Gardening attire

Whenever I'm outside mowing the lawn, I know I shouldn't wear much because I'll end up being coated in a sheen of sweat. There's no need for a tuxedo. It's always best to wear as little as possible. Normally, I throw on a t-shirt and jeans if it's cool, or a pair of shorts if it's hot. But, the problem isn't what I wear, it's how I wear it.

When I have on a pair of jeans, I don't wear a belt because it's not necessary that I accessorize. Since the waistline is loose, the jeans fall lower than they normally would and show my ass crack (I don't wear any underwear while mowing the lawn). When I have on a pair of shorts, I put on a show when I bend my knees (again, because of the underwear thing) while trimming the edges.

And, I really don't want to show off my goods if I'm not getting paid for it.

So, from now on, my only clothing option will consist of anything plus a pair of underwear. And, maybe a cummerbund.

Bathroom adjustments

Note to self: It's always a good idea to adjust yourself in the bathroom stall because inevitably one of your co-workers will walk in while you have your hand down your pants, moving your penis from one side of your pant leg to the other while standing in front of the mirror.

Bitchy comments, part deux

Last week, when writing about bitchy comments, I made a point that people who post the worst comments are usually anonymous. And, a couple of them came out of the woodwork to prove my point. Not only did they write a couple of not-so-pleasant words, but some of them even sent me e-cards about the horrible person that I am.

First, I thought it was my sister playing a trick on me. But, then I thought she wouldn't do such a thing because she would rather a) make a personal comment that only she and I understand, b) tell me in person because she has the balls to do so, and/or c) not do a thing because she has better things to do than read my site and post bitchy comments about how insipid I am and how I am always posting photos of me in states of undress.

To top it off, the anonymous sentiments carried onto the next day.

In fact, someone commented on the use of the term "pretty awful" in my post, claiming how could I, a person who writes a lot for a living, use this oxymoron. Sadly, it would only be an oxymoron if the term was "pretty ugly." But, who am I to point a perfectly-manicured finger at them? I'm the judgemental one, not them.

The reason why they're doing this is because even though they're repulsed by me, they're also sexually attracted to me: the love-hate scenario. How many people would read your ramblings on a daily basis, only to tell you how what a shitty writer you are? And, they would take time out of their (supposedly busy) day to send you a card, telling you how much they dislike you.

They want me. They want me so badly, they can taste it. Oh yeah.

Double entendre, double life

Not too long ago, while talking with a new acquaintance, I happen to mention something that didn’t fall well with him. In fact, he didn’t like it. Not at all. So much so that he stopped talking to me.

It wasn’t anything horrible, but something that (unwittingly) hit close to home. To paraphrase, while in the middle of a sarcastic conversation between the two of us, I tell him he’s leading a double life because of the duality of his work-life situation. I didn’t think it was wrong because it was true – he has two very different lives.

What I later find out, after not hearing back from him for a week is that he is leading a double life. Not the kind of life that entails dueling personalities, but the one of “happy homemaker” during the day and “dirty, dirty boy” at night. How was I supposed to know about that? It’s like Melrose Place come to life.

And because of his closeted existence, I no longer have a (potentially good) friend since I opened the doors to something that was supposed to remain shut.

They know what I look like under my clothes

Ever since I started Human Nature, I never expected to post any photos of me. It's existence was strictly due to the fact I wanted to be known for my writing and not my face/body. That changed with the medium, and images became a way to sell yourself more effectively (thereby increasing my appeal to various audiences). A digital camera came into my life and I've been snapping shots and posting them with regularity.

Later on in my online exploits, I met people who found me through HN and would eventually become my friends. What I didn't expect from our relationships is they'd know what I look like almost naked even when I'm fully-clothed. Every once in a while, one of them cracks a comment about my body and I look at them confusingly.

How would they know anything about my body? Oh wait, last Thursday... Yeah, that makes sense.

Still, it makes me feel uncomfortable because there are people who know what I look like with 98% of my clothes off. True, my eight readers also know, but I'll probably never meet them. If that was the case, I'll have to make sure to throw on a parka, just in case they have any ideas.

Either that, or I'll just remove every photo of me where I'm practically naked from this site.

I'm not picky, I'll drink just about anything

The event is running smoothly, but I'm running frantic. I have to greet several celebrities and I always feel strange around them. It's not because they're famous, it's because I'm not really good at schmoozing and small talk.

When a couple of celebs from a well-watched television show arrive, my co-worker calls me to go to the entrance and greet them, as per my instructions for her. Both of them look just like they do on television, only they're (miraculously) taller then what I originally thought. They're also wearing a bit of makeup. Sadly, they're men.

After introducing myself, I tell them about the itinerary and chat for a few seconds. When one of them brings up how he's been to several wine tastings around the world, I nod and smile, like one is supposed to do.

"I'm an alcoholic, so I'm not picky," I say. "I'll drink just about anything."

They look at me and laugh out loud.

Oh, my fucking God. Did I just say that? Out loud? To guests? Who happen to be celebrities?

"Please don't tell that to the organizers. They might get the wrong idea." I put my hand over my heart. "So, anyway..." I wave my arm outwards, "please enjoy the event. If you have any questions, let me know."

As they walk into the crowd, I exhale deeply and think to myself, I might not be good at schoozing and small talk, but I can feign indifference and make a segueway like a seasoned politician.

Fuck, I need a drink right now.

Hair growing out of my shoulder

After taking a shower, I always rub myself down with a towel - vigorously - to remove any trace of water before I throw on my clothes. I find it hard to leave the warm and toasty bathroom while damp; I shiver and get chills.

When the towel drops to my waist, I normally check my arms, chest, stomach, etc. for any marks. Every once in a while, I look at my shoulders to see if there is anything there. Normally, there’s nothing. Sometimes, there’s something.

This something is a hair. A long, superfine hair.

Since I am fortunate not to have any back hair (*knocks wood*), I find it hard to believe how such a long hair can grow out of my shoulder. And, what’s really strange is the hair isn’t dark like the rest of my hair, but blonde. So blonde it’s almost white.

Hardly anyone gets to see my shoulders; if they do, I make sure the lighting is dim (or hope they’re dim – whatever is easier).

Before anything else happens, I grab it with two fingers, pull it up as high it can go, and mentally measure it. Fuck, it’s long. I let the hair go and find the tweezers. Hopefully, when I yank it, two won’t grow in its place.

One handed

You never know how useful something is until you don’t have it anymore. The same thing can be said about my right hand. I never realized how important it is in my quotodien life until I couldn’t use it.

**

It starts when I wake up in the morning, after having someone sleep on my arm for most of the night. They weren’t heavy, but their head was, apparently. I didn’t move my arm because I was asleep. When I’m unconscious, I have no idea what’s going on. For all I know, my arm could’ve been cut off and thrown across the room.

But that was then and this is now, and right now, I can’t feel my arm. And since my handed is connected to my arm, I can't feel it, either.

It’s the most disconcerting feeling, not being able to use your arm, especially the dominant one. How are you going to write, use a computer mouse, pick up the phone, or flip the bird to the bitch who cut you off in traffic?

This isn’t the same as phantom limb syndrome, where many individuals who have had their limbs amputated. My arm is still there and I can see it. The thing is I can’t use it because it’s “dead” and lacks feeling. If I was Golda Mair, my arm could be raised above my head to help with lymphatic drainage, but I can’t do that for a multitude of reasons (mainly because it would still render the arm useless if it was in a sling).

So, for now, I have to be one-handed and I can’t do anything about it.

Don't shoot the editor

Being someone who writes a lot for a living, I enjoy it when people ask me to look over their manuscripts in order to get an objective perspective on their work. Sometimes I’m pleasantly surprised by the quality, sometimes not so much.

Here in comes the problem: What do you do when someone asks you if it’s good? Should you tell them what’s wrong and offer constructive criticism, or just shut up and tell them it’s good (while lying through your teeth).

One time, someone gave me something to review and it wasn’t very good. In fact, it was pretty awful. Not only was there no story, but the grammar was poor. The only way it could ever be published was for reasons beside the written word (i.e. money, sex, blackmail, etc.). I handed it back and said nothing.

What’s worse is having to tell this to a friend. I find it akin to when someone asks you if they look fat in the jeans they’re wearing. The obvious answer is yes, but you don’t want to say that because it will hurt their feelings. So, you bite your tongue and tell them they’re not fat and look fantastic.

So, if you ever consider in having a professional opinion on any of your written works, please be advised that I will be honest in my assessment, while trying not to hurt your feelings. Try being the operative word.

Bitchy comments

Because I only have eight daily readers, there aren’t many opportunities for opposing opinions (how’s that for alliteration?) when posting a diatribe of mine. Even when I write something I consider to be provocative and thought-provoking, the comments are usually quite pleasant and irreverent; perfectly fine with me.

But, there are times when I wish I would have some ‘anonymous’ person write some bitchy comment just for the sake of it.

When I get some, I’m so happy. These comments seem like they come from someone who doesn’t even read what I post and comments for the sake of commenting. Basically, it’s the equivalent of the person who likes to hear the sound of their own voice so they never shut the fuck up.

So, why do I want the occasional bitchy comment? I enjoy feeling superior to their idoicy and vapidness. Oops, there goes a bitchy comment, and this time it’s mine.

Do I look like a hooker?

After jokingly talking to K about my talents and how I shouldn't talk about them because it makes me sound like a hooker.

Then comes irony and perfect comic timing, smacking me across the back of my head: I get an invite to take part in an orgy and am offered money for sex two days afterward.

Do I look like a hooker? Is that the impression I give? Apparently. Maybe I should consider raising my rates. At least I can make some extra cash on the side in case I don't have a tax rebate next year.

Tantalising tickles

There are some erogenous zones on the body that make hairs stand on end and toes curl just because they’re being stimulated. My erogenous zones do the same thing, only instead of moaning, I break out in laughter because they’re also ticklish spots.

Now, I believe that laughter is a good break in an intimate moment because everyone takes sex too seriously. A little smile or a muffled laugh shows that you’re having a good time. And, who doesn’t like to laugh? Apparently, some people don’t.

Some people think of laughter as an insult, as if you’re making fun of them, and I can see their reasoning. Still, they should lighten up and enjoy what they’re doing and if they’re enjoying it, shouldn’t they be smiling?

To me, if you can make me laugh, you’re in my ‘good’ book. If you don’t make me laugh, well... you’re not in a ‘bad’ book because I don’t have one.

To finish (myself) off, the only thing I can say is to take a load off. No one wants to be around someone who is so serious about something that should be fun. Or maybe they should be just as ticklish as I am.

Picking on my lips

A caricaturist focuses on a part of a person’s face and exaggerates it in his/her drawing. That’s pretty much the same with my younger niece, only she doesn’t draw faces, she grabs them.

For my father, she reaches for his nose. For my mother, it’s her jowls. When it comes to me, it’s my lips. Sometimes she pulls so hard with her pointy nails, she removes bits of skin from my lips, making them bleed. Her older sister was the same when she was smaller, as are other babies.

I think the reason why they attract those young hands is because they’re colourful and full and resemble a stuffed animal they might have in their toy box. But, I don’t want my lips to look like something that comes with a tag sewed on its ass, or the ones found on Mr. Potato Head.

When I was young, they were small (and pouty). As I’ve grown, they became an impediment of sorts – too large and always getting in the way of my other facial features. My face is composed of other features, the last time I checked.

I’m probably just picking on my lips because they’re a source of contention: other people like them (and the things they do) while I don’t.

I once caught a fish this big

There are some people who cannot stop talking about how amazing their life is. That isn’t a problem, per se. What is a problem is when you know they’re boasting when you know they’re stretching the truth.

One person I know has a habit of making everything he does sound so much better than what it really is. He goes to a fabulous casino (in some hick town, not in Las Vegas or Monte Carlo) wins a ton of money on the slots, but doesn’t mention he spent more money playing them. He celebrates a year at his “amazing” job (which is a crock since he complains about it all the time) even though he was on contract in several positions in the company (and the title he claims to have doesn't exist). He goes on a date and says this is the person he’s going to marry, even though the other person wasn’t aware it was a date at all. And, so on and so forth.

Basically, he’s the sort of person who would say Oprah blessed him with her immortal powers when what really happened was some big, ol’ black woman pushed him off the sidewalk when he was in her way.

But, maybe I’m misunderstanding the situation.

When I talk to S, he says that when I describe things that happen to me, I sound bored and indifferent. It’s true, I have done some fun things, but I tend to brush them off in a rather blasé manner. Is it because I don’t really find them interesting, or am I above it all and on the lookout for something so amazing that there’s nothing else that can compare to it?

Maybe it’s a mix of the two, or maybe it’s one and/or both. I don’t know and I’m not sure.

What I do know is I went fishing and I once caught a fish this big...

Promotion by proxy

Recently, I got a promotion in the worst possible way: Because of a serious injury to one of my co-workers (who I really like), I have his roster of clients (in addition to my own) and am now the director on two of them.

But, there are a few good points to come out of this: I was promoted in three months; I can tell people "no" (and direct them); and my status in the city's social calendar has my schedule booked for the next several months.

The bad parts include: The new position wasn't earned, but due to someone else's hospital stay and recovery plan; I don't get extra money; I have to research client information due to my co-worker lack of filing skills.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to pretend to work...

Everything's coming up roses

It's the final day of my trip and I decide I want to see a show. Not just any show, mind you, but the show with the mother of all stage mothers: Mama Rose. Even before the show was to be produced, I knew I had to see it because of LuPone. But, before I see the show, I have a few hours to spend.

Because M told me to call him up when in town, I do so. Unfortunately, he just had surgery and is feeling nauseous. He says he'll try to make it, but isn't too sure he'll survive. I take this as a confirmation that he won't be coming. Still, I have hope that he'll pop into the city, if only for just an hour, for us to have lunch. Even thin people eat, contrary to popular belief.

After purchasing my ticket at the TKTS booth (now located in the Marriott Marquis), I make my way down to 14th Street. M told me Chelsea is the best neighbourhood to get some brunch. As I stroll down, the clouds start to threaten the brightness that started off the day. Within a few minutes, I pull out my umbrella, if only for a few minutes. Water and curly hair do not (and should never) mix.

While waiting for M to call me back, I dial Chris' number. I spoken to since I've been in NYC. He knew I was coming down for the weekend, but he already had plans (which included bathing). At least he told me he was busy before I came down. We talk for a couple of minutes and he tells me he would rather tell someone that he doesn't want to go out instead of promising them and backing out at the last minute. It makes sense: just be non-committal.

I make a couple of other phone calls; namely to those I was supposed to "meet" while in town. Like everyone on my trip, they're not answering. Whatever. Fuck them. Or, to be precise, they're not fucked.

My stomach starts to grumble and I can't take it anymore. I walk into the nearest McDonald's and order something with a small iced tea. Strangely enough, a small iced tea comes in a container that resembles a slurpy cup and it tastes like brewed tea that's been cooled. I eat the burger in a minute, but carry the cup with me, taking the occasional sip.

When I look at my watch, I know I don't have too much time to waste, so I around and between the streets on my way up to the theatre. The rain starts again, and I get drenched. Stepping into Macy's dries me up for a second, but everyone else had the same idea. The store is crowded and steamy. Still, I make my way out in time to see LuPone.

Gypsy is amazing and I feel great empathy for the mother of all stage mothers. She does everything for her children, and loves them unconditionally. True, she has a vicarious way of showing that affection, but what mother doesn't? I start to think of my mother while watching the show and begin to dislike her a little less by the time the 11 o'clock number starts, ending the first act. Mama Rose and my ma can be the same person, only my ma can't belt out a song. By the end of the show, I'm crying. Now, I hate my mother for making me think of her while watching a Broadway show. Damnit.

I walk out with the crowd and stroll towards 46th Street where I spent some time with G last year when he was visiting. Memories, both good and bad start to pass through my mind. I pull out my phone and call M. He says he called me, but it went straight to voicemail. It happens when my phone is in roaming. We talk for a couple of minutes and make plans for his trip to Toronto in the fall. Not too long after, I get a call from my mother. That conversation is a lot shorter, since all I want to do is wish my father a safe flight (he's leaving the country for six months).

Now, as the day winds down, just like my holiday in NYC, I slow things down and take a couple of last looks around the city. I stroll through Lexington, Park and Fifth Avenues, peering into store windows, wanting to break them and running off with thousands of dollars of merchandise. I take photos of the sunset reflecting off of tall buildings. I walk in front of Central Park, on 59th Street and make my way to Columbus Circle since that's my subway entrance. Before going underground, I turn around, look up, breathe deeply, taking in as much of NYC before I go. Unlike Gypsy, it doesn't smell like everything's coming up roses, but diesel fumes.

No matter what happened this time around, I don't have any ill feelings towards the city. I'll keep coming back, year after year, if my schedule allows for it. Whether, or not, I'll be able to do the things (and people) I want to do depends on a series of variables; many of which I can't control (although someday, I will because I will rule the world).

From the sights to the sounds, friends and food, this is a place I will return to in 2009.

I love NY.

Ditched for dinner and drinks

The day is bright and shining. The sun is out and there isn't a trace of rain in sight. The only clouds in the sky are the ones that resemble fluffy lambs. To make the most of the beautiful weather, I decide to spend most of the day indoors at the Museum of Natural History.

On my way there, I call X about our plans tonight. He's in a bit of a tizzy, but I brush it off - no one is like that for too long. Our plans are to meet later on in the night. I'm still not sure if we're having dinner and/or drinks. Still, I leave the matter in his hands. I already plan for everything and might as well take something off my plate.

The museum is filled with families and tourists, which is no surprise. When I pay for my entrance ticket, I flash my student card and shy smile and get in with a discount. I might as well use that card for something; it cost me enough money.

For the next several hours, I'm walking along, taking pictures and seeing variations of my family in numerous exhibitions. Even though humanity has progressed throughout the years, there are still quite a few people who resemble neanderthals.

There's a period where it feels like I'm in the same room as this hot couple. I don't think they're following me, but it feels like it. I'm pretty sure they think I'm following them, but that's not the case. At least, it wasn't the case. Part of me wants to think they'll ask me to come along with them on a night out of debauchery. The other part of me wants the same thing.

By the time I get out of there, I'm famished. I didn't have a proper lunch in the caf because their prices were outragous. Did they think they're Per Se, or something? No matter, I'm going out with X tonight. The food will be secondary, as the company will come first.

I pull out my phone and check for messages. There aren't any. I dial X's number and leave a message. I still don't know what time we're meeting at. Fuck, I don't even know where we're meeting.

On the A train I go, back to Mike's place to decompress and get ready for my night out. Lucky for me, Mike left his laptop in his living room; I check my e-mail. There aren't any messages. No matter, X will call.

My clothes were already chosen for the night, so I didn't need to spend additional time getting ready. All I need is a shower to freshen up and a brush with toothpaste to get minty in the oral department. All of this takes about 15 minutes.

For the next two-and-a-half hours, I wait. And, I wait. And, I wait some more.

I make another series of phone calls, but get voicemail. I check my voicemail, but there isn't anything. I log onto my hotmail, facebook and gmail accounts and there isn't anything there. Part of me wonders what's going on, and the other part of me hopes X died in an incredibly painful accident.

Not knowing what to do, I try my best to contain my anger and disappointment from being stood up and write X a message: I'm all dressed up with no where to go. I wonder if he'll get the passive-aggressive hint.

Because it's almost 10 p.m., I'm starving. I haven't eaten since lunchtime. Making the most of a negative situation, I grab my coat and umbrella and walk outside. It begins to rain by the time I step out of the building. Funny, but not funny, at all. It's like I'm living some colossal weather joke that no one laughs at.

I grab a slice of pizza, a sundae at McDonald's and make my way back to Mike's. The rain stops when I walk into the apartment. I'm still not laughing with the weather.

Mary is still watching TV and I sit down on the couch, opposite her. We talk for a bit and she notices how disappointed I am. It's true. I'm also drawn. I hate making plans only to have them fall apart, but I hate when other people make plans and don't follow through with them. They know I'm in town for three days, and they know one of the reasons I came down was for them. The mind only remembers what it wants to, I suppose.

I check my messages. There aren't any. Fine. I don't care, anymore. They're off my to-do list.

When Mike walks through the door, he makes me smile. He didn't ditch me. I regale him with my night and he listens. That's what I need right now. By the time everyone goes to bed, I fall asleep with a smile on my face. He didn't disappoint me like so many before him have.