Pressure to perform

Being in the position I am, I have to be ready to perform at a moment's notice. Whether it's for a large group, or for one person, there's never an excuse for me not to jump when someone demands it.

But, I can't always perform and there are a variety of reasons for this.

Sometimes I'm not fully-prepared. Sometimes I'm tired. Sometimes I'm stressed. Sometimes I'm busy with other work. Sometimes I don't want to do a thing and just sit on my ass.

But, most often it's because I'm expected to be ready. I'm pressured into being something that I don't want to be. It gets stuck in my mind and hovers over my head like an anvil in a Loony Tunes cartoon.

And, it doesn't help if I imagine the other people in the room naked. One group, or one person; makes no difference. There have even been situations where they are naked, to no avail. I still have to get it up and get going (sometimes for hours).

That's probably the biggest pressure to perform: I have to make everyone happy.

Middle of an e-mail

With the high number of e-mails that fill my inbox on an hourly basis, I think it's important to reply to them asap because I don't want my inbox to be full. There's nothing more frustrating than spending an hour replying to 20 messages when you have other things to do.

But, one of the worst culprits of my growing 'box is when someone sends me something imbedded in a message. Basically, I write about something, they reply and then add something in the middle of an e-mail that's so important, you never realize it's there because it doesn't match the subject heading.

Did you get that product to X? They need it for a photoshoot on Friday, so make sure it's delivered to the studio. Oh, and the cure for cancer and AIDS is...

This frustrates me to no end. True, I can read the entire thing, from top to bottom, but I don't have the time. On top of that, I don't want to do an e-mail search every time I need to find something. Sadly, this happens all the time.

There's a reason why people delete their e-mails. And, all I need is one deleted e-mail to make me go into a panic, especially when it can make the difference between Hiroshima and Three Mile Island.

So, please do me the - very simple - favour of sending me the appropriate info that I'm looking for. Don't hide it in the middle of an e-mail. If that happens, just don't bother to write back. Oh, and the cure for cancer and AIDS is...

Entering a contest to win

Being a person with a mild competitive nature, I find it hard to pass by a contest without entering. Even though most of them I know I'll never win, there are some I know I have a chance of being up on the podium.

Recently, an opportunity arose to enter a contest, judged by the readers of a particular site. It was strictly superficial in nature - all about the face and body and nothing else. In a lapse of higher-than-usual self-esteem, I decide to send in some pics.

When typing out my entry, I begin to think otherwise about the competition. Why should I send in pictures of myself that will only be ridiculed by others? Last time around, two of the finalists were frauds, and the winner was known to be a nutjob. I might think I look pretty good, but pretty good doesn't cut it, anymore (especially when you're competing against "models").

And, I don't have photoshop, so my pictures wouldn't achieve the airbrushed quality that's so prevalent in today's society.

My fingers click on the keyboard, putting down a series of words, asking for a reason to enter; if there isn't one (whether given by me, or given to me), then I won't bother. I'm not given a reason, and I can't come up with one. Maybe I was hoping for a Miss America-type of contest, where the contestants are looked at with a more critical eye because of their beauty and brains, not tits and ass.

Maybe I'll start my own contest for fun. Looking at more than just the superficial. Find the beauty within, not the beauty without.

Never assume

Assumptions are a lazy way of thinking. Instead of using one's brain to figure out the answer to a difficult question, an assumption is used to as a 'get out of jail free' card on a synaptic function.

But, there are a series of assumptions that I've seen that are (quite often) wrong:

Never assume the small guy can't beat the crap out of you.
Never assume the hard shell doesn't contain a soft filling.
Never assume the polite in public are pigs in private.
Never assume being shy and silent is the same as being a snob.
Never assume having a sense of self is arrogant, but confident.
Never assume your friends will always be there.
Never assume you won't be stabbed in the back by a friend.
Never assume someone likes you when you like them.
Never assume someone doesn't like you when you don't like them.
Never assume innocence is a prerequisite for stupidity.

Never assume, period.

Making the first move

"So, do I get a kiss goodnight?"

"Is that it?"

"Is what it?"

"Is that all you got?"

"What do you want me to do?"

"I dunno."

"Like what? Flip you over?"

"Yeah, like a chiropractor."

"Just don't get mad if I snap your neck."

"Ok. Fine."

"Why do I have to make the first move?"

Laughter.

So I make the first move.

I also make the second move.

J makes the third move.

I lose count after that.

I've seen you naked online

There is something quite amusing when you know someone in your office building has an online profile that shows them in all their glory and yet they have no idea what you know.

But, whenever you see them in the hallway, you smile a secret smile because you've seem them totally naked and they think you're just being polite, when in fact, you're just thinking dirty thoughts.

High on E

When I see A walking down the street, I know something is off. He is walking somewhat strangely and bells go off in my head. When he speaks, he rambleS and doesn't make any sense, at times.

By the time we reach The Beaconsfield, I have my answer: he has taken a hit of E before leaving his place. Great. That's all I need after a long day at work.

When we leave the bar, I make my way to the sidewalk and walk by the server who served us.

"So, how are things going with the two of you?" she asks.

"He’s crazy," I say.

"What?"

"He’s crayyyyy-zeeeeee." I open my eyes wide, making me look like the crazy one. "He said he took a hit of E before we met up. Not that I care what you put into your body, but -"

"Now, that's just rude."

"I know, isn't it? I mean -"

"Hold it." She cutes me off. "He's back." She nods her head backwards.

"So, are you ready to go?" I ask A.

"Yeah," he replies.

"Ok, see you soon," I say to the server while giving her one last look of despair. My eyes saying a lot more than a series of non-sensical words, like A.

I've never been in a situation where someone has to take drugs before meeting up with me, but I guess there's always a first. Then again, maybe everyone is on meds while they're with me, and I just don't know it.

Hit the fence

Even though I am a very good driver, today is the first time I ever hit something. True, there have been several times when I have wanted to drive over an old lady or an animal of the feline persuasion, but never have. Mostly, it's because they would get my car dirty.

But, with all the things going on in my head for the past several days, clearly I didn't see it coming.

**

When I run out the door and jump into my car, I turn the key in the ignition and the motor comes to live. After strapping on the seatbelt, I put the car in reverse and put the foot on the gas pedal. The car goes backwards down the driveway.

The next thing I hear is the sound of metal crunching.

"What the...?" I put the transmission in drive and move forward. I jump out of the car the second it comes to a stop.

When I get to the back of the car, I see it but don't want to admit I see it. The fence is bent. My bumper is worse. Left to right, top and down, full of scratches. It wouldn't be noticable if my car was grey, but it's navy blue.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuuuuuuucccccccckkkkkkk." With each fuck, my voice goes lower. I sound like a cross of Barry White and a tuba.

In all the years I've been driving, I have never done something this careless. Never. True, there's a first time for everything, but this is a first I don't want to have.

With my mother's stay in the hospital, the two presentations due for a client, another series of projects, a couple of events, fashion week, celebrity relations, etc. it's no wonder why I didn't see the fence before I hit it.

Still, I wonder what would've happened if I hit a little old lady...

Crappy Thanksgiving!

It's Friday night and I get home past 11 o'clock. I'm tired and still have a couple of things to do before going to bed. There are a couple of messages on the answering machine but I don't listen to them. They're probably pollsters asking me to vote for the candidate of their party.

The next day I listen to the messages while I'm making my coffee. One is from my BIL, saying that my parent's flight was delayed. The second one was from my sister. It's barely audible, but I make out some of the words; my mother was rushed to the hospital last night.

**

It's Saturday and I'm going to see my mother at the hospital. When I reach her bed, I see her lying on her side, with her hands and arms crossed across her midsection. She's in pain and a morphine drip is attached to her arm. If it wasn't for the fact the lighting makes everyone look like death, she'd look better than she does.

She tells me what happened and that the doctors have no idea what's going on. There could be a couple of things, but no one is sure. Gotta love modern medicine. She goes on and gives me directions about what to do with my father since his head is spinning and he loses focus at times like these.

I ask her if she needs anything and she tells me she’d like some socks to keep her feet warm. I suggest some magazines to keep her from looking at the wall for hours on end. If it was possible, I’d lay down next to her and read People magazine, hoping she’d fall asleep so she wouldn’t be in pain.

**

Sunday is spent with me walking around, not sure what I'm doing. Most of the day passes by in an emotional fugue. I go grocery shopping, run errands and do a couple of household chores. When I go out later that night, I don't enjoy myself as much as I should because I keep on thinking about my mother in the hospital.

**

It’s now Thanksgiving, and I don’t have much to be thankful for. A holiday shouldn’t be spent wondering about the health of family members while they’re in the hospital, they should be spent with family members, around a large table, stuffing their faces and arguing over the fact whether the turkey is dry or if it’s just salty.

Now, everyone has to wonder what will happen to my mother: will she come home for the holiday, or will she remain in the hospital. There is no middle ground. So, now we wait for the doctors to give us the next steps of this unknown process. If we could do something to speed up the matter, we would. Alas, we can’t.

This isn’t the way I imagined I’d be spending this day. It’s a crappy Thanksgiving, indeed.

I'm coming for your birthday

"What do you want for your birthday?"

"I want you to come all over my face."

Does that mean the package needs to be wrapped?

In my closet

Being someone who likes things to be organized, I find it hard to have messy things around me. For one, it’s not attractive. I like to look at pretty things. Second, it’s so much easier to find something if you know where it is.

Since I also worked in fashion retailing, I adjusted tables and racks of clothes, keeping everything folded and colour co-ordinated.

And, because of that, I keep the clothes in my closet (and drawers) organized and folded. It looks like my own small boutique in Barney’s, only there aren’t any $800 cashmere sweaters and snooty salespeople walking around, thinking I’m going to swipe something (which I would, but the cameras are a deterrent, of sorts).

From left to right, the sweaters are in a holder. I’ve learned the lesson of pointy shoulders the hard way. The shirts hang, separated by sleeve-length and colour. Then, there are the t-shirts, again separated by colour. After that, it’s pants – a series of black – and denim, followed by neutrals and then crap clothes I wear around the house when I’m feeling/looking like shit.

True, there’s nothing special about my clothes. There’s way too much black (approximately 75 per cent of my wardrobe) and navy blue, but I like those colours. Also, there’s a smattering of designer clothes, but I don’t wear labels on the outside, so who cares what I’m wearing, unless I’m at the Oscars.

Come to think of it, maybe the closet doesn't look like a Barneys boutique, but more like Wal-Mart half-off bin.

You know it's a bad date when...

You know it's a bad date when...

They’re a model on hiatus and you look like shit next to them.
They’ve lived more in their 21 years than you have in your 25.
They have dinner before you’re supposed to have dinner.
They’re slightly drunk because of the aforementioned dinner.
They give you 15 minutes before they go out with their friends.
They yawn and roll their eyes (boredom, perhaps?).
They tell you they’re not interested when you want to kiss them.

That's all I can think of right now before I get even more depressed.

Busy boy

Even though my life can lend itself to moments of glitz and glamour, there are days where I work a lot. A 10-hour day isn’t uncommon and it can last from Monday to Thursday. My friend S says I’m the only person who works more than he does. If he only knew how much I worked, he’d think I’m crazier than I think I already am.

A partial list of work activities from last week include:

- Writing a 40-plus-page summary report
- Finishing a client proposal (for a million dollar project)
- Presenting that proposal to the board
- Working on a last-minute event
- Going to an event (late night)
- Writing two articles (both got published)

There were also two dates, but they're not work-related, so they don't count.

And, I always manage to do everything. With all the juggling that occurs, no balls get dropped. That’s the sort of responsible person I am. That’s also the reason why I am a very busy boy. In fact, with all the hours I clock in, it’s a wonder how I ever make time for anyone else.

Maybe that’s why I only went on two dates and not three – the last one was rescheduled for this week.

Flex

There are some people in the world who are more touchy than others. This sort of touchy isn't equated with sensitivity, but to actual touching. I have no problem with that. I do have a problem when they want to be touchy with me.

It seems like every time they approach me, their arm extending, their fingers ready for a grope, I flex. Why? Part of the behaviour comes from my fatty, fat, fat past. I don't want them to grab flab. No one wants that.

It's not like I resemble a jelly donut, but if I'm a little bloated or retaining water, there is probable cause for a squish factor.

But, after a while, I get tired of being in a perpetual cycle of flexing. It's not like I have a hard body, showing it off and walking around in a state of undress. I don't work out and I like to eat. True, there isn't an inch to pinch in any one spot, but there are several inches that can add up.

So, come on and touch me. See if I flex.

Waiting: room

It's the day of my results, and I am running a few minutes behind schedule. I thought I had enough time to take a quick shower to be squeaky clean for the doctor before heading out the door. Turns out, I underestimated the amount of time I had.

By the time I make it there, I am only five minutes late. Sadly, I am also a tower of sweat since I ran up eight flights of stairs because the fucking elevator was taking a lifetime to reach the main floor. If I was 15 minutes late, I would've been charged a fee and had to reschedule my appointment for God knows when. After signing in, I learn the doctor is running behind schedule, too. Thank God, that means I didn't miss my appointment.

Minutes pass and I see a stream of other patients walk past me and into his office. After 3/4 of an hour, I start to lose it. The magazine I brought with me is read, cover to cover; including ads. I'm getting anxious, like during exams. The feeling is similar to that of butterflies in your stomach who are suffering from a case of the pukes and the shits.

At the one-hour mark, my name is called and I'm directed into his office. I'm told to strip, from the waist down, and put on a hospital gown. I do as I'm told and sit on the examining table. About 10 minutes pass and I'm getting antsy, again. The butterflies are back and they're feeling really sick.

Great, now I have to go to the bathroom, I think. Shit. I can't go because I am not going out there with this on. But, I have to go to bathroom. Ugh. Why doesn't he hurry up? I have to go…

And when I have to go, I let go and begin to flap my hospital gown to try and dissipate the smell. I resemble a discombulating bat, flying around the office, the cotton of the gown flapping every which way.

I hope he doesn’t smell anything when he comes in. The last thing I need is for him to think I’m not clean. Where the hell is he? Fuck. I really want to go NOW! But, if I go, then I won't be 'clean' for him anymore. Fuck. Where the fuck is he?!

Before I break my way through the door in a comical fashion, barefoot and with my hand holding the back of the hospital gown, the doctor comes in.

He asks me to sit down while he goes through my records. As he flips through the pages, he tells me everything is fine. I am clean and clear. No cancer. I’m relieved, but not relieved enough to exhale.

While he’s poking around, I start to think whether I’m clean enough, or if he thinks I’m a dirty boy because I had to let one go when I was waiting for him. Being a doctor, he probably goes through much worse. Maybe it’s a good thing I didn’t have any dairy for the past 24 hours.

By the time he’s finished examining me, he tells me I can go. I ask him if I have to make a follow-up appointment. He says no. There’s nothing to worry about. I thank him, as graciously as a man can who is 90 per cent naked, holding the back of a hospital gown with one of his hands.

I clean myself up, throw on my clothes, fold the hospital gown on the table, and walk out.

When I pass the waiting room, I give it one last look, hoping I won’t have to return. And if I ever do, I have to make sure I won’t be sitting in it, becoming a nervous wreck and hoping I won’t have to go to the bathroom the moment I close the door of the doctor's office.