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

Monday, November 28, 2005

Time goes by... so slowly

The catchy first words from Madonna's Hung Up linger in my mind as I look at the time go by... so slowly.

Counting the days, hours, minutes and seconds seem to take forever.

My time with the company is coming to an end and I couldn't be more happy. Yes, I said happy.

Why, you wonder? Is this boy crazy? The answer to the first question is a little difficult. The answer to the second is sometimes.

This job has been a learning experience, in the best sense of the word. Highs and lows. Both made me stronger (and a touch more bitter, but who gives a fuck).

But, in the end, I really want my last days to fly by because of a situation from a few days ago.

The person who had my position (before I took it over) called and left a message with one of her "friend" at the company. When he told the others about her message, they all started mocking her.

"Ooh, I want to call her! Let me call her. I've got so much to say to her..." a couple of her former co-workers said. They started saying that her new employer is going to be screwed (I'm paraphrasing, here) because they don't know what a horrible person she is.


They hated her, but never had the balls to tell her to her face. They'll probably say similar things about me when I go.

But, I don't care.

The countdown continues as I look forward to my impending freedom from the two-faced hypocrites who poison my enviroment. And, only then will I be in a happier place.

The champagne is already being chilled.

Time goes by... so slowly.

Friday, November 25, 2005

White bread people

Taking a few minutes from my weekend to review online job postings, my eyes scan past many listings that don't relate to me, or my experience.

That is, until one jumps out at me like the shark in Jaws - all encompassing with a mouth full of teeth.

It looks perfect. The description fits my wants and my needs - not to mention my experience.

Then, I read the contact info...

It's the position I've already applied for at my work.

They've posted the job I interviewed for twice and didn't even mention they were going outside the company to look for other applicants.


When I first came in for an interview, they told me I was the perfect candidate for the job, although no job was available at that time. When there was an opening, I applied for the job and they were impressed with my experience, my drive and my passion for the work.

But, they decided to offer the positions to white bread people because I was too experienced, driven and passionate.

Apparently, my company believes me to be a tad too flavourful for their delicate palates.

Well, fuck them. Let them have their white bread people.

I'm a little more rye, anyway.

Wednesday, November 23, 2005

Slut-ebrity strikes again

Yours truly, reluctant media whore numero uno, popped up in the papers, again.

I hate it.

Now, I know how Paris Hilton feels - without the scabies.

Why is it always the little media outlets that want to bring me down?

Why can't a major newspaper, or national broadcaster screw over my life?

Imagine having a hoard of papparazzi harassing me, stalking me, photographing me while I'm coming out of the loo with a piece of TP on my shoe.

Now, that would be newsworthy.

But, I guess the question shouldn't be why they want to bring me down, but why I am bringing myself down.

And, the more I think about it, the more my head hurts.

God, I need a drink... or four.

Thankfully, I always have a flask filled with a little sumthin' strapped onto my leg for such emergencies.

Monday, November 21, 2005


There seems to be an awakening of attention-hungry whores who will do anything to get their name in the media. Show up at parties and premieres that aren’t about you, produce a line of product no one wants, make a sex tape with an ex and "unknowingly" have it leaked it on the Internet.

I’m talking to you, Paris Hilton.

The desire of wanting to see your name in print is the only thing these people live for. Without the media, there is no one to talk about them. Their existence is futile.

So, what happens when you’re not an attention-hungry whore and the media talks about you?

Let me tell you…

Every morning is fairly regular in its schedule. There is little to deviate one day from another – at least for the first 30 minutes, or so.

I arrive at the office, take off my coat, turn on my computer, run to the kitchen to drop off my lunch (yes, I bring my lunch and it makes everyone crazy jealous that I don’t have to eat a measly salad or crusty sandwich), return to my already working computer, sit down and begin to go through the e-mails of the previous few hours.

This morning there is only one e-mail in my inbox.

And, it ain’t the one you want you want to open first thing on a Monday morning.

Is this you? are the only words in the e-mail.

The reference point is lost on me.

As I scroll down, I see a listing from our media monitoring services. Nothing special. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Until I read the description of the summary, that is.

It seems I was quoted as being the representative for a multi-billion dollar, global organization for one of their new programs.

Sound bad? Wait, it gets worse.

This media summary not only quotes me as being the spokesperson, but it was sent to several heads in the corporate offices.

They all know who I am.

With my job, it is imperative that I am not the centre of attention – that would be my client. My paying client. When they see my name as a reference and not theirs, well, you can imagine their panties get all up their asses.

Thankfully, I don’t wear panties.

So, after the situation is clarified with me, my supervisors and the corporate offices, I’m regaled with little jokes on how “How is our little media celebrity doing, today?”

Just fine, thanks. Just fine.

And you can quote me on that.

Friday, November 18, 2005

Shit happens

Ladies and gentlemen, let me tell you five things I've learned about shit.

Drumroll, please...

1. Shit happens when you least expect it.
2. Shit happens when you don't change one number on a form.
3. Shit happens when a 30 second phone call can remedy that unpleasant situation (see 2).
4. Shit happens when someone incompetent makes you feel stupid.
5. I don't like the smell of shit.

Thank you (and bows).

Wednesday, November 16, 2005

Beauty and brains?

Can you really have it all? And by all, I mean beauty and brains? And, if you do have it all (see previous line for my specific definition), will anyone accept that fact as a possibility?

For example, there is a certain someone out there in the vast space we know as the Internet (of whom shall remain nameless, for now) who seems to have a touched base on both of those subjects. Good looks and intelligence.

Unfortunately, not everyone wants both qualities in one person. Or, should I say, no one wants to believe both qualities exist in the same hot body.

Whenever there is a flash of skin, people exclaim they want to see more.

Whenever there is a mention of a social issue, people exclaim they want to see a flash of skin.

Clearly, this person wants to make themselves out to be a fully-rounded person, but others won’t let them. They’re not all about tanned and taut skin, perfect teeth and hair.

It's like a lotto card: when you scratch it, you look for a sign that exclaims whether you’re a winner, or should try again.

Either way, there lies something, someone, beneath the shiny and gold surface.

Monday, November 14, 2005


Kevin Costner was fortunate in Field of Dreams to hear the voice of James Earl Jones, giving him direction with his destiny. A few simple words, whispered over the waves of gold, inspiring him to do something with his life.

If you build it, they will come...

Now, not many have a Hollywood version of destiny. We don't have the booming timbre of Darth Vader to gently force us to live our lives. This is reality. And, with reality, you have to build many fields before something happens.

Although, it's not only about fields.

How many bad dates do you have to go on before you find the love of your life? How many times do you have to purge before you can fit into that pair of pants for your friend's party on the weekend? How many times do you have to fuck your boss to get to the middle? How many? How many?

You keep on thinking it's going to come, but it doesn't. Then, you think it's going to come again, but it doesn't. Over and over. A repetitious and vicious cycle of ups and downs.

And, when it does come, it's short and rather anticlimactic. No fireworks. No cigarette.

Countless times I've come over the past several years. So many times that I have no juice left. Parched. Dehydrated. Powder.

It's exhausting.

Still, my fields get razed and rebuilt, time and time again, hoping that my time will come. There will be no waiting by the waves of gold, expecting a voice to whisper my destiny to me.

And, when my times does come, I'm coming hard.

Friday, November 11, 2005

Sincerity through clenched teeth (pt. 2)

I come across these pants: black, baby-wale cords, slim fit, and half-price. They sound perfect, in theory. I have to try them on. Thankfully, there’s no one around. I sneak off to the change room.

When I come out, there she is: the aforementioned blonde with the black, second skin, full lips, and white teeth.

I imagine her sucking in her breath through her clenched smile; her tongue pressed up against her front teeth.

She’s going to berate me for my choices in fashion, family, friends, career, and anything that comes across her mind.

But, that doesn’t happen. I walk, rather tentatively, towards the 3-way mirror. She stands behind me.

“Those pants really do look good on you. They are a little long, but I am sure they can be hemmed.”

“Mmmm,” I reply. “The slim fit actually makes me look like I have a butt.”

“Not many men can wear that cut. They actually look really good on you.”

My sweater rests just below the belt loops. I touch the sides of my thighs, smoothing out the material. It’s silky. My hands trail upwards, and my thumbs find their way inside of the waistband; they rest there.

I see her eyes wonder up and down my backside, appraising the pants and my butt.

“You know what? I think I’ll take them.”


Finally, a sales associate who knows what to say, and when to say it to whom. No false sincerity. No visions of commissions.

I thank her for her time, turn away from the mirrors and make my way to the change room. I make sure that I pull up the pants just a little so my butt cleavage is firmly supported.

She notices. I like her… now.

For the price of a pair of pants, I managed to get a smile, positive reinforcement on my fashion sense, and an inferred compliment on my butt.

Panic attack averted. I should shop here more often.

Wednesday, November 09, 2005

Sincerity through clenched teeth (pt. 1)

She’s looking at me. I can feel her eyes roam up and down my body. She’s definitely sizing me up. I have to admit that I don’t normally have people looking at me that way. Some people might find it amusing. I, on the other hand, find it unsettling.

She makes her way towards me - heel toe, heel toe. A second skin comprising of a tight black shirt and pants cover her body. Shoulder length, blonde hair, light green eyes and full, red lips make up her model-ready features. Her mouth opens and she smiles. Her teeth are a brilliant white.

I don’t know what to say. I freeze. I am not normally used to this kind of attention.

She’s about to speak. Oh, God, what the hell am I going to do? I am about to freak out, crash through the doors, and run down the street with my arms flailing about and screaming nonsensical rants.

I don’t need her taunting me this way. All I need is a new pair of pants.

To describe the reasoning of my actions, I must first explain something: I love to shop, but I hate to shop for anything specific. That takes time. If I have to remain in a store for more than 10 minutes, I begin to panic.

Why? Sales associates. I avoid sales associates like the plague. You can’t outrun them. They know your every move. It’s like chess without rules. I’m a pawn.

Some of them are there to help you. They seem friendly and concerned. They attempt, rather valiantly, to decipher your desires: cheap, black, on sale, one-of-a-kind, reduced in price, etc.

Some of them exist to lower your self-esteem while trying to sell you everything, even if you don’t need it, want it, like it, or use it. You are a walking commission. They make the corporate honchos at every credit card company deliriously happy because you spend way too much money out of guilt and now can’t pay your minimum required payment. God bless shallow capitalism.

Normally, taking a few steps into a store doesn’t bother me. I look around every possible corner, table and service desk for any possible signs of human activity. If no one is around, then I am fine. I plan my way through the mazes of racks, stacks, and rows of slacks until I make it from the front to the back.

When my mental clock reaches the nine minute mark, things get ugly. It is here where newfound levels of fear accumulate. My palms start to sweat. My heart beats erratically. I look around for them. They sense my fear. My vision blurs. The room starts to spin. It feels like the beginning of a panic attack.

But, not this time...

Monday, November 07, 2005

Cheap whore

Whenever I walk into a service-oriented environment, I know what to expect. The list of requirements include: friendly staff, good quality product, pretty things to experience.

Sometimes that's not the case, and it's up to me to alter the situation to my advantage. I am a consumer, after all.

Walking into the local Dairy Queen, I walk up to the counter and look up at the menu. The server comes up to the counter and asks me what I'm having. If it wasn't for the fact their staff turnover rate is as unstable as a suicidal/bi-polar/manic depressive, they should know that I always order the same thing. Grudgingly, I order.

She must be new, I think. I don't know how good she is. When she turns around, I go into my spiel.

"You know," I start, my elbows leaning on the counter, "whenever I come here, I always get better service than any other location."

"Really?" she says and cranes her neck around in my direction.

"Uh huh." I give her a smile and await her reaction. She smiles, and returns to whipping up my order.

"I don't know what it is, but this place is the best. I tell all my friends that." Is it working? Is she falling for it? She should, since I'm not lying. This place does give the best service... but it's usually due to me.

She's finished and places my order in front of me, on the counter. It's overflowing with gastronomic goodness.

"There you go. Enjoy!" she smiles enthusiastically.

"I know I will," I respond, a half-octave lower, tilting my head down and giving her a half-smile.

That's all it takes. Just like a cheap whore.

Call it manipulative. Call it whatever you want. Sometimes you have to do things that you're not proud of just to get what you want. The best part is you can do this in various interactive situations. And, the more you practice, the better you become.

No guilt. No shame.

I said I was cheap, not stupid.

Thursday, November 03, 2005

On my hands and knees

Normally, it’s not the way I spend my Monday nights.

Being on hands and knees is not normal for me. Palms spread out, arms stretched forward and at an unusual angle, back arched, ass in the air, knees touching the hard floor.

The pose is uncomfortable and my muscles are beginning to strain. Back and forth, back and forth, reach forward and pull back, reach forward and pull back. The skin on my hands is turning red from excessive pressure and the skin on my knees is chafing from rubbing against the floor. The human body is not supposed to be able to move in this way. A version of S&M without whips and chains.

A flogger, on the other hand, is always useful to have around.

Making matters worse is that I’m in my kitchen. God forbid if anyone walks in on this. How will I explain myself?

Well, I’ll just say I’m washing the kitchen floor.


Because the oil has a low-burning threshold, and the heat is set on high, when I add something to the pot, fat splatters everywhere. The stove, the counters, the walls, and the floor. Thankfully, it isn't bad. The food is another matter.

The floor is now a mess. Small droplets of gristle covers every surface. Touch something and a print is left behind. Wonderful. Not only do I have to eat a Cajun-inspired meal, but I also have to clean up this mess.

Finding a bucket and a cloth, I fill it with hot water and add a dash of cleaner. Then I start. On my hands and knees. Back and forth, reach forward and pull back. Over and over again.

When it’s all done, I put away the supplies and return to my regularly scheduled program.

After passing by the kitchen to pick up something to snack on, I notice something. Streaks. Passing a finger over the tiles, I notice they're still greasy. Shit. The time I spent on my hands and knees was for naught.

Back to being on all fours.

Argh! The pain I go through for a squaky-clean floor.