I'm going to hell - reason #1,237.

I am not fond of any number of things. Small children. Screaming small children. Girls who don't wear pants. Girls who wear tights and mistake them for pants. . Olives. Men. Men who marry and or date stupid women. Stupid women. Prematurely auto-flushing toilets. The list does go on.

This may be why people find it so surprising that my second job working with senior citizens hardly annoys me at all. I kind of feel these people have earned the right to be a pain in my ass.

(Case in point... every week I have to do the set up for weekly card tournaments. Little old granny Bridge players by the way do not fuck around. They take their Bridge seriously, and will cut a bitch should a bitch get in their way.

Earlier one Saturday morning, a 90 year old gentleman insisted on helping me move the required tables and set up the chairs. Working with seniors I have finally discovered a demographic with less upper body strength than I have, so I knew this would be a problem.

With his "help," my set-up took a half an hour longer than usual. Admittedly, I was nearly annoyed, and less than receptive when he said he could be there every Saturday to help me if I needed.

There was really no need at all for him to do this, and I made that clear. Then he went on to tell me how he just needs to get out of the house. His wife passed away last month.

They had been married for 65 years - and they always had so much fun together! In 1939, she was a tennis champion. She was a vision in her tennis outfit and shorts, and I better believe he spent all of his time hanging around the tennis courts just hoping she might look his way. It must have worked alright, because they were happy for 65 years.

And then, one day, it's all gone. The only thing left to do is find a way to keep going, and to get out of the damned house.

Going forward, it's now just going to take me a half an hour longer to move around some tables. And I'm fine with this.

Other times, I have significantly less patience. Occasionally the centre is rented by various community groups in the evenings, and I'll be called in to help with these events. The night the Canucks lost the Stanley Cup and Vancouver collectively lost its shit, I was working.

Adding insult to injury, the group renting the centre were of the wing-nutted variety. Their meeting that night was to discuss how cell phones and radio waves are silently devastating us all, and are at the root of all health problems ranging from insomnia to acne to suddenly not being alive.

(A few months prior, this same group held another evening meeting to discuss the American government's involvement in 9/11. Unfortunately I decided to sit in on the movie they were showing when invited to do so, largely because they had cookies. Following the movie I was introduced to the small crowd of people as their "newest true believer." I didn't know how to tell them I was only in the audience because a) I work here and b) I can not resist a chocolate covered digestive cookie.)

By the time 10:00 p.m. and my 14th hour of straight work rolled around, I was ready to go home. Unfortunately, I wouldn't be doing so without dealing a major blow to my already long-suffering karma.

The very last wing-nut to leave...well...refused to leave. He discovered a rummage sale table that hadn't yet been taken down from a recent fundraiser for the centre, and under that table was a vacuum.

Was it for sale? Yes. How much? As the sign in front of you says, it's by donation. Does it work? I don't know. Who donated it? I don't know. Where's the on button? I don't know. Can I call a friend? I don't kn...wait. What?

A friend of his might want a new vacuum, and he wanted to call her to confirm. Following a ten minute phone conversation on the centre's phone with said friend in which they discussed, I shit you not, whether the vacuum could suck up ferret hair , he wanted to try it out. I wanted to stab him in the eye.

I invited him to come back any time during regular business hours, and he could take all the time he needed to decide. The centre was now closed, and I had to lock up. He commenced vacuuming the foyer carpet.

No really, it's past closing time. If he lived nearby, the centre would be re-opening the next day, and he was more than welcome to vacuum the living shit out of anything he wanted at that time - the rummage sale table would still be there, I swear to God.

He began taking apart the vacuum to see how the bag worked, a full half hour past the time I had stopped being paid for my time, and 40 minutes after everybody else had left.

I began to wonder if this would be my fate. Is this how I finally snap - doomed to spend the rest of my life rotting in prison for beating somebody to death with a vacuum hose? If self-control failed, at least I knew I could base my self-defense on the radio waves emanating from my smart phone.

Admittedly, I was desperate. Also, tired, hungry, disappointed and anxious. The firefighter had just texted me to let me know parts of Vancouver were on fire - I should check the news.

(Given my rather unnatural attraction to first-responders and suddenly being made to picture firefighters in uniform, I could also add horny to the list of completely inappropriate emotions I was forced to deal with while watching an annoying little man vacuum a foyer.)

More importantly however, I knew my sister was downtown Vancouver, and I was getting no response from her to my text messages. I needed to be home. Right. Now.

Clearly, the guy in danger of being beaten to death with a vacuum cleaner was gullible, or else he wouldn't have been there irritating every single molecule in my body to begin with. I began engaging him in conversation.

Yes...late nights are sure tough as a single mother. So many times I don't get to see my children before they go to bed. The babysitter is usually alright with staying a little longer but...

I let my voice trail off. Surely a single mother wanting to be home with her children could prevent this gentleman from taking another run at the carpet, especially having satisfied himself that the vacuum bag was exactly where a vacuum bag could normally be found, as opposed to in my purse or behind his ear.

Oh - you have kids? That's nice. Was there an outlet farther away he could plug the cord into? He wanted to see how far it stretched.

Clearly, this motherfucker had got tired of breathing. If I couldn't get him to leave on his own in 30 seconds, very bad things were going to happen.

I sure do have children. Two of them. Precious angels, both. They normally try to stay up and wait for me to read them a story, but ever since little Kelli started chemo, the poor little thing has just been so tired. Story time is just the highlight of her day, since she can't be outside much anymore. Not since starting treatment. Chemo. Treatment.

Oh yes...I sure did. Everybody who has ever met me knows my ovaries are frozen in opposition. And yet, I made up an imaginary child with cancer waiting for me at home. An imaginary child with cancer that just happened to share the same name as Alex's girlfriend, by what I'm sure is the sheerest of coincidences.

He handed me a twenty, and no I didn't have change. And no, I also didn't have a bag large enough to carry a godforsaken vacuum but I would help him drag it out the front door so I could lock it behind him, hope he has a wonderful night, and stay away from all those radio waves!

As for me, I'm going to be staying away from the outdoors for the next little while. When I'm inevitably struck down by a lightening bolt from the clear blue sky, I want to at least have made it challenging to find me.

What nobody is surprised by but me, and how I might be a terrible person.

The other night, a good friend took me out for my birthday. My actual birthday took place last week in Las Vegas, but as I get older I believe in extending birthday celebrations indefinitely. By the time I'm 75, I'll still be celebrating that milestone when I turn 100.

We were by no means the oldest women in the club, but certainly old enough to stand out. Largely because we wore pants, and not skirts so short our vaginas could be stamped more readily for re-entry than our wrists.

What followed was the most depressing 25 minutes of my life - which is approximately how long we lasted before deciding we had had quite enough and fleeing in terror.

We were hit on, which you'd think might be flattering. First up was a really old guy with a grey beard and pit stains down to his belt loops. I could just about smell the Viagra oozing out of his pores. He asked if he could buy me a cocktail or beverage of my choice.

First of all, who in the hell says can I buy you a cocktail? Secondly, the only way I'd ever be interested in meeting this man would be if I was dating his youngest son. As all ten of my readers know, I like my men young. Once they're old enough to rent a vehicle on their own, I've pretty much lost interest.

Greybeard was just the first in a long line of very old men. There was a guy with a combover, a guy with hair in his ears and a guy with three missing teeth that I could see.

Next came a very short bald man who came to just below my nipples. I didn't realize that bald people can have dandruff, but you really do learn something new every day. Never before in my life have I been hit on by so many men, and never has it made me feel so awful.

During a break in the action, my one remaining single friend who was also fending off a few admirers, asked me if this was really all there is to choose from, and I said yes. Yes it is.

We are so fucked, she said.

Fucked indeed.

(My friend is six years younger than me, single, and Portuguese. Her parents are completely beside themselves that she's single and so far past her prime. They want grand-babies, and how will that ever happen when she is insert Portuguese expression for last can on the shelf that nobody wants here. Then her mother usually crosses herself. Her mother has also been known to seek answers and resolutions for her daughter's spinsterhood through more spiritual means. At one point she was convinced my friend was under the influence of some sort of evil eye spell, and was therefore cursed in the marriage department. If a simple blessing could clear up my friends issues, I'd hate to see what her mother feels would help me get closer to the alter at this point. It probably involves silver bullets and an exorcist.)

I offer this whole story as a roundabout justification for my currently awful behaviour, and also as a warning. The next friend of mine who tells me I should settle for personality over any sort of physical attraction, and that at this point in my life, physical attraction shouldn't matter at all, will no longer be my friend. I've seen who's out there to settle for, and the beard was grey. There was dandruff, but no hair. Not. Possible.

Naturally, I can't talk about bad behaviour without talking about Alex. Last week he told me his girlfriend, Kelli, found out he cheated on her and left him. My heart soared. They're trying to work it out though, but she is pissed.Heart sank.

Would you believe I was actually surprised by this? Actually I was surprised by a couple of things. Here, in bullet form, are a few things that surprise me still, and nobody else.

• I'm not the only girl he's kept on the side, even though he told me I was...four different times. He couldn't have been lying, because he said we're special.



• He and Kelli are living together. I'm not sure why this is so surprising, but for me it's shocking enough to make me do math. How long were they actually together before he told me? Fingers might not be enough. I may have to carry the one.



• I believed him when he told me I was the only and special. I have a career, a mortgage, a university degree, a license to drive and I generally don't need to wear a helmet in public most days and yet...I wholeheartedly believed him.
  

I expressed my regret that he had been caught out, and offered to leave him alone. I have a trip booked to Kelowna, but if he's trying to work things out then there's no reason for him to hear from me.

He said it's no problem, but when I text him the dates I'm coming I should address the message to both of them, and be sure to say how much I'm looking forward to meeting her. Also, I'll need to get in touch with him, because he took all of his numbers out of his phone.

Clearly, I didn't need to ask how it was he got caught. After contemplating whether just typing those words might me heart failure, it occurred to me... I may want to clarify something first.

What if he thought I might actually want to meet her? Sweet Christ in a sidecar.

I would say the complete and utter bullshit he needed me to in order to cover his ass, but just to be clear...I don't want to meet her. I want to see you, not your girlfriend.

He said he understood, but she'll be done school by then so that might be hard. Awesome. I want to believe he was referring to college/university and not high school, but either way Kelli is obviously younger than me, and probably has never contemplated whether the skin around her mouth is starting to sag, and whether she should give up a paying a mortgage in exchange for regular Botox.

For the first time ever I said something snarky to Alex. Nothing earth-shattering - but for once I had a bit of a tone. Furious. Frustrated. Fed-up - for the first time in five years. I shouldn't have to remind any of my readers that I can be a sharp-tongued bitch. And by can be, I mean I am. All of the time. Just never to him.

And he must have noticed, because the next evening he was texting me. Strange, because he had told me he deleted all of his numbers. Turns out he had, but had dug up his old phone and charger just to talk to me. He loved me. There's nobody else like me. When he's with me it's like no other girl ever. He can't even explain it. Can't even describe it. He misses me so much. Wishes he was there. Wishes I was there. He can be so open with me, not like anybody else.

Would we fool around if I came to see him? He doesn't know. But there's so many reasons why he loves me. When I got off work, could he see me? (On webcam.) Please?

The smart thing to do might have been to ignore him. Even better, to tell him to fuck off. Call him a dog, a liar, a cheater, a womanizing asshole and a redneck fucking car salesman, because he is all of those things.

The less intelligent way to go would have been to rush home to my webcam so we could see each other, and I could hear his voice when he says how much he loves me.

Guess which option I went with. Go ahead, take your time. I'll wait.

*****

*****

Well that didn't take you bitches long.

He looked so good to me that I nearly cried. It had been a long time since we'd last had one of our webcam "dates." Just long enough to convince myself that maybe I'm moving past him, but not nearly long enough for that to be true.

(As much pain as it caused me, I have to say it was quite nearly worth it when I stood up and he said, "Holy fucking shit how skinny are you??" Actually, scratch that...it was TOTALLY worth it. The last time he saw me was 55 pounds ago...heh.)

In between the schmaltz and the xxx-rated conversation that followed, I helped him figure out how to change his email password...just in case Kelli knew it and went snooping.

Maybe this alone doesn't make me a terrible person, but the fact that I can't find a single fuck to give about her and her feelings might. I'm not the keeper of their relationship. I'm not her friend, and this isn't about her.

It begs the question though - what exactly is this about? Why am I holding on so hard to a guy who can barely hold his own dick without letting it accidentally fall into some random vagina?

Why am I clinging to a relationship that never existed in the way I wanted it to?

Why am I so willing to home wreck?

Why am I insisting on dragging this out, putting myself through more pain every time I talk to him, just so I can talk to him one last time in person. Only so I can end it.

While we're on the subject - why in the hell is he holding on to me? The one girl he's never actually slept with?

That's really the only mystery in left in this story, because I know exactly why I'm doing all of these things.

I've seen the alternative.

The alternative is the old guy with the grey beard and the pit stains who'd just love to buy me a cocktail. It's not that there isn't anything else right now, it's that there isn't anything else. What is there horrifies me.

To top it off, I'm sick to death of losing friendships. I have friends who actually think I should be grateful for the alternative, and who are dumb enough to say it. As soon as I hear it, I think to myself that they must not like me very much, or think much of me at all.

I'd sooner drag out an ending with Alex then face the alternative. An ending with Alex is better than the kind of new beginnings waiting for me. Finally, I've found something that doesn't suprise me.

I couldn't even get married there either.

Last week today, I was in Las Vegas, sucking back an industrial strength strawberry margarita by the hotel pool and applying enough sunscreen to douse the flames should any part of my pasty body begin to smolder.

Now I'm back home and back at work. On the bright side, I'm somewhat less likely to catch on fire, although the odds I'll want to set myself purposefully on fire have risen significantly.

Let me just say, Las Vegas is a beautifully ill-advised sparkling shitshow of a train wreck. In other words, it is awesome.

Much has been written about the city, by people more entertaining and informed than me. The city is just decadent enough to warrant an entire show dedicated to people being murdered there, so there's not much more I can say about it.

However, I noticed a few things about the Vegas experience that nobody seems to ever talk about - and that seems worth sharing. Without further hoo-ha and in no particular order...

Sometimes Vegas smells really bad.

Seriously. You're walking along without a care in the world, except for how on earth you're ever going to pay off the Visa bill you wracked up and why they couldn't just put the strawberry and lime margaritas you ordered at the same time together in one big cup so you don't have to double-fist and have everybody thinking you're a raging drunk when all of a sudden...it hits you.

The stench.

An invisible and nauseating mixture of open sewer, rotting garbage, more sewer, the desperate sweat of gambling addicts and underwear not changed for days. There's no explanation or visible source, apart from the potentially hundreds of decomposing bodies left in the desert by the Mafia, and so far undiscovered by the non-fictional Las Vegas CSI team.

No matter how hot you look, you look comparatively terrible.

Anna Wintour and Karl Lagerfield made sweet love, and then gave birth to your dress. The joyful tears of angels fill your breast implants and your face just triggered the Trojan War, one more time. At best, you're maybe a 3 in Vegas. There are women in Las Vegas so staggeringly beautiful, you will question exactly how many steps below the evolutionary ladder you managed to land, and how many times you somehow smacked your face on the way down. Best to keep drinking.

It will take you 45 minutes to cross a street.

The city planning genius who designed the Vegas Strip deserves some kind of major award. The hotel/casino/buffet/strip joint/shopping mecca you want to go to might be directly across the street from your own hotel. It's like, right there. As the crow flies, or as any normal damned person might function, it should take you 30 seconds to walk across the street to your destination.

Crossing a street however, is impossible. There are giant man-made barriers or sudden drops involved in getting to the street, on which there are no crosswalks. To make it to the other side of the street and to your destination, you have to go sideways first. Up an escalator. Across a promenade. Past the bar selling margaritas for $1. Stop at the bar selling margaritas for $1. Down an escalator. Onto a moving sidewalk. Through a casino. Pose for a picture with Elvis. Pay $10. Up an escalator. Over an overpass. Down an escalator. Photo bomb three separate Japanese family pictures by cutting in front of a fountain. Climb a flight of stairs, and 45 minutes later you are now directly in front of the place you came from, and have spent $100 along the way. Genius.

At some point during your holiday, you will fist pump.

You may not be the type of person who fist pumps for anything. You may not even have hands. It doesn't matter, because at some point you will be so excited by something that you'll inexplicably channel the entire cast of Jersey Shore and be fist pumping with wild abandon. It happened to me in the middle of the dance floor at Tao, a spectacle of a night club that can only exist in Vegas. It will happen to you too.

Armpits burn in 30 seconds.

Should you raise your arms above your head one single time in order to shield your eyes while checking out the handsome young members of a stag party newly arriving poolside, your armpits will flash fry. You'll spend the remaining days of your holiday walking around with your arms held away from your body like a gunslinger ready for showdown at the OK Corral, and annoying everybody within earshot by complaining how nobody has invented deodorant that doubles as sunscreen.

The lack of pants crisis is global.

Girls from all over the world now feel it's acceptable to be in public wearing what constitutes a shirt to most people, hooker heels and nothing else. I had prayed it was only in my town, but the problem is now clearly international. I used to dream of world peace, but now I have another message on behalf of our planet.

Women of planet Earth. For the love of God and everything that has or will ever be holy. A Brazilian wax - not pants. Thong underwear - not pants. Spray tanned ass - not pants. Dress so short your Brazilian wax, thong underwear and spray tanned ass are clearly visible - also not pants. Choose another skirt, or wear some goddamned pants.

That is all.