove them wrong, but I can't stay.

By the time I get home, I can barely make any sounds. Nothing comes out of my mouth, not even a whisper. I spend the rest of the day in bed, asleep.

When I wake up, I'm still speechless.

Update: Just came back from my doctor and he told me I'm contagious, therefore I can't talk for 2-3 days. Fuck.

Craigslist matchmaker

As I’m going through Craigslist, selling off my wares to make a little extra money, I decide to go through the personals section as a larf.

While I’m scanning the listings, I can’t help but giggle at some of them. Some of the photos they use are fakes because I recognize the models. Do they really think no one will notice an underwear model lives in Bumfuck, Nowhere is looking for sex on Craigslist? And, even if they are, will want to have sex with some out-of-shape, beer-guzzling 50-year-old? I doubt it.

Basically, these people are looking for the same thing, but after a while, it seems like a cut-and-paste job.

To paraphrase the posts... I want you to put this here and that there, fill this up, play with this, suck and rub that, it has to be this length and this width, etc.

As a form of entertainment, I start to scan the posts for similarities. With this, I can help them out. Find a fuck, you could say. With each compliementary post I see, I click on the Craigslist e-mail and send the other person the appropriate link.

If I can help two people get each other off, then I know I’ve done my good deed for the day.

Put on your seatbelt

It’s Thursday afternoon and my father and I on our way to the gas station to fill up the tank because it's only a quarter full. We’re on our way to pick up my mother at my sister’s place because she’s been taking care of my two nieces for the past few days.

After the gas has been pumped and the bill paid, my father enters the passenger side of my car and sits down. He begins to pull on the seatbelt while squirming. He pulls on the belt and pulls on the belt. I can see that he’s getting frustrated.

“Take your foot off the brake,” he says while looking down at the tunnel where my feet are.

“It’s not on the brake.”

He continues to squirm.

“I said take your foot off the brake.”

“It’s not on the brake. See?” I say as I move both my feet even more to the left.

“Ugh.” He continues to squirm around in the seat. He pulls on the belt, then lets it go. He pulls on the belt, again, and lets it go. He repeats this several times. “The problem with these belts is they make them too short.”

“The problem isn’t because it’s short. The problem is because you’re fat.” I look down and lean towards the clasp, but it’s hidden underneath his coat.

At that moment, I hold the clasp with one hand as he pulls the belt over and snaps it into place, making a click sound.

“There. Are you done? Are you ready to go?” I ask. His automotive gymnastics took approximately five minutes from start to finish.

“Yes. Come on, let’s go. We’re running late.”

Just before I pull out of the gas station my father says one more thing:

“And, don’t speed!”

Fuck. It’s going to be a long ride.

Sizing you up

Working in retail for several years has given me a good eye when sizing someone up without asking them whether they're a small, medium, or large. Opening your mouth to say those words can be a painful experience for both people involved... unless the other person is lying through their teeth.

When someone told me they have a 32" waist, I knew they're talking about another size. Unless they took an alternate form of math in school and think a 2 is a 5, then it made sense. And, it's not all about the waist, but about every body part imaginable.

Seriously, people. Who do you think you're trying to fool? If I look you straight in the eyes when you claim to be four inches taller than I am, then those extra four inches of height must be all forehead.

Why do people have to lie about something that is impossible to hide? You can't decrease girth and length by four inches (two-to-four inches being an average) where you don't want it and increase it where you do.

It's almost as bad as Internet inches vs. real world inches. And, if that's the case, then I'm 12".

Men have pussies, women have balls

It has been said that behind every great man, there lies a great woman. I think that maxim should be changed; it’s incorrect. A great woman has a man standing behind her. Period.

The reason why I say this is because I find men hide behind women while women don’t (usually) hide behind men. Quite often, if there’s a problem, a woman will come to the defence of a man, but that doesn't happen when the tables are turned.

It doesn’t matter if it’s about marriage, politics, or something else.

If men are supposed to be the aggressors, the driven ones, the ones who get up and get things done, why do they hide their tail between their legs when the going gets rough? True, women may not possess the physical strength of their male counterparts, but that doesn’t mean they give up. In fact, they keep plowing through the crap while the shit hits the fan.

Sadly, men pose and postulate, but lose their power when they're no longer behind the screen. Women can be aggressive, but then they're called bitches. They can't win. Men can be assholes, but they're men, so it doesn't count (apparently).

If it wasn’t a chargeable offence, I would start pulling down pants of every man to see if he has a pussy - because he is one. And, if I have a woman judge at my hearing, I’m positive she’ll rule in my favour because she has the balls to know the difference between a real man and a woman.

Charge my luck

Some people are born lucky, while some are not. Me, on the other hand, I’m hexed. Fucking hexed without the fucking.

Even though I talk about being ditched on several occasions, it shouldn’t happen with such regularity. On Monday, I got ditched again. Two times in three days is impressive. It was by someone else, mind you, but that shouldn’t make a difference.

I know it happens to others, but not this habitually. Even though I’m a firm believer in karma, I know I couldn’t have done something so bad in a previous life to have it come back and haunt me this way.

It’s my luck that I’m alone when I want company, and am never given a moment’s peace when I want to be left alone. And, whenever someone wants my company, it’s always for one thing, and I’m not always willing (or in the mood) to give it to them.

Part of me thinks I should start charging for my services (like before) in order to change my luck. At least they’ll know what they’re getting and I’ll be making some money.

Stand up kinda guy

It’s seven o’clock on Saturday night and I’m getting ready to go out. After three weeks and a series of phone calls and e-mails, M and I made plans to meet. It’s been hard to get something set up because we work opposite schedules: one works day, the other night.

While I’m walking around, I’m waiting for M to call, if not e-mail me. Although we did say we’d meet after dinner, location is TBD. This is what I hate when I let other people plan things: they’re indecisive. If it's up to me, I would set the schedule in stone.

Until then, I wait. And, wait some more.

It’s already 7:30 p.m. and I haven’t heard anything. Seven-thirty turns into 7:45, which then turns into eight o’clock. I check my e-mail, but there isn’t a note. I try msn, but no one is on. I look at my cell phone, but there aren’t any messages. I try to call, but there’s no answer.

This better not be happening. Not after the promises. All I asked for was 10 minutes.

With the computer on and my cell phone near me at all times, I turn on the TV and place a DVD into the player. The movie isn’t doing anything for me. Even though I watch it for an hour, I’m not paying any attention.

Fuck this, I’m going to get some wine.

Into the kitchen I go and grab a bottle of white and a tumbler. This is no time to use a proper glass, but I still won’t succumb to the cliché of taking swigs from the bottle. When the booze is poured down my throat, I begin to mellow even though I’m still angry.

But, what’s bothering me the most is that after all this time spent setting something up, I cancelled all other plans this weekend. I turned down other invites because I thought this was the one.

In the end, I spend my Saturday night waiting at home by the phone. I’m so disappointed. Disappointed that I let myself get into these situations. Disappointed that I can associate myself with people who let me down. Disappointed that I’m continually let people string me along because I think they have the best of intentions, when they don’t. But, mostly I’m disappointed that I keep on getting stood up.

Turns out, I’m a stand up kinda guy.