It's an age thing

While S and I are sitting at Lettieri, shooting the shit about a variety of subjects, he brings up the topic of age. To be specific, he brings up the topic of ageism and how it can even affect those who aren’t old.

His point is that people his age aren’t attracted to him, even though he has a lot of things going for him. He says they are looking for someone older and wiser (and probably wealthier) to date. While S has no problem with the fact they can choose who they want to date, he does have a problem with others purposely ignoring a section of the population simply because of a number.

I know what he’s talking about because I’ve been there.

For some reason, I tend to attract those who are a bit younger, or a bit older than me. Why?

Here are a few assumptions...

The younger ones see me as a more stable version of the less mature ilk of their age group. Because I don’t look like an old man, they feel like they get the best of both worlds: sorta smart, and sorta cute.

The older ones see me as a piece of ass who has level head on his shoulders and can carry off an intelligent conversation. Also, they don’t mind showing me around to their friends, like an anatomically-correct doll.

That leaves the ones my age; the ones who couldn’t give a crap about me. They take a pass because they’re busy whoring around, looking for the next hook up, while complaining (at least, to me) about how they can never find anyone because they’re such a catch and anyone would be lucky to have them.

Then again, I'm just assuming - no one wants me, no matter what their age.

Back to beauty school

Today, I go back to school. It's not a regular school. True, there are desks and an instructor, but there aren't any final exams and diplomas aren't given out upon completion of the course. In fact, the only thing I have to do is show up.

What's the problem with that? It's beauty school.

To keep up to date with a multi-billion dollar client's philosophy and product lines, everyone who works on the account has to go back to school to learn (and sometimes re-learn) about the company.

So, why am I stressed? My appearance isn't up-to-par.

On the weekend, I got my hair cut, did an at home facial, had a manicure, scrubbed and moisturized, and got a little sun because I like my skin to resemble the colour of cocoa.

Why did I go through all of that? To belong.

It's like spending time with Amy Winehouse. You'd only feel out of place if you didn't wear a beehive, black eyeliner, became anorexic, reeked of cigarettes and urine, and had a crackpipe nestled in the corner of your mouth.

No matter what happens, I have to do well. I have to pass with flying colours, just to show everyone I know what I'm talking about when I open my mouth.

But, I hope I don't end up a beauty school dropout.

Pee pee hair

Being someone who likes to have things clean around him, I find it rather ironic that I perform a certain behaviour (unknowingly) time after time that borders on the disgusting.

Whenever I finish my business in the loo, I walk to the sink and look in the mirror. It's the only time in the day that I do this since I'm too busy with work (and no one in the office really cares about my appearance). Before turning on the faucet, I run my fingers through my hair to make any adjustments... forgetting that my fingers have been in contact with urine.

Yet, as gross as this is, I do it every single time. I don't even stop myself. It's like an unlearned behaviour, bordering on instinct. Pavlov should've been so lucky.

Why can't I wash my hands before running them through my hair? Hmmm... Maybe that's the reason why my hair is so shiny.

Truly, madly, deeply in love with someone else

"I'm still madly in love with him, and I know we'll always love each other."

This is one of the lines you'll never want to hear on a date.

Then again, at least you'll know there'll probably never be a second one.

Kid's undies

If there's one issue I have a problem with shopping for underwear, is finding a pair that fits after a series of washings. Inevitably, the fabric begins to stretch and they begin to sag like a pair of 80-year-old breasts.

Because my budget doesn't allow for $30 pairs of bloomies, I have to be creative and search for alternative ways to achieve the same look for less. And, I found it: kid's undies.

They're cute, they fit, and they come in a variety of colours and patterns. To top it off, they're inexpensive (three pairs for $10) and they make my penis look it's just bursting to get out (which isn't too hard).

Sadly, whenever I happen to bring it up in conversation, it garners unwanted reactions - all negative. For some reason, they equate kid's undies with some perverse behaviour. Strange. They like them on me, but they don't want to know where they came from. What's even more strange is this reaction comes right before the undies are taken off and flung across the room.

From now on, I have to stop telling people where I got my undies and just tell after they're pulled off.

Fucking free time

Whenever my schedule begins to fill, people begin to come out of the woodwork, wanting to do things with me. Strange, because when I have a lot of time on my hands, everyone is always busy. What the fuck is up with that? I'd say this was a case of supply and demand, but there's a hell of a lot more demand when I don't have a lot to supply.

Take for example, a period when work and play cannot mingle. Twelve-hour days are not common. I wake up, get ready for work, commute, work, commute, get ready for bed, and go to sleep. Lather, rinse, repeat. Yet while this is happening, some people are pulling at my pantlegs, like needy children. As much as I want to push them aside, I know that's not what a parent would do (unless it's Bing Crosby or Joan Crawford).

It's hard having a couple of playdates in one week, especially when they're both on the same day. I'm only one man. I can't be in two places at the same time. Also, I can't split myself in half to please two people (although I can split someone in half to please myself).

Where the hell are you when I have time on my hands? Huh? I have no way to enjoy it with someone else. All this fucking free time can kiss my ass.

Next Wednesday is today

"I'm going."

"Going where?"

"Back."

"Back to what?"

"I'm going back to Quebec."

"Oh, for the weekend?"

"No, for good."

"Uh, for good?"

"Yes."

"Um, when did this happen?"

"Last weekend."

"So, you're leaving and never coming back?"

"Yeah."

"I've heard excuses for never wanting to see me again, but this is a first..."

"I quit my job here and am moving back next week."

"Next week?!"

"Yes."

"Like when next week? Friday? The weekend?"

"Wednesday."

"What?!"

"Yeah. Wednesday."

"So, you're leaving? Just like that?"

"I miss my friends and I miss my family..."

"But, you've only been here for a month. I mean, don't you need a little more time to settle in before you make this decision? It's not like I want you to stay for me - that would be crazy. But, how do you know, you know, that you should leave?"

"I don't like Toronto. I dunno. I just don't like it here. I don't know a lot of people. My job is ok, but I don't love it."

"So, that's it, then? You're going."

"Yeah."

Next Wednesday is today.

Shitting in your backyard

While S and I are talking about the messiness of relationships, he brings up a line that surmises everything in one succinct sentence.

"It's like shitting in your backyard," he says when referring to the mistakes he's made with his past and present relationships. I agree with him.

Although my mistakes are few and far in-between (that comes with the territory of near perfection), I have shat in my backyard. Sadly, it's usually done in winter, with a lot of snow around. The mistakes are visible, large brown spots on the white ground.

As much as I'd like to learn from my mistakes, I'd rather not have a constant reminder, looking back at me in my backyard. When that happens, I'll be praying for warm weather to melt the snow so the lawn can be fertilized.

To the guy who thinks he's so interesting

Hey.

You don’t know me, but I know you. In fact, I think I know you pretty well. In fact, because you’re always talking about yourself, I think I know a lot about you. Unfortunately, because you’re such a meathead, you don’t realize how ridiculous you are.

The reason why you emulate others is because you don’t have a personality of your own. No, you’re not interesting because you associate yourself with someone famous. It’s just sad. You're not Holden Caulfield. No one is. Why the hell would you think that? I know the reason why. In fact, it's my next point.

You’re just dumb and want to give the impression you’re a lot smarter than you are. You’re not. You could surround yourself around an intellectual, or two, but your friends are pretty dumb, too. I can only imagine what sorts of conversations you have. Two seconds and you’re done. At least you’re not wasting precious air that I need to breathe (through my nose, not my mouth, like you). And even if you're all a pack of vacuous airheads, you still don't do anything interesting. Oh yes, dancing and drugs is so much fun - I can imagine I'm back in the 1980's all over again!

And, I know you’re good looking. In fact, you talk about it all the time. That’s very humble. What a gracious person you are, bestowing your perceived beauty onto us ugly plebeians. By the way, did you know if you were living in a larger city, no one would give you a second glance, because there are 10 pretty boys for every one of you? Just thought you’d want to know that.

You do have a great body. Then again, I would too if I worked out eight days a week. You have a six-pack? Congrats! I have one, too, and I don’t work out at all. My body isn’t that bad, either. Every once in a while I even get a compliment when I’m fully clothed.

Which brings me to clothing. Stop talking about your clothes. They’re nothing special. They’re rather bland and you wear them all the time. Do you have only two pairs of pants and five shirts? I don’t care if they’re designer. A lot of my clothes have labels in them, too, but I don’t talk about what I’m wearing as if I’m being interviewed by Mary Hart at the Oscars.

And, while I’m at it, I have to talk about your bag. It’s ugly. Fucking ugly. Period. You’re a fucking idiot for a) picking that fucking ugly bag, b) spending that much fucking money on that fucking ugly bag, and c) admitting that you spent that much fucking money on that fucking ugly bag.

So, do me and the rest of the world a favour: shut up and huddle yourself away where you don’t have to be seen by the rest of us. It’s just too painful.

Oh, yeah, and you have a small dick.

Best,
Steven.

Thin and cranky

When a model struts down a runway, he/she always has an expression that resembles someone who just sucked on something tart and sour – their eyes are slants and their lips pucker. The reason why they look like this isn’t because of “attitude” but because they’re cranky from hunger.

And, I know from personal experience.

Off and on, I try to remove those unwanted pounds gained from September, when I started to go through my nine bags of Hallowe’en candy. Then there was Christmas chocolate. February brought more sweet stuff. And, there's the occasional crap on a cracker that fills me between meals.

Fortunately, it’s easy for me to lose weight; stop eating so much.

No more snacking in the middle of the day. No more chocolate to crave my hunger when it strikes. No more eating at late hours before going to bed. If I was desperate for something to munch on, I’d grab an apple for its sweetness and crunch factor.

Sadly, as the pounds drop, the crankiness rises.

There are times when I’m even more irritable than normal. The only thing on my mind is food. Even though I don’t need to eat, I want to eat. A lot. It doesn’t matter what it is, as long as it’s full of fat and calories. Naturally, that means the “healthy choices” are to be left by the wayside while I stuff my face with food that negates the hard work I’ve been doing to lose the weight.

But, I don’t care. I’m thin and cranky.

Give me some chips. I want chips. Now! I don’t care, anymore. Give me some fucking chips before I rip your head off. Grrr…

The Jonas Brothers made me deaf

The ringing in my ears still persists after spending a day with the Jonas Brothers and a zillion, screaming girls. I will be deaf for the next while.

Thanks a lot, you bastard trio. All I have to say to you is MMM-bop.

Three little words

There are times when you’re feeling down because of so many influences – work, family, friends, money, health, etc. – that you don’t know how you can rise about the lingering depressive episode that’s about to unfurl.

So, it comes to my surprise when D sends me a text out of the blue. There wasn’t anything particularly special about the message. We haven’t seen each other in months, and this was just a note asking me how I’m doing.

What does surprise me is how the message ends: I miss you.

Three little words, that when assembled in any other combination still has a similar impact. It’s nice to know that absence – not to mention distance – makes the heart grow fonder.

And with that, the lingering depressive episode that was about to unfurl, wraps itself back up and scurries away, while a secret, sentimental smile washes over your face because someone still misses you.

Rock star fool

Recently, I spent six hours working with an international rock star for a day and the only thing rolling around in my mind was I hope he makes a total fool of himself so I can write some juicy stories him on Human Nature.

Over our heads

Not too long ago, I had to deal with a third party who didn't like the way I responded to a request about a client of mine. Normally, my customer service manners are quite excellent, but this time it wasn't (to her, at least).

To be generally specific, I was asked for some information I didn't have. Her deadline was end of day (approximately 5 p.m.) and I said I would get back to her asap (before 5 p.m.). Apparently, that wasn't the response that I should've given.

What happens is the worst possible thing that can happen: She went to the board of directors and complained about my idiocy and ineptitude, as well as badmouthing my company. She didn't bother to talk to our client, but went to the client's bosses.

It's like she bypassed Jesus and went straight to God. And, let me say, God is pissed.

After a series of phone calls and messages from board members, clients, bosses and supervisors, I feel like crawling into a hole and never leaving... for a second. Knowing I am good at my job and it was not an intentional sabotage for the client, I defended my case, proving my worth to the company.

Everyone could've brushed her off as irrational (and some of them did), but since she works for one of the largest third parties in the nation, her complaints would not fall on deaf ears. So, everyone had to tread carefully, making sure that no one would step on her toes.

The point to this madness is that there will always be one person who can shake up matters in ways that no one can ever expect. And, when they do, make sure to cover your bases... and asses.