High maintenance

Out of the list of adjectives people use to describe me, the one that always bothers me (beside skinny) is when they say I'm high maintenance. To me, being high maintenance conjures an image in my mind of someone who takes forever to get ready, is always standing in front of a mirror, and is so prissy if a hair is out of place.

The description couldn't be more wrong: I don't take any time to get ready, the only time I look in the mirror is when I wash my hands in the loo (the room, not the bog), and my hair always looks like shit.

What I think they mean (but can't put into words), is that I know what I want, I know what I like, and I know what works and what doesn't. That isn't being high maintenance, that's being practical. For years, I've whittled down the crap, and streamlined everything. That includes my morning routine and the way I run my life.

And if I really was high maintenance, could I get ready in 10 minutes? I don't bloody think so.

Drunky at worky

One of the benefits of managing a multi-million dollar beverage company is being able to partake in the samples left in the office that are typically given as gifts. And, after a particularly long day, I want to open up a bottle.

"God, I so need a drink," I say to my co-worker. We're the only ones left in the office.

"If you want one, I'll have one with you." She leans back in her chair from her desk.

"Really?"

"Oh yeah."

"Well, we can't open any of the [brand number one], so we have to work with the [brand number two]. Is that okay?"

"I don't care." She sighs. "Just open a bottle."

I tell her where the bottles lie, I grab two cups, she opens the bottle, pours a half-cup in each of the vessels, and we clink.

It takes her a while to finish her glass while mine disappears in a matter of minutes. Not only was I in need of booze, but I was also dehydrated. I go back to the bottle and pour some more. By now, the bottle is already three-quarters empty.

"I'm already a little drunk," she says.

"I don't feel anything. Must be the high tolerance," I reply.

When I go back to my work, I take my cup with me. In about 10 minutes, my co-worker leaves. Thankfully, my work doesn't suffer, although it is done at a slower pace. No longer am I stressed and the world is a little blurry. When I get up, I feel a numbness in my legs. Shit. I'm losing it. I can still walk, talk and chew gum at once, but I'm doing it a lot slower. Fuck. Drunky at worky.

Thank God my boss isn't here. I don't feel like explaining the empty bottle or - potential - vomit stains on the carpet.

Under the knife, pt. 3

Today, I go to the doctors for my test results.

And, all I had to do is wait three weeks.

Patience is a virtue... that I don't have.

Fake Facebook fotos

When taking a few moments out of my day to scroll through Facebook, I go through my search function to see my friends' friends. Quite often, it's to see who I know and which friends we have in common.

But, every once in a while, I come across a profile pic that I know is fake. Matthew McConaughey doesn't live in Barrie and he isn't looking for ass, and Jessica Alba didn't just break up with her boyfriend and is on the prowl (with her newborn, apparently, on her hip), if I'm to believe "Jessica's" status update.

Why are my friends friends with these people? It's obvious they don't know who they are (especially when your friends have over 500 "friends" on their friends list), and if they did, why would they want a friend who is clearly a fake?

The reason is quite simple: It's because their profile pics are hot.

My Facebook friends (who are real) use photos of themselves. Thankfully, they're also incredibly hot and they use their own photos of themselves. Mine, on the other hand, are a different story.

Schedule for sex

Even though my schedule is pretty tight, I always try to be flexible with those who require some time with me. Sometimes their requests are easy to fit in, but other times they're irrational. Specifically, this is referring to sex.

To start, I am a very busy person and I cannot - as opposed to will not - take any time off work for anyone. It's impossible. There are several clients I manage and I must be on beckon call from 9 a.m. until mid-afternoon. I do not have time to commute 45 minutes to your place, fuck you for three hours (which doesn't include foreplay, post-coital shower, and a sandwich) and commute another 45 minutes back to work. That's almost five hours. It's not going to happen, unless you're one of my clients (and they pay me to get screwed over).

The reason for this is because I don't want to rush things. Frustration never works to my benefit. Feeling a little bloated doesn't help matters, either. Also, I can always do a couple extra crunches and lunges before meeting up. That's not selfish when it's for someone else.

So, if you want to have sex, make sure it fits in my schedule. For a quicker response, make plans a few days in advance.

Under the knife, pt. 2

Two weeks ago, I went under the knife and had some surgery. It was painful and uncomfortable, at times. I made it through and was told to wait 2-3 weeks for the prognosis. That was the worst part of all.

What was unfortunate was the series of comments I received. To put it mildly, they were not very sympathetic. There were multiple things about my penis and the word 'circumcision' came into play more times than at a Jewish bris (i.e. Brit Milah).

If anyone knew what I was going through, they would shut their yaps. If anyone knew that I was awake during the operation and felt everything because they don't give any anesthesia, they would feel what I went through. If they knew that I would have to wait 2-3 weeks before knowing the diagnosis, they would acknowledge they're the most insensitive bastards in the world.

True, I originally finished my post with something about my breasts looking fantastic, but even I thought that was in poor taste, knowing what I was going to go through.

But, for those who did say send well wishes (and you know who you are), thank you. For those who didn't, you can all suck my uncut dick.

Thick and thin of it

Back in the day, when I was young(er), my body type was that of a fuller-figure. There were stomachs with rolls, thighs that rubbed together, and breasts that should've belonged on a 12-year-old girl. If someone needed a wall in dodgeball, I was it. But, it wasn't the body that interested people, physically.

So, the weight moved around my body (I still weigh the same as I did when I was 12) and people started to notice me. There's still some thickness intact, but it's not seen by the general public. Unfortunately, it wasn't always in the way I wanted them to. Now, instead of listening to comments on my fitness, I get remarks about my thinness.

It's lose-lose.

No one wanted to get with a chubby kid and no one wants to get with a toned young(ish) man. First I was too fat, now I'm too thin. There's no middle ground, and if there is a middle ground, then you're considered to be average. What the fuck is up with that? You can never please everyone all of the time, half of the time, or never (which isn't even a guarantee).

Of course, I can always say that I'm doing this for me, but that's not true. If it as up to me, I'd watch my ass grow exponentially while sitting on the couch, eating bon-bons and watching Y&R. I thought this is what everyone wanted of me. Turns out, it's not.

Swag hag

Even though the film festival is coming to a close on Saturday, there are plenty of memories that will remain. Most of them entail the goodie bags that I have accumulated from going to a series of parties throughout TIFF.

Unlike the celebrities who make their rounds at various events (for approximately five minutes each) so they can leave with a stash of stuff, I go to events because I want to eat and drink for free. Of course, having celebrities around me only makes them more fabulous.

The loot can be quite good. There are items that can be quite pricey if purchased retail. But sometimes, though, it's just a magazine and a card saying a donation was made in your honour for some wacko charity (i.e. Save The Dandelions) no one has heard of.

To be quite honest, there is a lot of stuff that I don't need or want. There are only so many pairs of $500 of Blahniks I can hold onto without becoming a selfish hoarder. And I really don't need all that MAC makeup, Armani clothes, Prada handbags, and weekend trips to Mykanos. I've got my own, thankyouverymuch.

So, I do what any sane person would do: I go online and sell my stash.

There's no better way to clean out your closets and making some extra cash along the way. And, since I don't want these things, at least they'll find their way into the homes of those who do. It's win-win.

But, I'm keeping the diamonds because I'll never know when they'll come in handy.

Doing coke with Jeremy Piven

During TIFF, there are a variety of happenings which lend themselves to write stories, almost all by themselves. Watching premieres, going to events, and hob-nobbing with celebrities are fodder for the sublime.

So, it should come to my surprise when someone finds my story about how I introduced myself to Gerard Butler and posts it on a very popular entertainment site. At first, I was flattered because someone thought about me. Then, things got ugly. Fast.

The comments started flying through the air, like fireworks on a holiday: I was rude. I was an idiot. I was full of myself. I was a poor sap, puffing up my chest. I was an embarrassment. And, on and on.

Sadly, I don't think anyone read the same story I wrote. In fact, I don't think they ever read anything I wrote about before. This was a snippet in time. Lucky for me, there were a couple of people who made jokes about rice - they have a sense of humour. I never said anything negative about anyone. Gerard Butler was a nice guy. His two companions were nice people. The food was only passable.

Take my writing with a grain of salt, because it just tastes better.

And, I never wrote about what happened afterwards; that's between me and Mr. Butler.

And if I was a rude and food-crazy monster, I would've been fired by my boss a long time ago, since it is my job to work with the rich and famous on a regular basis.

For God's sake, it's not like I wrote about doing coke with Jeremy Piven. I didn't even mention the fact that all these skanky women were throwing themselves at him and he didn't stop them (which is sad because he is so talented and can do so much better). No, I didn't do any of that because I'm a classy kinda guy.

I guess for next time, I'll have to keep the stories to myself.

Even the ones that involve Madonna.

How I introduced myself to Gerard Butler

The red carpet is over and the party is running smoothly. Everyone is having a good time. The famous are mingling and drinking with the infamous. There aren't any complaints, as of yet.

My colleagues and I have a break and are finally able to sit down. There are some banquettes inside the Boiler House that split the venue into two areas: bar and lounge. We're sitting on the lounge side.

There's a buffet, approximately 75-feet long, with several stations. All of the food is hot and the smells are wafting my way. I'm hungry and haven't eaten anything all night. I have had several drinks, but tonight isn't the night for a liquid dinner.

As I step near the buffet, there's no one around. I move from right to left and pick and choose a few things. By the time I reach the end, there's a rather tall man next to me, a shorter man and a fuller-figured woman. They're looking at the lids of the warming trays. I already know what's in them; I peeked inside them on an earlier trip inside the venue.

It takes me two seconds to realize who the taller man is: Gerard Butler. He's just as handsome (if not a little tired-looking) in the flesh as he is in the movies. The shorter man and the woman are movie people and aren't important in the general sense of the hierarchy of the world.

They're still looking at the trays and not touching them. Me, being famished, move over to them and pick up one of the large spoons, used to scoop out food.

"Excuse me, but could you please move out of the way?" I point the spoon at Gerard and wave it in concentric circles, like I'm brandishing a sharp sword in the movie 300. "I'm trying to get some rice."

He looks at me, and takes a step back. I move forward, open the tray, scoop out some rice, close the tray, and rest the spoon on a plate. When I finish my routine, the three of them go back to looking down at the warming trays as before. I, on the other hand, sit down on a leather banquette and enjoy my dinner.

**

And, ladies and gentlemen, that's how I introduced myself to Gerard Butler.

Madonna and me

Gerard Butler, Jeremy Piven, Thandie Newton, Chris "Ludacris" Bridges, Tom Wilkinson, Guy Ritchie... and Madonna and me.

Last night. All of us. Together. In the same room. I chatted with them. Person-to-person. And, they didn't call the police.

Under the knife

Today, I go under the knife for invasive surgery.

There will be some pain and blood.

But, on the up side, I'll probably make it out alive.

Starfucker

From September 4 to the 10, Toronto transforms itself into Hollywood North. The rich and famous visit to attend premieres and promote their films. There are more A-listers here at one time than any other city. Private parties are promoted everywhere within the inner sanctum of those "in the know."

And, I'm one of the ones in that very exclusive group.

Because of that, there are a few people who are asking me to get into the hottest events of the Festival. Funny how these people never want to do anything with me during the rest of the year. I'm not on their radar; doppler, or not. All of a sudden, they're my friends.

Of course, being someone who believes in reciprocity, I ask them what do I get out of it. Tit for tat. If I can get them in, they have to be my date, look amazing and never leave my side (that's what dates are supposed to do). And, the end of the night will carry on until the (x-rated) hours of the morning.

Mostly, their reactions are negative: Why should they do anything?

My response is this: If you want to be a starfucker, you should fuck around with the guy who can take you from Z-list to A-list in one night.

And, almost immediately, these people forget about our friendship and move on to the next person who can help them out. I wish them all the best, since there aren't many people who can get them close to the velvet rope, if not be able to drag their fingers across one.

Oh well. I guess I'm going to have to be a starfucker on my own.