Taking time to smell the pollution

Because of my schedule, I hardly have any time to smell the roses. It’s difficult to fit it in my calendar. That’s the reason why I hardly get to do anything that involves relaxation.

So, it comes as a surprise to me when I have a day to do nothing. Since it’s me, I have to do something instead of sitting at home all day, looking at the walls (CC-40, Benjamin Moore).

Off I go and make my way to Liberty Village in the western part of the city. It’s secluded, yet is still located off a main street. I make my way around the area, take a few pictures, do a little shoplifting, and have a seat on a restaurant’s patio.

I order a latte made with whole milk and not skim, flip through the pages of the newspaper and occasionally look at the sky, trying to remember the day. It’s beautiful, and it’s something I haven’t been able to take part in for almost two years. I haven’t been living life, but life has been living me.

I take a deep breath and exhale. Of course, because I’m in the middle of the city, I’m not taking time to smell the roses, but the pollution. I cough. Pollution or roses, either way, I’ll take whatever I can get.

Delete, delete, delete

For the past while, I've been contemplating deleting old text messages from my phone because they were sent when things were better with Crazy and myself. They were the cute ones, the sweet ones, the caring ones. The ones I kept were the ones that had a connection to a place and time, an emotion, a moment.

But they also reminded me of a time that is now gone.

I can no longer look at them without thinking of the good (and now bad) times associated with them. They no longer make me grin and smile in a goofy way. Now, I feel the opposite of that.

The person who smiled now sneers and the flicker of joy is now a burning amber of resent and anger. He would always turn on a dime if others didn't give him the attention he wanted/craved; making them out to be the bad guys even if they're not.

He's a petulant child and took a long time for me to see that.

So, I start to delete text messages. A lot of them. Delete, delete, delete. The texts don't mean what they originally did. It makes me sad scrolling through them, and I already have enough moments in my life that can bring me to tears; I don't need more of them.

Still, I keep the group when Crazy became increasingly psychotic because those make me smile. At least I can find some sort of happiness over the breakdown of another (and they're going to make great fodder for my book).

To the guy who thinks he’s a better singer than me

Hey.

You know me and I know you, so let’s cut the pleasantries and get this out of the way as quickly as possible.

Even though you claim that people are always lauding your singing voice, you know deep down inside you’re not that good. It’s not that strong, it’s not distinctive and it’s rather flat. No matter how many times you try to do vocal gymnastics, you can’t.

True, I’m not saying I’m the greatest, but even you admitted I'm pretty good. In fact, most people are shocked to hear the voice that comes out of my mouth (and not in a bad way). It’s as if the voice doesn’t match the body, like Christina Aguilera.

And, speaking of Christina, you can’t do that long run of Candyman. It sounds like you’re humming for about seven seconds before you run out of breath. When I sing it, you’re surprised I’m able to belt it out and make your hair blow back with the sheer force of projection.

Thankfully I’m not going to talk about stage presence, either, as a favour to you. That’s another topic for another time.

So, as a favour to me and to everyone else who hasn’t told this to your face (and behind your back), please don’t quit your day job. You’re much better at sitting behind a computer than a microphone.

Best,
S.

Skin so smooth

Upon meeting a friend of mine at her house, it doesn’t take too long before she begins to inspect my face as if she’s discovering something she hasn’t seen before. Her eyes go up and down and I'm wondering what she's looking at.

“Your skin looks good.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It’s so smooth.”

“It’s the [insert brand name].” We both laugh. “Honestly, I don’t do anything special to it. I use a scrub once a week, shave regularly and use sunscreen when I remember. That’s it.” I shrug my shoulders.

“Uh huh,” is her response. She doesn’t believe me.

“Serious! But it does look better now than what it did when I was in university, right?” I touch the side of my cheek, justifying my lack of skin regimine.

Funny how that happens. When you’re younger and in the prime of your life (i.e. the 20s), skin should look better, clearer and without any blemishes. Instead, there are a variety of breakouts that no cream can remove, especially before an important event.

Since I’m (slightly) older, my skin should reflect a maturity with a couple of lines and wrinkles, not a smoothness associated with a slab of Perlino. It’s not fair, especially since I’m past my prime. Wine is supposed to get better with age, not your skin.

Still, if I can get a compliment on how youthful I look while growing older, I'll take it. Lord knows I won't be getting many more as the years pass by.

Definition of a bad date

The definition of a bad date is when you lose him/her less than five minutes into it and you spend the rest of the time looking for him/her while they keep on telling you, "Stay right here, there's someone I want to talk to. I'll be right back" and they don't come back.

Tiny blue balls

While in the bathroom, after finishing off my business, I look down before tucking myself in my underwear and notice something unusual. There seems to be a little mark on my penis. On closer inspection, I see it’s blue.

What the hell is this?

I pick at it with my nail and it sticks to my finger. It’s a tiny blue ball. Then I realize I have more than one. They’re all over my penis.

Just where did these things come from? And, what the hell are they?!

Then it hits me: the tiny blue balls are from the scrub I use to exfoliate my skin once a week when I shave. Apparently, when the last time I used the scrub, I took a shower to rinse it off and it stuck to other parts of my body.

Thankfully, it's nothing serious and my penis and scrotum are now smoother than ever.

October 15

It’s one year after the first time I met Crazy. It was our first date. The event was glitzy and one of the ones I’ve wanted to go to for years. Of course, to top it off, I got to meet Crazy.

My life became a whirlwind, starting on October 15, 2008. It would never be the same. Unfortunately, the life of glamour that I was accustomed to would begin to unravel over the next 12 months. Things were going to change. But, I couldn’t predict the future and this future wasn’t what I had in mind.

One year later, things are very different...

I am no longer with Crazy
I am covering the event I met Crazy at as a journalist, not as a guest
I am a full-time homeowner (and "part-time interior designer")
I am no longer homeless and dependant on the roofs of others
I am not bankrupt due to a reputable mortgage company
I am no longer with my former employer
I am now the creative director of my own company
I am not clocking in 80 hour work weeks
I am lighter (in weight and mindset)
I am healthier (cancer-free!)
I am no longer afraid because I’ve already been through (most of) it all

The more the world changes, the more it stays the same for some. For me, that’s not the case. But in the end, I think some things had to happen so I could gain perspective and to grow stronger as a person. I shouldn’t be reliant on others. I can’t and won’t be. Even if I fall (which I will), I will pick myself off the ground, dust myself off and stand up tall.

Who knows what next year will bring. But, come what may, I’ll take it on.

Tomorrow is a difficult day

Tomorrow will be one of the most difficult days I have to go through.

Who knew an anniversary could make someone incredibly miserable?

Free therapist

Because of my psychology degree, people often come to me when they need some advice regarding the human condition. I listen to their problems and solicit some words of wisdom their way until they need some more at a later time.

Basically, they think I’m their therapist.

But, I am not a qualified therapist. I don’t have a comforting bedside manner and I’m probably the only person to tell “patients” like it is because life is hard and it shouldn’t be sugar coated, no matter what their age.

If they want to go to a qualified therapist, I say go. If they want to go to someone with an office, a wall of diplomas, and pedigree, a couch to lie on and a small goateed and bespectacled man nodding to their inanities, I say make an appointment right now.

But they never do that and the reason is simple: I don’t charge $150 an hour.

Body of a Sicilian widow

Clothes are not designed to fit anyone properly. No matter what the size, it's always too big or too small; never quite right. Although my body type is classified as thin/slim, it doesn’t mean I don’t have a series of issues when I step into the change room.

Moving from the top of my body downwards...

My shoulders are somewhat broad, I have a long torso and arms (which makes it hard for someone who wears an XS or S to find anything that fits). My waist is small, but I have an ass and legs with a bit of muscle on them (which comes from cardio).

Basically, I have the body of a Sicilian widow: wide shoulders, narrow waist, wide hips/thighs.

On top of that, I wear a lot of black on a daily basis, which does not help matters. If it wasn’t for the fact that I don’t have pendulous breasts, I’d fit right in at church. I just have to pray to God to lean down, or bulk up. Amen to that.

Creating a villain

Sometimes a villain is created with a series of words that someone else uses to describe another person who deserves the title. Sometimes the words write themselves when another person performs a series of actions.

Crazy's actions have resulted in a reaction from others. To put it simply, everyone hates him. He has become a villain in the eyes of others because of what he did and what he continues to do. I have taken a step back and not do a thing except inform my friends of the goings-on.

The demand for space got the ball rolling, and throwing me out (rendering me homeless), leaving me days before I had a cancer-related operation, not being there for support when I almost went bankrupt, and having the potential of losing my sanity in a time of weakness kept it speeding down the mountain. And, I'm not even including the part where Crazy told me to sit on my ass and wait for him while he was able to date other people.

And, now I look at this and realize that I don't have to write a series of words for someone else who deserves to be a villain because actions were already written by them.

Fuck, I'm turning into Jennifer Aniston

Even though I am not a particularly big fan of Jennifer Aniston, I am now coming to a realization that I have to like her because I am slowly turning into her. Not her, the actual person, but her, the archetype.

From what I can gather, she has a pretty good career, a modicum of talent, a lot of money in the bank, is a hard worker, an overall nice person, not that unattractive with a pretty great body, with a life that many want/covet.

And yet, she’s always single.

Could it be her choice in men, or is it her? It’s probably a combination of both.

The men she dates inevitably leave her and go shack up with another woman, leaving her in the dust. Quite often, these women don’t compare to her (fame, money, looks, etc.). Soon after, they’re either engaged or married, signifying a more permanent - and serious - relationship status.

Why do they leave her? There must be something that’s so unattractive about her that makes men run into the arms of another. Is she some sort of psycho bitch when the cameras stop rolling? Or is she the opposite; the kind of woman who is a dream which lead men to believe she’s a nightmare because she’s too perfect? Maybe a combination of both?

And that’s when I come to the conclusion that I’m turning into Jennifer Aniston. Although it appears to be like I have a lot of positives, every person I date almost immediately finds someone else after leaving me. I think the reason for this is I’m just too much for anyone to handle; no one wants to play the role of second fiddle.

Of course, this theory doesn’t count when discussing with Brad Pitt. He left her for Angelina Jolie, who is one of the sexiest, talented, powerful, richest, philanthropic, etc. entertainers in the world.

So, now I have to find comfort in the fact that no matter how many people say I’ve got it going on, I know that doesn't matter. Someone will come into my life who can handle the person that I am and likes me for me (and isn't threatened/scared off by how amazing I am).

**

By the way, I always thought I was more like Angie.

My mower, myself

When my parents are on holiday, I am in charge of taking care of the landscaping of their house. There isn’t much to do and it’s fairly typical: mowing the lawn, doing the trim work, pulling weeds and watering the flowers.

It can be intensive at times because there are a lot of little things to do, but the workout is a full-body one and I feel great – if not tired – after being in the sun and outdoors for an hour and a half.

The only issue I have is with the mower. It’s stubborn. The more that I push it to work, the more it doesn’t want to. It stalls more often than a Yugo without a catalytic converter. It’s also directionless. Even if I push it one way, it wants to go another (even in straight lines).

"Fuck! You fucker! You motherfuckerrrrrr!" is probably heard more than once. And when I'm frustrated, I yell. Loud.

Basically, it acts like a teenager even though it’s about 10 years older than one. So, like every adult, I have to manipulate it into doing what I want it to do, which is get up off its ass and stop giving me attitude or else I’m kicking it to the curb.