I'm not your bitch, don't hang your shit on me.

Monday, May 31, 2010

Smelling like gasoline

“What’s that smell? Do you smell it?” asks my father a few seconds after I get in the car and shut the door.


“It started when you got in the car. Smells like gasoline.”

“It’s not me. I don’t smell like gasoline. I don’t even wear cologne.”

“Well, I smell it. I don’t know where it’s coming from.”


Then I remember I took off my toque when I entered the car. It was warm inside, so I didn’t need to have it on my head. Because I used a conditioner when I washed my hair, it’s probably the scent he’s noticing.

“Here, inhale.” I lean towards my father in the car while he’s driving.

“That’s what it is. That’s the smell.”

“It’s conditioner. I used it on my hair today because it was dry.”

“Your conditioner smells like gasoline.”

“It does not smell like gasoline. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But I stop from wanting to argue with him because I know what he’s getting at. The smell doesn’t remind him of petrol but of chemicals. He knows what he’s talking about, but can’t describe it using the correct term.

I throw on my toque, again, so I don’t have to hear him complain about my shiny and manageable hair. It’s not worth it.

Monday, May 24, 2010


For the past several days I’ve been hobbling around with an injured foot. I don’t know why or how I got it. It doesn’t flex properly; it flops and stomps when hitting the ground.

When I have to go outside, I practically dread the experience. I should be resting the foot, but I can’t be stuck at home. As much as I don’t want to, I have some errands to run and must escape the confines of the loft.

As I’m walking down King Street, I pass in front of the Royal Alex theatre and trip on one of the Canada’s Walk Of Fame granite slabs in front of the building. I stumble for a few steps then projectile myself forward, flying through the air. Splat! I hit the ground, splayed.

I get up slowly and brush myself off. My pants weren’t ripped (thankfully) but there is a lot of dust and dirt on my coat. Promptly, I begin to walk down the street and shake my head, loosening any of the pain I would consider thinking about.

By the time I hit University Avenue, I pull my hands out of my pockets and see one of them is covered in blood. Apparently, I cut my hand while kissing the pavement. There are some black bits of tar embedded in my palm. I lick my palm, trying to clean up the mess.

When I’m home, I go up to my bathroom and try to wash away any of the debris. There is still some piece of rock stuck in the skin. I try to remove it, but it doesn’t work. As I change my clothing, I see the fabric of my pants has been wrecked, slashed. I sigh and go on with the rest of my day because I know it can’t get any worse.

And that’s the reason why I don’t like to go outside when I have an injured foot.

Monday, May 17, 2010

Wrong day, wrong time, wrong job

It’s another interview day and I’m prepped. The questions have been answered in my head, the job description has been printed out and studied, and the company has been reviewed. The only thing that’s left is to meet the interviewer(s).

By the time I arrive at the location, I head to the front desk and give them my name. She looks a little perplexed when she’s on the phone. The receptionist tells me to sit down and wait.

Two large women appear out of the back and greet me. We say a few pleasantries, shake hands and we go into a board room.

One of them is surprised I came. I ask why. She tells me the interview was last week.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” I say while leaning forward, as if I went spontaneously deaf.

“The interview was last week,” says the older of the two.

“When we spoke on the phone, you said it was the 6th.” I know what I heard on the phone.

“I said Friday. Last Friday.”

“No, you said the 6th.” I begin to sound defensive. “You never said Friday.”

“I said the 6th.”

“But the 6th wasn’t Friday. The 6th was Tuesday.”

“I said the 6th.”

No, you said Friday. And, Friday isn’t the 6th.”

“Well, since you’re here, we might as well continue with the interview.” She sounds a little pissed, but I don’t care. It’s not my fault she doesn’t have a recent calander.

As they talk about the position, I begin to realize they’re looking for a web designer and not what they originally asked for in the original posting. I printed out the description before coming to the interview and it said knowledge of design was an asset, but it didn’t say it was the main responsibility.

When the interview is over, we say our goodbyes, they say they’re going to follow up in the next couple of days. I go home, knowing very well it didn’t go well.

The next day I get a phone call from them. I didn’t get the job. What a surprise.

Thursday, May 13, 2010

That little fucker lied to me (pt. 2)

His answer....

Oh well I didnt think i was able to go, i kinda backed out on my parents (long story) and decided to stay downtown.

And, I know this is a sack of shit. I knew he was in town, because earlier in the day we were in contact via text; he was looking for an apartment to rent for September. When I asked him to stay in the city, he said he had to go back home but was returning the next day. He never went home. Instead, he stayed in the city with a couple of his friends.

I tell my friend H about the lies and write her a short note.

Oh well, it's in the past, right?
I'm just going to keep dangling the fab life in front of him.
Like a horse with a carrot - just out of reach.

C is someone who wants to have access to my lifestyle, but I've worked hard to get where I am; he hasn't. He hasn't done anything except for schmoozing his way into the industry. I won't let anyone ride my coattails (no matter how cute they think they are) once they've done me wrong.

I write a final note to C, making sure to rub it in his face about the parties that he won't be going to - these invite lists are the ones to have your name on.

You're a boy full of mysteries and secrets.
Your mag is still here. Waiting.
Must chk my schedule for fashion parties this week and next.
Going to be busy - Roland Mouret, Derek Blasberg, Coco...

His lies won't get him anywhere with me. Let him use some other patsy will get him into those parties.

Monday, May 10, 2010

That little fucker lied to me (pt. 1)

It's difficult to lie in the digital world. Eventually, it all comes back to bite you in the ass. And, when it has to do with people lying to me, I want that bite to hurt just a little bit more than usual.


As I'm going through my Facebook page, I see in the newsfeed that C was tagged in a photo. The photo looks like it was taken at an event that I went to and asked him to go with me. The event was rather pretentious, in an 'arty' kind of way.

With a little prodding, he eventually declined, saying it was his parent's anniversary and couldn't go. I let it go, thinking that he really wasn't able to come. Of course, that was a load of crap.

I send a message to my friend H who went to the event with me.

OMG, just found out C went to the Rostam thing.
Fucker said he didn't go and didn't tell me...

She replies.

really? that's weird. If your sure he lied then just dont tell him about any more events...I'm sure he went and realized what a bust it was anyway:) fucker is right!

With this, I send C a coded message, with full knowledge of his lying.

Hope you had a good time at your parent's anniversary party on Friday.
I forgot to text you about that.
Didn't miss much at Rostam. Bleh. Smoke. Porn.
Funny how I sorta know one of the editors.
Went to Four Seasons and some other place in Yorkville instead.

Not too long, I get a reply.

LOL I DID GOT TO ROSTAM DUMMY! And I sorta enjoyed the porn! DONT JUDGE ME! what other event was happening over there?

I write back, but leave out details about what I did in the swanky part of town. There are always A-list events being held in the shops of the neighbourhood on a regular basis.

When I asked, you said you couldn't go. I won't prod.
We did a couple things in Yorkville; you wouldn't be intersted :P
Have a couple other parties this week. Should be fun.

His answer...

Monday, May 03, 2010


Not too long ago, I’m online checking my email and I get an instant message from S, an ex. I haven’t talked with him in a long time and I haven’t really wanted to for a variety of reasons.

We chat for a little until I mention how he’s being evasive with me.

Evasive, how so?

I tell S I don't like talking to people on msn.

You haven't actually asked me to coffee or anything to catch up but, to be honest, im getting some hostility from you and it bothers me so, that's partly why.

I tell him I don’t like having proper conversations with people on msn and I’d rather do it in person. He tells me that he did respond to my msn, emails and texts. Then he gives me one of those slap in the face lines that makes me angry because I’ve heard it once before from Crazy.

Whatever. u seem different to me.

Really? I’m the one who seems different? This is coming from someone who stopped talking to me overnight, then broke up with me in the middle of a point of crisis (which is the same thing Crazy did) for an incredibly stupid reason, then never wanted to talk to me because of what I would say because someone doesn’t want to face the truth.

And because of that, S was feeling some hostility towards him.

He’s lucky I haven’t kicked him in the balls because he doesn’t have any. That is being hostile.