Wet spot

It’s early evening and I’m about to meet up with JG for coffee. Because I’ve been outside for the past while, I sneak into Pottery Barn to freshen up in their private washrooms.

I finish up my business and wash my hands. When I’m done, I lean back, making sure I can see myself in the mirror and notice a big, wet spot on my crotch. Apparently, there was water on the concrete counter and when I was washing my hands, I leaned forward too much.

Now, it looks like I pissed my pants because of where the wet spot is. To top it off, I’m wearing cream-coloured pants. Why this didn’t happen when wearing black ones, I don’t know. Murphy’s Law, perhaps?

I try blotting it with paper, but it doesn’t work and Pottery Barn doesn’t have a blowdryer like most other restrooms (it doesn’t fit in with the ambience).

The only thing I can do is wrap the sweater I have with me around my waist. I don’t want to walk up to JG with a huge wet spot on my crotch. It’s not like I can blame it on a night of drinking. It’s only 6 p.m.

Now they're calling me

For years, I’ve tried to get the attention of the rich and famous. Whether it’s writing fan letters or attending events where they’re likely to be at, I’ve done the non-stalker approach. The reason for this is if they take the time to acknowledge me, then I would feel like I am important in their eyes. Simple enough.

But I never think they would want to talk to me out of the blue.

So, it comes as a surprise when my phone rings and I don’t recognize the number. As it turns out, it’s the star of one of the top TV shows around. He’s asking for me and is following up with a couple of details on the idea I pitched his people for a project I’m managing.

He’s very pleasant and polite and I relay the details about the project. We even exchange phone numbers. What I don’t tell him is I’ve been a fan of his work since I was a tween and have even met him a few times before (of which he probably doesn’t remember because he meets a lot of people in his line of work).

What I find amusing is that I've wanted this person to acknowledge me for years, to tell me that he's also a fan of my work (although he has no idea what I do) and that we should work together one day. Funnily enough, that's exactly what happened.

Careerist

Ever since I was young, I never imagined I wouldn’t be working for a living. Marriage and children were out of the question. I only had visions of me sitting in an office, behind a desk, wearing a snazzy suit and having a series of minions reporting to me. I was always a careerist.

A career should be more than a job, but a sense of self. Some people develop their identities based on the people they’re around, the clothes they wear, their beliefs (religious, political, etc.) and other elements.

For me, my career captures everything in one package. I get to do what I’m good at, hang with the people I want, attend events I want to go to, get perks that few people receive, dress up and “act” like someone else for a night, and live the lifestyle to which I have accustomed myself to.

And, my career helps me pay the bills because I also have think practically (I ain’t stupid).

Leona Lewis is ruining my relationships

Even though Leona Lewis is a newly-minted singing popstar and loved by millions, she is ruining my life. Whenever I listen to her music, the relationships in my life go from really good to horribly bad in approximately three minutes and thirty seconds.

Things went ugly with N on a day of a swim meet when I was playing her CD in my car. Things got screwed up with J on a midday break when I heard her latest single on the radio. Things got messy with my Crazy in the middle of the night when I watched her newest video on television.

One time is coincidence. Three times (and counting) isn’t.

So, now whenever I hear her music, I make sure it’s when I’m single and don’t have anyone in my life whose relationship can be screwed up by one of her songs. To top it off, her new single is called "Happy."

Really, Leona? Happy? You can be really cruel, you know that? Bitch.

Single complaints

There are a few people I know who let it be known they are not particularly happy being single. They don’t want to be alone. They whine there are slim pickings, complain about their relationship status, claim they want a mate... then go out and fuck some random stranger.

In other words, they’re not lonely. They’re horny. They want to get off. It’s an endorphin rush. And when the rush dissipates, they’ll feel alone again. This cycle continues until, one day, they’ve turned 40 and are still alone.

I understand how they feel because I’ve been both single for most of my life. What I don’t understand is the complaining. I know it’s hard out there, but I work at it and don’t sit on my ass waiting for things to happen.

In the end, I’d like to say a few things to these people: Either keep on dating until you find someone who you like (there is someone out there for you), change your criteria/lower your standards, or just shut the fuck up because no one wants to hear about your relationship status because there are many other people in the same situation.

A touch of ADD

Because of the nature of my work, I have to be able to do a million things at once and do them well. It’s as if I have to have a touch of ADD in order to make it in my industry.

In fact, while writing this, my mind wanders off in a million directions; I am writing other posts simultaneously as well as editing some work, following up on other emails, checking Twitter, avoiding someone on MSN because they pissed me off this week, researching for material online and registering a Rowenta handheld fabric steamer.

Ideally, I want to do other things, but I’m only one person. There isn't enough time in the day. If I train my hands and feet to work at the same time, I could accomplish a multitude of projects faster but I’d rather not because that would take ADD a little too far. That is, unless I train someone to do it for me...

Thin lips, thick lips

Being someone who doesn’t kiss and tell, I’ve come across some sets of lips that don’t know what they’re doing. Sometimes their shape doesn’t matter, while other times it does.

Thin top and bottom lip: it feels like you’re practically kissing teeth and that isn’t pleasant.

Thin top and thick bottom lip: is one of the better options because you can easily suck on the bottom lip while... never mind.

Thick top and thin bottom lip: is an awkward combination and would only work if your top lip was thin and bottom lip was thick because the shapes would result in a ying-yang situation.

Thick top and bottom lip: it feels like a suction cup and I should know because mine are like that.

In the end, it doesn’t really matter what the shape of them are, as long as they know what they’re doing.

Jeff Lewis is crazy good

On the TV show, Flipping Out, Jeff Lewis is a houseflipper extraordinaire. He's very good at managing to turn homes from meh to marvelous in order to sell them and make a tidy profit. The show is a fun, vicarious look at someone in the beautiful world known as the interior design industry.

But, there's also a lot of ugliness that goes on and most of it is attributed to Lewis himself. He comes across as egomaniacal, a selfish bastard, a pain in the ass to work for, a ridiculous perfectionist, and not very personable (probably due to a case of a non-diagnosed form Asberger's Syndrome).

And that's what makes it fun to watch.

True, he might ham it up for the cameras, but there you have to give credit to someone who doesn't care about being ugly (figuretively) in front of millions of people, ready for them to judge every action the person does. Who can do that and not care about the outcome? Apparently, him.

And, for that, I think he's crazy good.

Dressed in black

My clothing collection is filled with a series of classics. Most of the pieces are black, with a bit of blue, grey, white and cream mixed in. It’s seasonless and I can wear it year round.

When I was going out with Crazy, I was told I needed to wear more colour. So, I did. A change would do me good. A lot more green and orange was worn on my body.

It took me some time to adjust. Whenever I wore something different, I got called out on the sartorial selection because everyone knew the clothes weren't mine (and not my style).

Now, that's no longer the case. My classics are back in play and I no longer have to feel like I’m in costume because of someone else. It’s back to black.

And, who the fuck wants to dress up in a colour resembling pea soup?

Crusty and yellow

When I wake up in the morning, I see there are several breakouts on my face. As much as I want to scream out loud and curse the gods, I squeeze them and put some cream on them so they’ll dry out and/or shrink.

I go about my day and then realize it’s garbage day tomorrow. Shit. I have to prep the trash and the recycling and put it outside. When this is done, I take it to the curb and arrange it in such a way that the bag doesn’t roll into the street and gets hit by oncoming traffic.

While I’m doing this I run into one of my neighbours. I don’t particularly care for them since I hardly ever see them. We say a couple of words and she looks at me strangely. I could tell her to go fuck herself, but refrain from doing so.

I go back inside and head to the washroom to wash my hands. The tap is turned on and I run my hands underneath the water. When I look up I see there are spots on my face. Several of them. It’s the zit cream I put on.

What I didn’t realize when I used this particular product is that it dries on your skin instead of being absorbed. Also, it turns crusty and yellow. Lovely.

Normal like me

On more than one occasion, I’ve had friends tell me the same thing: “We’re the only two normal people left in the world.”

The reason why they’d say such a thing is because they know I’m a level-headed, conscientious and considerate person and they believe their thinking (at that particular moment in time) is just as rational.

Ideally, they want to find some comfort in the fact there is someone else who thinks the way they do about a certain situation. But they’re not always rational. Sometimes they’re neurotic, a little unhinged, even a touch crazy. Yet, they still think I’m the one other normal person in the world... beside them, of course.

What's offputting is that I’m the one common denominator. Just me. And, that scares me a lot. The reasoning isn't because they want to be associated with me, it’s because they want to be associated with me because that makes them think they’re normal. I don't want that responsibility, especially if I do something that isn't considered "normal" to them.

A house of cards built on a concrete foundation can be unshaky because concrete can crack when under extreme pressure.

What’s happening to you?

When going out with someone, you inevitably do things that you’re not accustomed to. Sometimes they’re banal (i.e. go to a club on a Wednesday), while other times they’re not (i.e. going to a club every Wednesday).

During my relationship with Crazy, I did some things I didn’t mind doing because I never really had the opportunity to do them before (because I didn’t want to do them alone) and I was doing them with someone I loved (which also helps).

As these things were going on, a friend texts me and asks what’s happening to me. I never did these things before, so why am I doing them now? I ask myself. My response is why wouldn’t I? I wasn't "losing myself" but discovering whether or not I liked them.

Now that Crazy is out of the picture, I do things for me. In the past few months I have accomplished things I never would've before - starting a company, becoming an executive editor, sitting front row at fashion week, being recognized at swanky parties - and it feels good to know I did them while being true to myself.

Shopping for clothes in the children's section

I don’t like shopping for clothes. I find it a hassle. But every once in a while, I stalk the racks of H&M to see what they have that’s new for the season. From what I’m told, they receive stock almost daily, so a trek to the store is almost a weekly trip.

As I peruse the clothes, I notice a few things and try them on. Most of them aren’t what I’m looking for (Do I need another shirt?), so I take them back. The other issue I have is even though they size their clothing smaller than the usual chains, it’s difficult to find the right size (this is due to my typical summer weight-loss).

That’s when I discovered the children’s section.

There are many pluses to this: the clothes are cheaper; the clothes don’t have additional taxes; and the clothes fit me.

The negatives include: you can’t find everything you want; sometimes the clothes are a little juvenile; and you have to shop in the kids section without having to look like a pedophile.

So what happens? I end up loading up on basics, trying them on, discovering that I can’t fit into slim jeans made for 12-year-old boys (but I can fit into the ones made for 14 year olds), and then not buying anything because I really don’t need another shirt.

It’s just another day of shopping for clothes for me.