Having a crush on somebody who works for the same organization you do elevates routine and otherwise boring activities to boring activities suddenly requiring lip gloss. That's an absolutely huge difference.
To be clear, I have no intention of doing anything about suddenly finding a fellow staff member irresistible enough to distract me the entire time he's talking about some sort of new ad campaign...or light sabre...I really don't know what the hell he was talking about. I do know he has really strong, manly looking hands though.
I'm not going to talk to him any more than I normally would, which is to say, not really at all. He did take a great picture of me for some publication I'm going to be featured in, and I did thank him for the effort and for capturing me with my eyes fully open - no small task for any photographer.
He did blush and say that I'm he doesn't know what I'm talking about because I'm "lovely. Just...really lovely," which was nice and which I remember with total sensory recall but really, that's the last reason he and I will have to communicate. And that's fine.
It's fine because apparently he lives with someone, has a girlfriend, broke up with a girlfriend last year, might have a girlfriend, lives with an older Italian woman who looks like a young Sophia Loren, and or doesn't live with anybody but might be with somebody that nobody knows. Not that I've asked anybody.
He also smells like the outdoors and laundry detergent.
Overall, there is nothing to see here.
There might be something to see here in January though. I have a confession to make - I've been holding out on you, my three valued readers.
You see, I have an electronic boyfriend.
Let me explain. It's exactly as bizarre as it sounds, don't worry. I have this guy who I talk to every night, on the phone, for hours. We started chatting online, quickly took to the phone and there we've been for over a month. He lives approximately five minutes from me, if I was walking really slowly. We've never met.
He's younger than me, wickedly funny and he can predict my moods and behaviour more accurately than the guy I lived with for four years...who presumably met me. He may actually be smarter than me but I will commit Hari Kari before I let him know that little tidbit. I showed his picture to a girlfriend who immediately demanded to know why in God's name I hadn't seen him naked yet.
Oh yeah - he also seems to have the libido of a 26-year old Hugh Heffner on Ecstasy. He thinks we're going to sleep together within a half hour of meeting for the first time. I haven't exactly bent over in any direction trying to dissuade him of this idea. There's a small chance (read: absolute certainty) that I've been encouraging this notion.
He's very good at making me want to encourage this notion.
(In the interest of self-censorship and dignity, that's all I can say. Surely you can read between the lines. Shortly after the historical first phone call took place, the next phone call began with the words, "What are you wearing?")
There's also a small chance that I'm way more attached to a voice on the phone than any normal person should be. I may want to have little digital babies with that voice. I want to set up a conference call so that the voice can meet the voices of my parents and all of my friends. Surely, nothing can go wrong with this scenario.
The voice seems to be experiencing similar attachment issues. He admitted he liked talking to me so much he's afraid of not talking to me so meeting is scary for that reason. He says he's going to be attracted to me no matter what, because my personality will make up for any defects. He slips more frequently from naughty conversation I would die if my mother overheard to wanting to know all about my day and what I think about things, and how will we explain how we met to our friends?
We're meeting the first week of January. Until then, it's phone relationship as usual.
Overall, there is nothing to see here.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Apparently I wasn't getting enough excitement at the office.
Have you ever had the experience where you're just going along with your work every day, and by work I mean not so much working but occasionally answering the phone and replying to emails in between chatting inappropriately on MSN with a hot younger guy you met online but haven't met in real life but that hasn't stopped you from having phone sex with him which is really bizarre because...well...who does that? Ahem.
And even though you've worked at the same place for over a year and even though you've seen the guy who works in the Media department on numerous occasions before, and even though you've always sort of noticed him in a way that's different than how you notice say...potholes, you've never really, you know, THOUGHT about him.
And although you recently found yourself looking at him from across the room at the annual Christmas event where all the staff are invited to come and eat the requisite two free hors d'oeuvres per person and for some reason you were wondering what colour his eyes are up close, you've never actually THOUGHT about any part of his body. I mean, not really.
That is, until he looked over at you and you were snarfing an egg roll and there's just no sexy way to snarf an egg roll and so you turned away really fast, and while choking on the egg roll you wondered why in the hell you cared about being sexy and eating the egg roll in the first place.
And then this same guy from the Media department has to take your picture for something actually work-related and he shows up and the first words you say to each other are all excited like you haven't seen each other in so long even though you've never had a conversation and why are you giggling?
And he's really nervous for some reason and that's so cute and for some reason you're even more nervous...and then when he touches your hand to get you to move a certain way for the picture you realize that you've somehow developed the mother of all work crushes on the hot guy from the Media department and when in the hell did this happen? Seriously. When. Did. This. Happen.
Have you ever had that experience? Or is it just me?
Crap.
And even though you've worked at the same place for over a year and even though you've seen the guy who works in the Media department on numerous occasions before, and even though you've always sort of noticed him in a way that's different than how you notice say...potholes, you've never really, you know, THOUGHT about him.
And although you recently found yourself looking at him from across the room at the annual Christmas event where all the staff are invited to come and eat the requisite two free hors d'oeuvres per person and for some reason you were wondering what colour his eyes are up close, you've never actually THOUGHT about any part of his body. I mean, not really.
That is, until he looked over at you and you were snarfing an egg roll and there's just no sexy way to snarf an egg roll and so you turned away really fast, and while choking on the egg roll you wondered why in the hell you cared about being sexy and eating the egg roll in the first place.
And then this same guy from the Media department has to take your picture for something actually work-related and he shows up and the first words you say to each other are all excited like you haven't seen each other in so long even though you've never had a conversation and why are you giggling?
And he's really nervous for some reason and that's so cute and for some reason you're even more nervous...and then when he touches your hand to get you to move a certain way for the picture you realize that you've somehow developed the mother of all work crushes on the hot guy from the Media department and when in the hell did this happen? Seriously. When. Did. This. Happen.
Have you ever had that experience? Or is it just me?
Crap.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Things I know.
These last few weeks have been a series of lessons I think I should share. Some are completely new to me, and some lessons I'm destined to relearn over and over. In no particular order, please see my list of things I have learned so that you don't have to:
- When the airport security guard pulls a large knife from the side pocket of your purse, immediately taking the Lord's name in vain and stuttering that the knife is not a weapon, it is instead your apple cutting knife from your lunch does not make you appear less of a lunatic.
- If attending a black tie gala in honour of somebody who is recently deceased, it is never appropriate to comment on how that person was the embodiment of evil on earth. Like, not ever.
- Seeing your ex and seeing him happy with somebody else does not get easier with time. Some things get harder.
- When attempting to Crazy Glue a buckle on your favourite boot so that it doesn't jingle like a belly dance is in danger of breaking out every time you walk, it's always a good idea to ensure your finger does not become glued to said boot. I can not stress this enough.
- When your plane is experiencing difficulty landing, and you are starting to panic just a little, there may be something lacking in your life if the first thought springing to mind is how you went on a trip and left dishes in the sink, and what will anybody clearing out your apartment after your body is found think about the fact you left dishes in the sink? It may be time to reevaluate priorities.
- If you fail to attend one meeting, you will be guaranteed to be assigned all of the tasks nobody else wants, including acting as emcee for an event hosting more than 200 people.
- Control top pantyhose will make you look like a bratwurst belted tightly with piano wire. And nobody likes a bratwurst in bondage.
Overall, it's been an interesting couple of weeks. Lessons learned, and taken to heart.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
A woman in need.
It's funny the things I miss as a single person. I'm mostly over missing any romantic or profound aspects of my former relationship, but it's the little things that can still get to me.
Like socks.
Having worn sandals all summer I'm making the transition to boots and I have no socks. I have some socks, but not enough to get me through a laundry cycle. I stood there this morning, wondering whether it's ever acceptable to recycle socks from the laundry pile, and at what point is it not acceptable, and by not acceptable I mean disease-carrying.
I was also wondering where in the hell my socks have gone. I used to be a woman with infinite sock choices, and now I'm barefoot. Taking into consideration the average rate of sock sacrifice to the dryer gods per year, I'm coming up alarmingly short.
And then it dawned on me. My sock deficiencies used to be taken care of by way of my boyfriend's sock drawer. I have large feet, and I was never picky. If I needed socks, his were there. Sports socks, black socks, argyle socks and a pair I particularly liked with pin-striping. All mine for the taking.
Socks are one of those things I've never had to go out and pay for directly - much like property taxes or sex (although I may be paying for both within the next couple of years.) Without somebody elses sock drawer - I'm noticing the shortfall.
Another shortage I'm noticing is spending money. Every day, I stole money from my boyfriend. There, I said it and it feels good. Every night he would dump a large amount of change on the dresser and every morning I'd swipe a toonie, a loonie...two toonies. Never more. (Not so much out of any morality issues, but more to avoid being caught.)
I would use this money to buy my morning tea, muffin, or bus fare, and I liked it. I never asked him if I could take it, and never asked if I could borrow it. Money was always a hot-button issue, mostly because he made more of it and felt this economic advantage gave him an advantage in the relationship.
Because he made more money, he got to decide where we lived and how we lived. He got to be the "manager of the relationship." If I made equal or better money I could have more say in how we lived our lives, but until then his agenda was priority.
I'm not making this up, these are the arguments we would have. Because he made more money, he would pursue his career and educational interests and I would pursue mine at a time that was more optimal. Like when he retired.
He managed the relationship, and I paid for half of the mortgage and utilities, and used my own money when I needed anything. At some point, this was decided to be a sign of good faith that the remainder of our relationship was equal. Obviously my salary and job title negotiations sucked.
And so I felt a silly amount of criminal glee every morning as I sat down to eat my ill-gotten muffin, or drink the tea I didn't earn or ride the bus on somebody else's loonie. If I was putting off getting my masters or living where I wanted until he retired, I had really better enjoy my morning muffin.
So maybe I don't actually miss stealing his spare change at all. Maybe I'm much happier knowing the loonie I scramble for every morning at the bottom of my purse to pay for my extra-large double double tea is my own loonie, and the Tim Hortons I stop at is in the city I want to live in, on the way to the job I want to be doing. And I don't have to wait for anybody.
The sock situation, remains a problem though.
Like socks.
Having worn sandals all summer I'm making the transition to boots and I have no socks. I have some socks, but not enough to get me through a laundry cycle. I stood there this morning, wondering whether it's ever acceptable to recycle socks from the laundry pile, and at what point is it not acceptable, and by not acceptable I mean disease-carrying.
I was also wondering where in the hell my socks have gone. I used to be a woman with infinite sock choices, and now I'm barefoot. Taking into consideration the average rate of sock sacrifice to the dryer gods per year, I'm coming up alarmingly short.
And then it dawned on me. My sock deficiencies used to be taken care of by way of my boyfriend's sock drawer. I have large feet, and I was never picky. If I needed socks, his were there. Sports socks, black socks, argyle socks and a pair I particularly liked with pin-striping. All mine for the taking.
Socks are one of those things I've never had to go out and pay for directly - much like property taxes or sex (although I may be paying for both within the next couple of years.) Without somebody elses sock drawer - I'm noticing the shortfall.
Another shortage I'm noticing is spending money. Every day, I stole money from my boyfriend. There, I said it and it feels good. Every night he would dump a large amount of change on the dresser and every morning I'd swipe a toonie, a loonie...two toonies. Never more. (Not so much out of any morality issues, but more to avoid being caught.)
I would use this money to buy my morning tea, muffin, or bus fare, and I liked it. I never asked him if I could take it, and never asked if I could borrow it. Money was always a hot-button issue, mostly because he made more of it and felt this economic advantage gave him an advantage in the relationship.
Because he made more money, he got to decide where we lived and how we lived. He got to be the "manager of the relationship." If I made equal or better money I could have more say in how we lived our lives, but until then his agenda was priority.
I'm not making this up, these are the arguments we would have. Because he made more money, he would pursue his career and educational interests and I would pursue mine at a time that was more optimal. Like when he retired.
He managed the relationship, and I paid for half of the mortgage and utilities, and used my own money when I needed anything. At some point, this was decided to be a sign of good faith that the remainder of our relationship was equal. Obviously my salary and job title negotiations sucked.
And so I felt a silly amount of criminal glee every morning as I sat down to eat my ill-gotten muffin, or drink the tea I didn't earn or ride the bus on somebody else's loonie. If I was putting off getting my masters or living where I wanted until he retired, I had really better enjoy my morning muffin.
So maybe I don't actually miss stealing his spare change at all. Maybe I'm much happier knowing the loonie I scramble for every morning at the bottom of my purse to pay for my extra-large double double tea is my own loonie, and the Tim Hortons I stop at is in the city I want to live in, on the way to the job I want to be doing. And I don't have to wait for anybody.
The sock situation, remains a problem though.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Act now!
Occasionally my phone will ring at work with a vendor trying to sell me something. I can't be more specific about what it is they're selling, because the caller is never specific. It's always some kind of software program that will reinvent, renew, or refresh our marketing strategy.
These cold callers can never say how, or what their software does over the phone. The goal is to intrigue me into booking a meeting, and then wow me with something I've never seen before on a computer screen.
A perverted friend of mine once showed me a picture of two four-hundred pound lesbians with skin diseases having sex with a horse, and what appeared to be peanut butter. After that, it's always going to take a lot to show me something I've never seen before on a computer screen.
I gave in last week and agreed to a couple of sales guys coming out to show me software so cutting edge, it couldn't be described over the phone at all. All I gathered from the initial cold call was it had something to do with the Internet.
These sales guys have a tough job, and every once in a while I'll give somebody a chance. The particular guy who called was smart enough to have done some research, and he wasn't reading from a script. Feeling generous, I set up a meeting...despite having no actual power, budget or technical knowledge.
This is information I hold back to intrigue the occasional vendor into coming to see me, should there be a remote possibility their services can help with what I need. I want there to be a product out there that will solve all of my professional problems. Not only will it help me track engagement and surpass my key performance indicators, but it simultaneously screens for losers when I sneak on to the online dating site from work! What a product!
This was not that product. This wasn't any product I could use, and I give the original smooth talker credit for almost saving the presentation when it became obvious the product wasn't for me. He had me almost reconsidering, when his partner jumped in.
As far as wingmen go, if the smooth talker took his partner out to a bar nobody would be getting laid. Ever. Diplomacy, tact, good breath...none of these things mattered to the partner.
The partner started to go on at length about how he could see I was somebody who just didn't know how to use tools. Not only did I not know how to use tools, I didn't even realize I could use them at all.
Yes folks...in attempting to explain how our current marketing and communications strategy and database couldn't support the platform they were selling at this time due to resourcing issues and a current freeze on any IT projects connected to our database, I inadvertently revealed I don't have the learning capacity of a cro-magnon. I wouldn't even know to hit something with a rock if I had to break it open...which is a good thing whenever our database freezes I suppose.
The smooth talker tried to smooth it over, but I was done. I was also a little unsettled, remembering that my kitchen light is still burnt out because I can't find the pliers I need to get the screws out of the light fixture, and wondering if the partner had actually seen inside my head to know that.
These cold callers can never say how, or what their software does over the phone. The goal is to intrigue me into booking a meeting, and then wow me with something I've never seen before on a computer screen.
A perverted friend of mine once showed me a picture of two four-hundred pound lesbians with skin diseases having sex with a horse, and what appeared to be peanut butter. After that, it's always going to take a lot to show me something I've never seen before on a computer screen.
I gave in last week and agreed to a couple of sales guys coming out to show me software so cutting edge, it couldn't be described over the phone at all. All I gathered from the initial cold call was it had something to do with the Internet.
These sales guys have a tough job, and every once in a while I'll give somebody a chance. The particular guy who called was smart enough to have done some research, and he wasn't reading from a script. Feeling generous, I set up a meeting...despite having no actual power, budget or technical knowledge.
This is information I hold back to intrigue the occasional vendor into coming to see me, should there be a remote possibility their services can help with what I need. I want there to be a product out there that will solve all of my professional problems. Not only will it help me track engagement and surpass my key performance indicators, but it simultaneously screens for losers when I sneak on to the online dating site from work! What a product!
This was not that product. This wasn't any product I could use, and I give the original smooth talker credit for almost saving the presentation when it became obvious the product wasn't for me. He had me almost reconsidering, when his partner jumped in.
As far as wingmen go, if the smooth talker took his partner out to a bar nobody would be getting laid. Ever. Diplomacy, tact, good breath...none of these things mattered to the partner.
The partner started to go on at length about how he could see I was somebody who just didn't know how to use tools. Not only did I not know how to use tools, I didn't even realize I could use them at all.
Yes folks...in attempting to explain how our current marketing and communications strategy and database couldn't support the platform they were selling at this time due to resourcing issues and a current freeze on any IT projects connected to our database, I inadvertently revealed I don't have the learning capacity of a cro-magnon. I wouldn't even know to hit something with a rock if I had to break it open...which is a good thing whenever our database freezes I suppose.
The smooth talker tried to smooth it over, but I was done. I was also a little unsettled, remembering that my kitchen light is still burnt out because I can't find the pliers I need to get the screws out of the light fixture, and wondering if the partner had actually seen inside my head to know that.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Server of Satan
My laptop at home has been giving me attitude. It's sullen, it flashes me error messages and it's slow to do what I want, if it does anything at all.
I've been making repeated calls to my personal tech support who in turn, has been ignoring me just like technical support people do even when they're not your best friends and have never seen you snarf an entire bottle of champagne just because it was Tuesday.
My tech support finally called me back and left a message assuring he understood exactly what I need help with. According to my tech support I need some help with my laptop, but more importantly I need help finding a date, and I need help getting laid.
This was the entirety of his message. That and he was stoned, had a wonderful time at a conference, there was nothing on TV at the moment and I better not be not answering the phone because I was doing something really lame, like laundry.
I was in fact, doing laundry when he called.
In my defense, I was doing laundry in preparation for a date that I was hoping would solve problems two and three, although not necessarily on the same night.
After taking my online dating profile down, I've put it back up again to typically underwhelming response. I was bored without the promise of mortification and rejection, and if I was bored I'm sure my reader fan-base (hello both of you!) would be bored too.
I thought I had an edge this time around, because I didn't think I cared. When I send messages to guys and get no response back, I shrug my shoulders instead of wondering why they don't write back. When my inbox stays empty, I yawn with contempt. I'm not bothered. I have become a cynical, cold, hard shell. Obviously I'm ready for dating.
This was just tempting the universe though. By swearing I could handle any rejection and ridiculousness sitting across the table from me, the universe was forced to get creative. After all, I've already dealt with outright lies and that one weirdo with the vitamins.
I've sacrificed a sweater to a dying bird and endured one more discussion about cornbread than anybody ever needs, and nobody ever needs a discussion about cornbread.
My quest to find a man who will simply call when he says he will call has taken me to some new depths - but for the first time last night I found myself truly disrespected and offended, and I'm embarrassed at how I handled it.
Dave looked like he belonged on the cover of a men's magazine or that article in Cosmo revealing why men who appear able to fight fires, hunt grizzly with one hand and hoist you on to his lap with the other are sexy.
He was sharp, funny and he called me when he said he would call. This alone, made me want to break out the fancy panties.
Our first phone conversation lasted an hour and a half and he asked me...he asked me questions about myself. Like he actually cared. Thoughtful questions, about what I do and who I am. So far, he was unprecedented. Completely unprecedented.
We agreed to meet for a drink.
He chose a very new, trendy, lounge-like place that was so new and trendy we were the only customers. No seriously - we were the only two people there. He gave me the option of going some place else, and in hindsight that might have been the smartest choice I could have made but I thought it would be a trip to have an entire posh lounge to ourselves so we took our white pleather sofas and started to chat.
He wasn't as pretty in person as in his photographs, but still probably prettier than me. And so was the waitress -- Erika.
Dave and Erika were deep in conversation when I arrived, and I assumed he picked the place just because he had friends there. It turns out the owner is also a friend and I was happy to help him support his buddy in getting his business off the ground.
It stands to reason that being the only customers in a lounge that could host 200 would garner some attentive service. I was fully expecting to not have to catch Erika's eye when my wine glass ran out, but I wasn't banking on not being able to get rid of her.
Every six minutes like clockwork, Erika would come by our table. She wasn't checking on our drinks, she was bored. I know this, because she said so. Then she was just hanging out, then she admitted she was lurking and then she was seeing what we were up to and then she was just saying hello and then she was checking on us and then she was just wanting to chat and then she was just trying to pass the time.
Every six minutes, Erika would drop by and stay for eight minutes. It was just like an overly-attentive waiter comedy sketch, only more absurd. At one point it actually crossed my mind to look around for a hidden camera.
Don't think I didn't try to dissuade her. Women have looks that can only be perceived and therefore lethal to other women. I was giving this bitch looks that could have dropped a commercial airliner out of the sky. My eyeballs actually re-gelled into samurai swords, and still she came.
For his part, Dave invited her. She would walk up and Dave would stop whatever he was saying to me in mid-sentence, turn his body toward her and offer a joke or a question to get her talking.
They shared stories about mutual friends, places they had worked - it was a grand old time...if you weren't the extra chick molded to a white pleather sofa.
When she did leave, I would have to think hard to remind Dave where he had left in his conversation with me, and that was an effort. That's how much time passed while our server shared our date.
I wanted to say something, but I couldn't think of how to phrase it without somehow insulting his friend and making myself out to be a catty bitch. We would settle back into some interesting conversation, and Erika would show up again. Dave would turn to her like it was the most natural thing in the world, and get her talking. And I said nothing.
Suddenly Dave was ready to go. We had been there two hours, with approximately 40 minutes spent hanging out with the waitress. Dave went up to the bar to pay, and I overheard the waitress and my date exchanging names.
"I'm Dave by the way."
"I'm Erika - it's great to meet you Dave!"
Are you fucking kidding me?? All that time, I had assumed they were buddies. I thought so because they were talking when I showed up, I thought so because they both knew some common people and I thought so because I'm an idiot.
I said nothing while my date proceeded to use our date to date somebody else, and treat me like the interruption. I said nothing while every females nightmare of a server entertained herself on a boring shift by making me look like an ass, just because I couldn't think of what to say without coming across as "bitchy."
And I still can't. Dave and I parted ways five minutes out of the door and in case I hadn't got the hint or was profoundly brain-damaged and felt the urge to see him again, he made it clear it was not to be.
The first thing Dave had said to me when we sat down was how witty he thought I was. How very funny. Most women he met were not clever at all, and I was just the wittiest girl he'd ever met.
Apparently, having seen me in person for two hours, that was still the best and only compliment he could give me. He struck me as a guy who strives to be a gentlemen, and I assume he likes to leave his dates with a compliment. It seems I was a tough case, because he could only leave me with this heartfelt bit of flattery:
"You're a witty, witty girl. Don't ever change that."
Um. Okay.
I suppose if for some reason I did make the decision to change and or alter my essential nature, there would be nothing appealing left about me. I can't rely on my looks, so I better hope my dry wit is enough to carry me to the alter some day because I've got nothing else. Thanks Dave.
I would like to point out that for this, I missed America's Next Top Model. And that new show called "Life" I like so much about the cop who was wrongly imprisoned starring that dude from Band of Brothers who I find weirdly sexy. So thanks for that too Dave.
And thanks also, for not even giving me the basic respect you'd give...well...a waitress. I was too weak to say anything, and I'm mad at myself for that but thanks to you the next guy who so much as lets his eyes travel when I'm speaking to him will likely have a near death experience so profound he'll give up his worldly possessions and travel to Tibet with nothing but a leather bound journal and tooth floss.
I'll forgive myself though, probably while eating cheesecake and watching next week's America's Next Top Model. I love eating and watching really skinny people at the same time. It 's decadent.
I won't forgive you though. Good luck, and happy dating asshole.
I've been making repeated calls to my personal tech support who in turn, has been ignoring me just like technical support people do even when they're not your best friends and have never seen you snarf an entire bottle of champagne just because it was Tuesday.
My tech support finally called me back and left a message assuring he understood exactly what I need help with. According to my tech support I need some help with my laptop, but more importantly I need help finding a date, and I need help getting laid.
This was the entirety of his message. That and he was stoned, had a wonderful time at a conference, there was nothing on TV at the moment and I better not be not answering the phone because I was doing something really lame, like laundry.
I was in fact, doing laundry when he called.
In my defense, I was doing laundry in preparation for a date that I was hoping would solve problems two and three, although not necessarily on the same night.
After taking my online dating profile down, I've put it back up again to typically underwhelming response. I was bored without the promise of mortification and rejection, and if I was bored I'm sure my reader fan-base (hello both of you!) would be bored too.
I thought I had an edge this time around, because I didn't think I cared. When I send messages to guys and get no response back, I shrug my shoulders instead of wondering why they don't write back. When my inbox stays empty, I yawn with contempt. I'm not bothered. I have become a cynical, cold, hard shell. Obviously I'm ready for dating.
This was just tempting the universe though. By swearing I could handle any rejection and ridiculousness sitting across the table from me, the universe was forced to get creative. After all, I've already dealt with outright lies and that one weirdo with the vitamins.
I've sacrificed a sweater to a dying bird and endured one more discussion about cornbread than anybody ever needs, and nobody ever needs a discussion about cornbread.
My quest to find a man who will simply call when he says he will call has taken me to some new depths - but for the first time last night I found myself truly disrespected and offended, and I'm embarrassed at how I handled it.
Dave looked like he belonged on the cover of a men's magazine or that article in Cosmo revealing why men who appear able to fight fires, hunt grizzly with one hand and hoist you on to his lap with the other are sexy.
He was sharp, funny and he called me when he said he would call. This alone, made me want to break out the fancy panties.
Our first phone conversation lasted an hour and a half and he asked me...he asked me questions about myself. Like he actually cared. Thoughtful questions, about what I do and who I am. So far, he was unprecedented. Completely unprecedented.
We agreed to meet for a drink.
He chose a very new, trendy, lounge-like place that was so new and trendy we were the only customers. No seriously - we were the only two people there. He gave me the option of going some place else, and in hindsight that might have been the smartest choice I could have made but I thought it would be a trip to have an entire posh lounge to ourselves so we took our white pleather sofas and started to chat.
He wasn't as pretty in person as in his photographs, but still probably prettier than me. And so was the waitress -- Erika.
Dave and Erika were deep in conversation when I arrived, and I assumed he picked the place just because he had friends there. It turns out the owner is also a friend and I was happy to help him support his buddy in getting his business off the ground.
It stands to reason that being the only customers in a lounge that could host 200 would garner some attentive service. I was fully expecting to not have to catch Erika's eye when my wine glass ran out, but I wasn't banking on not being able to get rid of her.
Every six minutes like clockwork, Erika would come by our table. She wasn't checking on our drinks, she was bored. I know this, because she said so. Then she was just hanging out, then she admitted she was lurking and then she was seeing what we were up to and then she was just saying hello and then she was checking on us and then she was just wanting to chat and then she was just trying to pass the time.
Every six minutes, Erika would drop by and stay for eight minutes. It was just like an overly-attentive waiter comedy sketch, only more absurd. At one point it actually crossed my mind to look around for a hidden camera.
Don't think I didn't try to dissuade her. Women have looks that can only be perceived and therefore lethal to other women. I was giving this bitch looks that could have dropped a commercial airliner out of the sky. My eyeballs actually re-gelled into samurai swords, and still she came.
For his part, Dave invited her. She would walk up and Dave would stop whatever he was saying to me in mid-sentence, turn his body toward her and offer a joke or a question to get her talking.
They shared stories about mutual friends, places they had worked - it was a grand old time...if you weren't the extra chick molded to a white pleather sofa.
When she did leave, I would have to think hard to remind Dave where he had left in his conversation with me, and that was an effort. That's how much time passed while our server shared our date.
I wanted to say something, but I couldn't think of how to phrase it without somehow insulting his friend and making myself out to be a catty bitch. We would settle back into some interesting conversation, and Erika would show up again. Dave would turn to her like it was the most natural thing in the world, and get her talking. And I said nothing.
Suddenly Dave was ready to go. We had been there two hours, with approximately 40 minutes spent hanging out with the waitress. Dave went up to the bar to pay, and I overheard the waitress and my date exchanging names.
"I'm Dave by the way."
"I'm Erika - it's great to meet you Dave!"
Are you fucking kidding me?? All that time, I had assumed they were buddies. I thought so because they were talking when I showed up, I thought so because they both knew some common people and I thought so because I'm an idiot.
I said nothing while my date proceeded to use our date to date somebody else, and treat me like the interruption. I said nothing while every females nightmare of a server entertained herself on a boring shift by making me look like an ass, just because I couldn't think of what to say without coming across as "bitchy."
And I still can't. Dave and I parted ways five minutes out of the door and in case I hadn't got the hint or was profoundly brain-damaged and felt the urge to see him again, he made it clear it was not to be.
The first thing Dave had said to me when we sat down was how witty he thought I was. How very funny. Most women he met were not clever at all, and I was just the wittiest girl he'd ever met.
Apparently, having seen me in person for two hours, that was still the best and only compliment he could give me. He struck me as a guy who strives to be a gentlemen, and I assume he likes to leave his dates with a compliment. It seems I was a tough case, because he could only leave me with this heartfelt bit of flattery:
"You're a witty, witty girl. Don't ever change that."
Um. Okay.
I suppose if for some reason I did make the decision to change and or alter my essential nature, there would be nothing appealing left about me. I can't rely on my looks, so I better hope my dry wit is enough to carry me to the alter some day because I've got nothing else. Thanks Dave.
I would like to point out that for this, I missed America's Next Top Model. And that new show called "Life" I like so much about the cop who was wrongly imprisoned starring that dude from Band of Brothers who I find weirdly sexy. So thanks for that too Dave.
And thanks also, for not even giving me the basic respect you'd give...well...a waitress. I was too weak to say anything, and I'm mad at myself for that but thanks to you the next guy who so much as lets his eyes travel when I'm speaking to him will likely have a near death experience so profound he'll give up his worldly possessions and travel to Tibet with nothing but a leather bound journal and tooth floss.
I'll forgive myself though, probably while eating cheesecake and watching next week's America's Next Top Model. I love eating and watching really skinny people at the same time. It 's decadent.
I won't forgive you though. Good luck, and happy dating asshole.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Summary.
This has not been a great week professionally. Looking back, I can't pinpoint one area where it all went wrong. That's how annoyed I am, and I still have one more day to go.
Since I can't even bring myself to complain about one thing over another, I'll settle for listing phrases that have actually left my mouth at some point in time, at work, this week:
"Was the cougar spotted close to where my car is parked or was it more near the trees where my car is parked?"
"So the VP based his hiring descision on the Secret? No...I'm not questioning I'm just...um....that's really interesting."
"Are you talking about the woman who thought I looked lonely or the woman who thought I was pregnant?"
"I'm totally aware that blueberries are good in muffins but I just really needed some fucking chocolate chips and I was totally deceived by the blueberries."
If I could just make it to Saturday without killing anybody, or being attacked by wild animals I should be fine, and there's not too many people who can say that about their office jobs.
Since I can't even bring myself to complain about one thing over another, I'll settle for listing phrases that have actually left my mouth at some point in time, at work, this week:
"Was the cougar spotted close to where my car is parked or was it more near the trees where my car is parked?"
"So the VP based his hiring descision on the Secret? No...I'm not questioning I'm just...um....that's really interesting."
"Are you talking about the woman who thought I looked lonely or the woman who thought I was pregnant?"
"I'm totally aware that blueberries are good in muffins but I just really needed some fucking chocolate chips and I was totally deceived by the blueberries."
If I could just make it to Saturday without killing anybody, or being attacked by wild animals I should be fine, and there's not too many people who can say that about their office jobs.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Jenny Craig, you #$%*ing bitch.
You always know it's time. Maybe it's the red creases in your skin clearly outlining where your pants and underpants were sitting at the same time you were.
Maybe it's the moment you're lying in bed and you think to yourself, "Did my duvet cover used to be bigger?"
Maybe it's that glimpse you catch of yourself in a store window and you stop and wonder if you gave birth to triplets the same evening you polished off half a bottle of passion fruit liqueur because that would be the only explanation as to how your hips got so large so quickly and why you can't remember anything that happened that night and you're wondering if you left the newborns in the coat check along with your favourite little Esprit sweater and damn you really should call that place to see if you can get your sweater back.
Yeah it's time. I really need to lose some weight.
Like 98.9% of the female species, I've said this before. I've also ran out and done something about it before, with varying degrees of success. The fact that I'm saying it again means my success has always been short-lived...and let's not anybody hold her breath for this time.
I'm hungry already.
My motivation is strong though. I have pants I couldn't even pull up over my elbow right now in my closet. I would like to wear them again before I have to leave instructions in my will to have my skeleton dug up and the pants put on only when it's confirmed my skeleton will fit into clothing sold at Le Chateau.
Even though it's not looking likely, I may have sex again some day. Right now the odds of me meeting somebody are about the same as winning the Nobel Peace Prize (this is a true fact - check with Las Vegas if you don't believe me).
Just in case the Nobel thing falls through and I actually have sex again instead, I thought it would be nice if my fancy lingerie didn't give me muffin top. There's nothing hotter than naked muffin top. At this point, I'd be happy if my flannel PJ pants didn't give me muffin top.
And so it begins. The hunger. The bitching. (Actually the bitching is really just a continuation of my usual state, only now I'm hungry). The deprivation. And did I mention I'm hungry?
Day one, starts now.
Maybe it's the moment you're lying in bed and you think to yourself, "Did my duvet cover used to be bigger?"
Maybe it's that glimpse you catch of yourself in a store window and you stop and wonder if you gave birth to triplets the same evening you polished off half a bottle of passion fruit liqueur because that would be the only explanation as to how your hips got so large so quickly and why you can't remember anything that happened that night and you're wondering if you left the newborns in the coat check along with your favourite little Esprit sweater and damn you really should call that place to see if you can get your sweater back.
Yeah it's time. I really need to lose some weight.
Like 98.9% of the female species, I've said this before. I've also ran out and done something about it before, with varying degrees of success. The fact that I'm saying it again means my success has always been short-lived...and let's not anybody hold her breath for this time.
I'm hungry already.
My motivation is strong though. I have pants I couldn't even pull up over my elbow right now in my closet. I would like to wear them again before I have to leave instructions in my will to have my skeleton dug up and the pants put on only when it's confirmed my skeleton will fit into clothing sold at Le Chateau.
Even though it's not looking likely, I may have sex again some day. Right now the odds of me meeting somebody are about the same as winning the Nobel Peace Prize (this is a true fact - check with Las Vegas if you don't believe me).
Just in case the Nobel thing falls through and I actually have sex again instead, I thought it would be nice if my fancy lingerie didn't give me muffin top. There's nothing hotter than naked muffin top. At this point, I'd be happy if my flannel PJ pants didn't give me muffin top.
And so it begins. The hunger. The bitching. (Actually the bitching is really just a continuation of my usual state, only now I'm hungry). The deprivation. And did I mention I'm hungry?
Day one, starts now.
Friday, October 5, 2007
Period to the maxx!
Um. Can we talk about something a bit personal for a moment? I've been seeing ads on TV for a new Playtex tampon.
Does the tampon come soaked in Vicodin so that I can truly have a happy period? No. Does the tampon vibrate, vacuum or perform any other service that I might in fact want or need? Not really.
According to the ads, Playtex has created the first ever, Sport Tampon. It's a "high-performance" tampon. As opposed to all of those other tampons who just never really gave it their all, better suited to watching from the sidelines.
Does the world need a Sport Tampon? Has this been an issue? A big feature of this product is a patented No-Slip Grip applicator. I'm not sure about anybody else, and perhaps this is a sign of my own ignorance, but this isn't a problem that comes up too often.
Perhaps I'm not the high-performance woman Platex is marketing to, as usually I'm standing fairly still while taking care of any tampon-related requirements. I'm not hanging off the side of a mountain, balancing on a surf board or crossing the finish line in the Iron Man while trying to work a tampon.
I've never thought, "If only my tampon were as high-performance as my life I could really give 110%." Were I to have this thought, I would naturally then crack a Mountain Dew, adjust my helmet and bungee jump off the side of the bridge I just climbed. While inserting my new high-performance tampon with my no-slip grip applicator of course.
Does the tampon come soaked in Vicodin so that I can truly have a happy period? No. Does the tampon vibrate, vacuum or perform any other service that I might in fact want or need? Not really.
According to the ads, Playtex has created the first ever, Sport Tampon. It's a "high-performance" tampon. As opposed to all of those other tampons who just never really gave it their all, better suited to watching from the sidelines.
Does the world need a Sport Tampon? Has this been an issue? A big feature of this product is a patented No-Slip Grip applicator. I'm not sure about anybody else, and perhaps this is a sign of my own ignorance, but this isn't a problem that comes up too often.
Perhaps I'm not the high-performance woman Platex is marketing to, as usually I'm standing fairly still while taking care of any tampon-related requirements. I'm not hanging off the side of a mountain, balancing on a surf board or crossing the finish line in the Iron Man while trying to work a tampon.
I've never thought, "If only my tampon were as high-performance as my life I could really give 110%." Were I to have this thought, I would naturally then crack a Mountain Dew, adjust my helmet and bungee jump off the side of the bridge I just climbed. While inserting my new high-performance tampon with my no-slip grip applicator of course.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Babies are the new black.
People lacking the basic intelligence required to own a spatula are producing children at an alarming rate. I know this from Facebook, and it's scaring me on many levels.
Let's back up. So far the majority of my Facebook contacts are people I don't or won't ever speak to. They're people I went to high school or elementary school with, and despite not having had a close relationship when we actually saw each other every day, many of these people have tracked me down on Facebook.
I don't know why I add people like this to my Friends List, because I couldn't care any less about what they're doing. If you're reading this right now and you are one of my Facebook Friends, know that I'm not talking about you. Or at least it's unlikely.
Anyhoodle. Out of morbid curiosity, I'll scroll through the Friends section of my Facebook Friends (and yes, I'm aware of how stupid that sentence sounds) to see who else they know, and who they married should they fail to provide the requisite Facebook wedding album. (Speaking of which, there really needs to be a moratorium placed on wedding photos featuring the couple in black and white and a single red rose in colour. Seriously.)
Don't think this means I actually do care about these people. I'm nosy, and it's a way to unfairly compare myself to others in areas that are irrelevant and self-defeating, so obviously I'm all over it.
What I've discovered is awe-inspiring, and not in a good way. Sunsets are awe-inspiring in a good way. Projectile vomiting is awe-inspiring in a bad way. This situation is the latter.
Just today I learned that a kid who used to beat the living daylights out of his girlfriend in the parking lot of my high school while his buddies egged him on has a baby girl. The girl who once suggested my best bet would be to date guys who are kind, because they'd date me out of pity is raising a little boy.
A girl who used to randomly punch other girls in the face has a baby who looks like Uncle Fester. A guy who one said gay people should be gassed is teaching his kids how to shoot.
An ex-boyfriend who was more gay than straight is now married with a son. Another ex who broke up with me because he "chose Jehovah over sin" is now raising two kids. Let's not get into what these guys say about my taste in men, alright? It was a difficult year.
These stories make me queasy enough, but I'm also left with a weird sense of panic. Where was I when all this was going on?
What was I busy doing when all of these people met somebody, married, and started dropping crotch-fruit?
Even though I have no desire to reproduce, and this is good because obviously alumni of my high school have got the repletion of the planet thing covered, I am reaching an age where I want to have a wedding. I'm not totally sold on the husband part, but a party in my honour with an open bar is long-overdue.
I've taken the path less taken, without having meant to. I've never been able to read a map, and I don't mind being different from a bunch of assholes I've always been different from.
More and more however, photo albums are popping up on my Facebook Newsfeed from Friends I really do consider friends, and their lives are taking the marriage and babies path too.
Not that I'm facing a choice, but I think I'll keep kicking it on the path I'm on. There's way less traffic over here, and my Facebook profile stays diaper-smell free.
Let's back up. So far the majority of my Facebook contacts are people I don't or won't ever speak to. They're people I went to high school or elementary school with, and despite not having had a close relationship when we actually saw each other every day, many of these people have tracked me down on Facebook.
I don't know why I add people like this to my Friends List, because I couldn't care any less about what they're doing. If you're reading this right now and you are one of my Facebook Friends, know that I'm not talking about you. Or at least it's unlikely.
Anyhoodle. Out of morbid curiosity, I'll scroll through the Friends section of my Facebook Friends (and yes, I'm aware of how stupid that sentence sounds) to see who else they know, and who they married should they fail to provide the requisite Facebook wedding album. (Speaking of which, there really needs to be a moratorium placed on wedding photos featuring the couple in black and white and a single red rose in colour. Seriously.)
Don't think this means I actually do care about these people. I'm nosy, and it's a way to unfairly compare myself to others in areas that are irrelevant and self-defeating, so obviously I'm all over it.
What I've discovered is awe-inspiring, and not in a good way. Sunsets are awe-inspiring in a good way. Projectile vomiting is awe-inspiring in a bad way. This situation is the latter.
Just today I learned that a kid who used to beat the living daylights out of his girlfriend in the parking lot of my high school while his buddies egged him on has a baby girl. The girl who once suggested my best bet would be to date guys who are kind, because they'd date me out of pity is raising a little boy.
A girl who used to randomly punch other girls in the face has a baby who looks like Uncle Fester. A guy who one said gay people should be gassed is teaching his kids how to shoot.
An ex-boyfriend who was more gay than straight is now married with a son. Another ex who broke up with me because he "chose Jehovah over sin" is now raising two kids. Let's not get into what these guys say about my taste in men, alright? It was a difficult year.
These stories make me queasy enough, but I'm also left with a weird sense of panic. Where was I when all this was going on?
What was I busy doing when all of these people met somebody, married, and started dropping crotch-fruit?
Even though I have no desire to reproduce, and this is good because obviously alumni of my high school have got the repletion of the planet thing covered, I am reaching an age where I want to have a wedding. I'm not totally sold on the husband part, but a party in my honour with an open bar is long-overdue.
I've taken the path less taken, without having meant to. I've never been able to read a map, and I don't mind being different from a bunch of assholes I've always been different from.
More and more however, photo albums are popping up on my Facebook Newsfeed from Friends I really do consider friends, and their lives are taking the marriage and babies path too.
Not that I'm facing a choice, but I think I'll keep kicking it on the path I'm on. There's way less traffic over here, and my Facebook profile stays diaper-smell free.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Didn't like the Sound of Music neither.
So I'm in a staff meeting. I'm perpetually in some kind of meeting and it's all I can do just to remember why I'm there.
It's beyond me to actually change or set the course of the meetings I attend so I settle for staying awake, nodding and smiling in the appropriate places and trying to not piss anybody off. Too badly.
This staff meeting was for my department only, and I like these people. We usually have cake during the meeting so I can't really complain. Often the conversation veers into territory never before seen on an agenda such as side-effect warnings for pharmaceuticals.
As a result, we all agreed that seeking help for an erection lasting more than four hours is probably good advice. Kind of a waste, but good advice.
Next came a discussion to decide what to do for our Christmas Workshop Day. Our Christmas Workshop Day is a day we spend out of the office, with an activity geared towards convincing the senior executive that we're learning something valuable and the rest of the day likely spent drinking.
This discussion brought back memories of last year's Workshop for the team. Apparently, part of their activities were spent watching a DVD meant to be life-affirming, produced and hosted by a National Geographic photographer.
The film depicted meaningful images from around the globe, spectacular shots of nature and a narrative attempting to depict and explain the human experience.
My team is a cynical group, so their human experience wasn't exactly elevated by the screening. This happened before I joined the department, so I couldn't comment. However, it seems I didn't even have to be there.
My boss started laughing at the memory, and laughed harder when she looked over at me. She asked the group, "Can you imagine if Bambi had of been there?" Then the entire group started laughing.
"Oh Jesus. Oh my God. Bambi...watching that! Her personality! Can you imagine?"
Apparently, my tolerance for "life-affirming" is low. It seems I don't come across as somebody who would appreciate the sight of a National Geographic photographer canoeing across a pristine lake, in search of his life's purpose.
This is true.
I'm much more likely to appreciate the sight of a waiter bringing me my cheesecake, or the sight of a National Geographic photographer being forced to work in a cubicle, so far away from his life's purpose that he wakes up everyday wondering if he's fallen into a rip in the space-time continuum. But I really thought those feelings were private.
I had no idea my boss and colleagues would find the idea of me watching and enjoying some uplifting piece of self-help fluff to be so sublimely hilarious. How do they know I wouldn't enjoy that crap? Why wouldn't I enjoy utter bullshit just as much as the next person? Especially when it involves a canoe?
Am I that obvious?
It's beyond me to actually change or set the course of the meetings I attend so I settle for staying awake, nodding and smiling in the appropriate places and trying to not piss anybody off. Too badly.
This staff meeting was for my department only, and I like these people. We usually have cake during the meeting so I can't really complain. Often the conversation veers into territory never before seen on an agenda such as side-effect warnings for pharmaceuticals.
As a result, we all agreed that seeking help for an erection lasting more than four hours is probably good advice. Kind of a waste, but good advice.
Next came a discussion to decide what to do for our Christmas Workshop Day. Our Christmas Workshop Day is a day we spend out of the office, with an activity geared towards convincing the senior executive that we're learning something valuable and the rest of the day likely spent drinking.
This discussion brought back memories of last year's Workshop for the team. Apparently, part of their activities were spent watching a DVD meant to be life-affirming, produced and hosted by a National Geographic photographer.
The film depicted meaningful images from around the globe, spectacular shots of nature and a narrative attempting to depict and explain the human experience.
My team is a cynical group, so their human experience wasn't exactly elevated by the screening. This happened before I joined the department, so I couldn't comment. However, it seems I didn't even have to be there.
My boss started laughing at the memory, and laughed harder when she looked over at me. She asked the group, "Can you imagine if Bambi had of been there?" Then the entire group started laughing.
"Oh Jesus. Oh my God. Bambi...watching that! Her personality! Can you imagine?"
Apparently, my tolerance for "life-affirming" is low. It seems I don't come across as somebody who would appreciate the sight of a National Geographic photographer canoeing across a pristine lake, in search of his life's purpose.
This is true.
I'm much more likely to appreciate the sight of a waiter bringing me my cheesecake, or the sight of a National Geographic photographer being forced to work in a cubicle, so far away from his life's purpose that he wakes up everyday wondering if he's fallen into a rip in the space-time continuum. But I really thought those feelings were private.
I had no idea my boss and colleagues would find the idea of me watching and enjoying some uplifting piece of self-help fluff to be so sublimely hilarious. How do they know I wouldn't enjoy that crap? Why wouldn't I enjoy utter bullshit just as much as the next person? Especially when it involves a canoe?
Am I that obvious?
Thursday, September 20, 2007
The Body is Not a Wonderland
I'm a TV junkie, so September is a very big time for me. My favourite shows return to make sure I have something giving my life meaning, and new shows debut ensuring I experience diversity.
House is a favourite returning show, only now for different reasons. I used to enjoy House because I aspired to one day be so good at my job, I too could get away with actually saying whatever came to mind regardless of how socially unacceptable, much like the title character.
Now I look forward to House because of my own medical mystery to solve, and my desperate wish that there could actually be a doctor out there who can look at me and provide a diagnosis based on my left nostril and the way I carry my purse. If House can do it, why not a doctor on the island?
I'm experiencing what can best be described as Female Troubles, which translates into either symptoms experienced only in my head or a mystery so great it ranks somewhere between the true meaning of Stone Henge and crop circles - at least according to local doctors.
I won't horrify you with the details, but the problem doesn't seem to be life-threatening. Instead, it strives for and achieves disruptive, distracting, depressing and very unpleasant. It's making me very, very bitchy (read: bitchier). Compounding the problem is the nature of...well...the problem.
Having Female Troubles is not like having a sore elbow. You can complain in public about a sore elbow. You can demonstrate a sore elbow. Everybody can relate to a sore elbow. You can point to exactly where your elbow is, without ever having to don a paper dinner napkin optimistically referred to as "a blanket."
You have no idea how badly I wish the problem was with my elbow, because my doctor is baffled. He really doesn't know what is going on, and that terrifies me. When all of this started I fully expected to be told what the problem was within seconds, prescribed something to fix the problem and continue not thinking about the areas embroiled in the problem...ever.
Instead, the problem continues and I'm now worried my doctor thinks I'm crazy. I'm worried he's going to tell me to stop calling him, because there's nothing that can be done because he thinks that there isn't anything wrong. I can't prove there's anything wrong, because all he has to go on is what I'm telling him.
And I'm telling him there's something very wrong.
My last visit he seized on the last option available in modern diagnostic technology -- the urine test. My pee should reveal all. If held in a certain light, it can even reveal the name of the man I'm going to marry although if this continues that prospect is looking ever more bleak.
Testing my pee is a long-shot, and I could tell that by the way my doctor gave an exaggerated shrug while filling out the lab forms. I'm literally praying that one of the tests he ordered comes back positive, which to anybody else would be bad news but at this point I just want to know what's wrong so I can fix it.
I'm also praying something comes back positive, because providing a urine sample when you are as nervous a pee-er as I am is torture. I better not have gone through all of that effort for nothing, and believe me -- it was effort.
I'm the type of pee-er who can not pee when I know somebody is listening. I can't keep peeing through loud noises, or sub-prime conditions such as a broken door lock or time constraints.
My bladder chokes under pressure so completely, it will actually leave a note, pack its clothes, take the children and flee to its mother's house at the first sign of trouble.
Being compelled to pee into a cup is pressure so intense, I lose all feeling in my legs. I simply can not do it. Solid gold doubloons are so much more likely to fall from my body into the plastic cup than one single drop of pee.
I actually had to leave the lab with my plastic cups in a Ziploc baggie and return the samples the next day, so impossible was the task. I drank water all day and waited nine hours (!) before making another attempt in the comfort of my own bathroom. That went much better. It had to, because the only other option left was a catheter.
And now I'm waiting but I think it's useless. I don't have whatever the pee tests are supposed to reveal, and I know this. However, I don't know what IS wrong, and neither does anybody else so I used my last resort -- WebMD. Otherwise known as the place where hypochondriacs go to die...or at least confirm what they think they're dying from.
WebMD was not a good idea, because now I'm more afraid. Listed symptoms are so vague and so all-encompassing that I have officially diagnosed myself with so many rare illnesses the federal government has declared me an endangered species, which is kind of a relief because hunting season has never been good for Bambi.
And neither has visits to the doctor, which is why I need House. Only Hugh Laurie can save me now. Just please don't make me pee again.
House is a favourite returning show, only now for different reasons. I used to enjoy House because I aspired to one day be so good at my job, I too could get away with actually saying whatever came to mind regardless of how socially unacceptable, much like the title character.
Now I look forward to House because of my own medical mystery to solve, and my desperate wish that there could actually be a doctor out there who can look at me and provide a diagnosis based on my left nostril and the way I carry my purse. If House can do it, why not a doctor on the island?
I'm experiencing what can best be described as Female Troubles, which translates into either symptoms experienced only in my head or a mystery so great it ranks somewhere between the true meaning of Stone Henge and crop circles - at least according to local doctors.
I won't horrify you with the details, but the problem doesn't seem to be life-threatening. Instead, it strives for and achieves disruptive, distracting, depressing and very unpleasant. It's making me very, very bitchy (read: bitchier). Compounding the problem is the nature of...well...the problem.
Having Female Troubles is not like having a sore elbow. You can complain in public about a sore elbow. You can demonstrate a sore elbow. Everybody can relate to a sore elbow. You can point to exactly where your elbow is, without ever having to don a paper dinner napkin optimistically referred to as "a blanket."
You have no idea how badly I wish the problem was with my elbow, because my doctor is baffled. He really doesn't know what is going on, and that terrifies me. When all of this started I fully expected to be told what the problem was within seconds, prescribed something to fix the problem and continue not thinking about the areas embroiled in the problem...ever.
Instead, the problem continues and I'm now worried my doctor thinks I'm crazy. I'm worried he's going to tell me to stop calling him, because there's nothing that can be done because he thinks that there isn't anything wrong. I can't prove there's anything wrong, because all he has to go on is what I'm telling him.
And I'm telling him there's something very wrong.
My last visit he seized on the last option available in modern diagnostic technology -- the urine test. My pee should reveal all. If held in a certain light, it can even reveal the name of the man I'm going to marry although if this continues that prospect is looking ever more bleak.
Testing my pee is a long-shot, and I could tell that by the way my doctor gave an exaggerated shrug while filling out the lab forms. I'm literally praying that one of the tests he ordered comes back positive, which to anybody else would be bad news but at this point I just want to know what's wrong so I can fix it.
I'm also praying something comes back positive, because providing a urine sample when you are as nervous a pee-er as I am is torture. I better not have gone through all of that effort for nothing, and believe me -- it was effort.
I'm the type of pee-er who can not pee when I know somebody is listening. I can't keep peeing through loud noises, or sub-prime conditions such as a broken door lock or time constraints.
My bladder chokes under pressure so completely, it will actually leave a note, pack its clothes, take the children and flee to its mother's house at the first sign of trouble.
Being compelled to pee into a cup is pressure so intense, I lose all feeling in my legs. I simply can not do it. Solid gold doubloons are so much more likely to fall from my body into the plastic cup than one single drop of pee.
I actually had to leave the lab with my plastic cups in a Ziploc baggie and return the samples the next day, so impossible was the task. I drank water all day and waited nine hours (!) before making another attempt in the comfort of my own bathroom. That went much better. It had to, because the only other option left was a catheter.
And now I'm waiting but I think it's useless. I don't have whatever the pee tests are supposed to reveal, and I know this. However, I don't know what IS wrong, and neither does anybody else so I used my last resort -- WebMD. Otherwise known as the place where hypochondriacs go to die...or at least confirm what they think they're dying from.
WebMD was not a good idea, because now I'm more afraid. Listed symptoms are so vague and so all-encompassing that I have officially diagnosed myself with so many rare illnesses the federal government has declared me an endangered species, which is kind of a relief because hunting season has never been good for Bambi.
And neither has visits to the doctor, which is why I need House. Only Hugh Laurie can save me now. Just please don't make me pee again.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Oil and Water
My sister accused me of only liking men who don't like me, and disliking men who like me as if this were some kind of choice I wake up in the morning and make. It's pretty much as useful as getting all up in the ocean's face just for being wet. Some things just ARE.
I offered a reasonable defense by telling her the story of my last date, and by last I don't mean recent - I mean it's the last date I'm going on because I'm pretty much done. He did seem to like me quite a bit though, and naturally I was repelled by his presence and we did save an animal from a horrible fate but that's later in the story.
You see, he wore bells.
That sentence alone should be enough of an explanation as to why I won't be seeing him again. The man wore bells tied into his shoelaces. When he walked it sounded like Santa's elves had escaped the frigging workshop and were making a decent run for it, somewhere off in the distance. It was bizarre.
I asked him as politely as I could what was up with the bells, and the only explanation he offered was that he liked them. I like the sound of rain at night but you don't see me walking around with a showercap and a watering can strapped to my head. Most days.
The plan was to stop for a coffee and go for a walk along the breakwater. In case I needed any further signs that the man with the bells and I would not be jingling together, he managed to irritate the shit out of me just by ordering cornbread.
I like cornbread as much of the next person. That's not entirely true...the truth is I don't give a rat's ass about cornbread. Order it and eat it and let's get on with it. The line-up was out the door but this guy ordered his cornbread and called the server back to the counter THREE times to make inquiries.
Was the cornbread chewy or crumbly? Did the server know?
Was the cornbread sweet, or more savoury? Was it more of a dessert style cornbread?
Was the cornbread being warmed, or heated? Because he would prefer the cornbread to be warm, but not hot...
I have never wanted to punch another living being wearing bells as much as I did in those moments. Every time he called after the server, the poor guy would have to make his way through the crowded and busy area behind the cashier, the coffee and steamer machines and some dude who was mopping.
Finally, cornbread and coffees ordered, paid for and properly warmed we were on our walk. My companion fancied himself to be quite the outdoorsman, and was pointing out the proper scientific names of seaweed, and laughing at those idiots who didn't know the difference between species of seal. Idiots like me.
Our walk is nearing an end when I spot an elderly woman near the end of the breakwater, peering down at a strange looking bird on the beach. The bird was solid black. I don't mean it's feathers were black, but everything on the bird was black. It's looked like a bird-shaped cut-out in the scenery, that's how black it was.
The old woman turned to us and asked if we knew what kind of bird that could be. My jingle-belled companion began his eighth nature lecture in as many minutes. "Why that's a cormorant, indigenous to the northern area of blah to the blah..."
Meanwhile, I kept staring at the bird-shaped hole in the universe and it dawned on me what I was seeing. The bird was covered in oil. From head to talon, dripping with oil. And then I couldn't help myself anymore so I said this:
"That's an oil-covered bird. Indigenous to oil-spills everywhere."
That actually shut up my jingle-belled friend quite nicely, so I was able to set about making some phone calls. For your reference, should you ever come across an oil-covered bird on a weekend the only thing the authorities will tell you to do is to bring the bird to them.
This posed a dilemma. What in the hell to do with an oil-covered bird? We went back to the coffee shop and I swear the server was just so thrilled we weren't back with more cornbread questions so he gave us a box and a roll of paper towels.
There was never any question of not trying to save this bird. It was so sad, and so pathetic I would not have been able to leave it there and sleep ever again. It couldn't walk properly, let alone fly. It would hold it's wings out as far as the weight of the oil would allow, take a few steps and give up. It would try to clean itself, making me think it would keel over from poisoning before we even got down to the beach.
Then came another dilemma. The paper towels were useless and we needed something to wrap the bird in to keep it quiet and calm in the box. My companion declared there was no way he was taking off his shirt, which left me, the less obvious choice to go topless.
I was wearing a new sweater with a camisole underneath. Do I strip to my camisole in public? Do I ruin my new sweater? Getting sexy in public was less of a concern than my new sweater, even though I only paid $8 for it at Ricki's but still...it was a good sweater on me goddammit. But off it came.
The guy snuck up on the bird, which was a good indication of how sick the bird had to have been if a guy wearing bells on his shoes can walk up behind it and grab a hold. The bird went into my sweater, the sweater and bird combo went into the box and we were off to the emergency animal shelter.
I held the box on my lap and the bird in my hands the entire way, stupidly thinking I could comfort the bird. Maybe it worked, because when it started thrashing I'd squeeze a little bit and it would stop.
It squeaked the entire way, as if it were pleading for a second chance. If we would just let it go, it wouldn't tell anybody and it hadn't seen our faces so there's no way it could identify us so please can't we just let it go?
We rush the bird inside the animal hospital, where some very nice ladies in scrubs took the box and bird away and promised to return with my sweater. While we waited I was asked to fill out a form, giving the particulars of who I was and where I had found the critter in distress.
I began filling it out, which pissed off my date. He felt he should be the one who got to fill out the form stating he had rescued it, because he caught it and drove the car. Seriously. So I gave him the best argument I could. My sweater, my form. He did get to sign his name on the bottom so I'm not sure why the panties in a twist.
I even listed the scientific term for the bird. Under Type of Animal: Angry Cormorant.
I never got a chance to call the clinic back to inquire after the bird, but I'm confident he's doing much better. He was thrashing pretty hard in my sweater, and any critter who is that angry will pull through out of sheer spite.
Unless of course the anger involves dating. In which case it's probably best to just give up.
I offered a reasonable defense by telling her the story of my last date, and by last I don't mean recent - I mean it's the last date I'm going on because I'm pretty much done. He did seem to like me quite a bit though, and naturally I was repelled by his presence and we did save an animal from a horrible fate but that's later in the story.
You see, he wore bells.
That sentence alone should be enough of an explanation as to why I won't be seeing him again. The man wore bells tied into his shoelaces. When he walked it sounded like Santa's elves had escaped the frigging workshop and were making a decent run for it, somewhere off in the distance. It was bizarre.
I asked him as politely as I could what was up with the bells, and the only explanation he offered was that he liked them. I like the sound of rain at night but you don't see me walking around with a showercap and a watering can strapped to my head. Most days.
The plan was to stop for a coffee and go for a walk along the breakwater. In case I needed any further signs that the man with the bells and I would not be jingling together, he managed to irritate the shit out of me just by ordering cornbread.
I like cornbread as much of the next person. That's not entirely true...the truth is I don't give a rat's ass about cornbread. Order it and eat it and let's get on with it. The line-up was out the door but this guy ordered his cornbread and called the server back to the counter THREE times to make inquiries.
Was the cornbread chewy or crumbly? Did the server know?
Was the cornbread sweet, or more savoury? Was it more of a dessert style cornbread?
Was the cornbread being warmed, or heated? Because he would prefer the cornbread to be warm, but not hot...
I have never wanted to punch another living being wearing bells as much as I did in those moments. Every time he called after the server, the poor guy would have to make his way through the crowded and busy area behind the cashier, the coffee and steamer machines and some dude who was mopping.
Finally, cornbread and coffees ordered, paid for and properly warmed we were on our walk. My companion fancied himself to be quite the outdoorsman, and was pointing out the proper scientific names of seaweed, and laughing at those idiots who didn't know the difference between species of seal. Idiots like me.
Our walk is nearing an end when I spot an elderly woman near the end of the breakwater, peering down at a strange looking bird on the beach. The bird was solid black. I don't mean it's feathers were black, but everything on the bird was black. It's looked like a bird-shaped cut-out in the scenery, that's how black it was.
The old woman turned to us and asked if we knew what kind of bird that could be. My jingle-belled companion began his eighth nature lecture in as many minutes. "Why that's a cormorant, indigenous to the northern area of blah to the blah..."
Meanwhile, I kept staring at the bird-shaped hole in the universe and it dawned on me what I was seeing. The bird was covered in oil. From head to talon, dripping with oil. And then I couldn't help myself anymore so I said this:
"That's an oil-covered bird. Indigenous to oil-spills everywhere."
That actually shut up my jingle-belled friend quite nicely, so I was able to set about making some phone calls. For your reference, should you ever come across an oil-covered bird on a weekend the only thing the authorities will tell you to do is to bring the bird to them.
This posed a dilemma. What in the hell to do with an oil-covered bird? We went back to the coffee shop and I swear the server was just so thrilled we weren't back with more cornbread questions so he gave us a box and a roll of paper towels.
There was never any question of not trying to save this bird. It was so sad, and so pathetic I would not have been able to leave it there and sleep ever again. It couldn't walk properly, let alone fly. It would hold it's wings out as far as the weight of the oil would allow, take a few steps and give up. It would try to clean itself, making me think it would keel over from poisoning before we even got down to the beach.
Then came another dilemma. The paper towels were useless and we needed something to wrap the bird in to keep it quiet and calm in the box. My companion declared there was no way he was taking off his shirt, which left me, the less obvious choice to go topless.
I was wearing a new sweater with a camisole underneath. Do I strip to my camisole in public? Do I ruin my new sweater? Getting sexy in public was less of a concern than my new sweater, even though I only paid $8 for it at Ricki's but still...it was a good sweater on me goddammit. But off it came.
The guy snuck up on the bird, which was a good indication of how sick the bird had to have been if a guy wearing bells on his shoes can walk up behind it and grab a hold. The bird went into my sweater, the sweater and bird combo went into the box and we were off to the emergency animal shelter.
I held the box on my lap and the bird in my hands the entire way, stupidly thinking I could comfort the bird. Maybe it worked, because when it started thrashing I'd squeeze a little bit and it would stop.
It squeaked the entire way, as if it were pleading for a second chance. If we would just let it go, it wouldn't tell anybody and it hadn't seen our faces so there's no way it could identify us so please can't we just let it go?
We rush the bird inside the animal hospital, where some very nice ladies in scrubs took the box and bird away and promised to return with my sweater. While we waited I was asked to fill out a form, giving the particulars of who I was and where I had found the critter in distress.
I began filling it out, which pissed off my date. He felt he should be the one who got to fill out the form stating he had rescued it, because he caught it and drove the car. Seriously. So I gave him the best argument I could. My sweater, my form. He did get to sign his name on the bottom so I'm not sure why the panties in a twist.
I even listed the scientific term for the bird. Under Type of Animal: Angry Cormorant.
I never got a chance to call the clinic back to inquire after the bird, but I'm confident he's doing much better. He was thrashing pretty hard in my sweater, and any critter who is that angry will pull through out of sheer spite.
Unless of course the anger involves dating. In which case it's probably best to just give up.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
The Hot Shirtless Cowboy...
This is what everybody wants to know - what happened with the Hot Shirtless Cowboy? Did we meet? Was he hot? Was he as good-looking in person? Was he shirtless? The answer to the last question is a sad no. Sad because it would have been the only time to get to see him shirtless in person, but I'm getting to that.
We met at an eating and beer-swilling establishment that would likely have allowed patrons to eat while shirtless, given how lax the place seemed to be regarding many other rules of civilized society, including the guidelines surrounding mullets, fem-mullets, mullets on infants and inbreeding.
I arrived before he did, and when I walked in the entire place went silent. It was the weirdest damn thing. If there had been a pub-style restaurant featured in the movie Deliverance, this would be that restaurant. I was afraid.
The Hot Shirtless Cowboy chose the venue, because he could walk there. Despite owning a car, motorcycle, dirtbike and horse in Ontario he was banned from driving for a little while due to some sort of multiple incidents involving speeding, dangerous driving, blah blah. I wasn't really paying attention as I was staring too hard at his pectoral muscles trying to determine whether one or both nipples were pierced. I have no idea if the horse was even part of the story or if I just made that up.
The first few moments were awkward. He was even better looking in person than his picture, and I felt...a little inadequate. A TV commercial for him would read like an ad for a sports car; sleek, manly, hard-bodied and slightly dangerous. My TV commercial would sound more like an ad for toilet paper. Pillowy soft. More to the roll. Quilted.
We loosened up though, and laughed a lot. It was going so much better than I had expected, especially given he let slip that he was getting an average of 12 messages a day from random women on the dating site where we had met. In total, and to this day I have not yet received a total of 12 messages from eligible men. I'm just sayin'. That story really had no purpose, but I really had to say it. A dozen a day. Jesus.
Anyhoo. It's going really well. He's funny, I'm funny and we're joking like we go way back. We slowly start going through the motions of leaving. From the table, to the door, to walking me to my car he mentions how we should see each other again a total of eight times. Eight.
He wants to know my schedule for the week, what are my plans for the weekend and he gives me his whole schedule for the weekend and we should totally hang out this weekend and the only time I'm busy is this time so call me any time before or after that and we should totally see each other again. Only eight times over. Eight.
I was in a very good mood. I didn't get the kind of let's do this again that means nothing -- he actually wanted to see me again. The Hot Shirtless Cowboy and the Pillowy Soft Bambi. I was in there.
It turned out I had plans that weekend, and I was very busy and then I was very busy being hungover from being so busy and didn't call the Cowboy. I didn't feel any shame in this, because he had my number too. I did try to reach him over MSN and didn't get a response back which wasn't terribly odd so I didn't think much about it.
Almost a week to the day we met I do get in touch with him. It's over MSN, because I'm lousy on the phone and I was suddenly nervous. As casually as one can while typing, I suggest we see a movie that Thursday.
Well.
I can't repeat the entire "conversation," because I'm trying to block it from memory but he was rude. Movie on Thursday? Nope. Just nope. No explanation, so I feel like an ass. I take it you're busy? Yep. Busy every day. I'm guessing he felt a momentary surge of guilt because he said he was planning on being out of town on Thursday. At a lake. With no phone or computer.
He shouldn't have bothered with an explanation because I forgot to delete him as a contact before logging off and noticed that he was actively online all day and all night Thursday - definitely in town. Then I deleted him.
This one really puzzled me. We had a good time, and it was better than I had hoped and that was my only expectation. Why go through the effort of convincing me he really wanted to see me again? Was it just practice for when he has to convince some bureaucrat to give him his license back? He really doesn't have to bother. He just has to lift his shirt to his chin and most women will lose all reason -- why the theatrics?
I felt like an idiot, but at least I could still look at him if I wanted to. Before we actually met he had added me on Facebook. I had felt at the time that he was moving a little fast, but now at least it appeared to the outside world that I had at least one hot male 'friend'. Who wasn't gay. But that wouldn't last either.
At some point, I'm not sure when, the Cowboy revoked his Facebook friendship. He was gone from my list of Facebook Friends, and just like that I had achieved yet another unprecedented low in both online dating AND social networking. There were to be new lows to come, but this ended the saga of the Hot Shirtless Cowboy, who I have no doubt is still hot and shirtless at least part of the day.
And I'm still pillowy soft with more to the roll. And I'm glad.
We met at an eating and beer-swilling establishment that would likely have allowed patrons to eat while shirtless, given how lax the place seemed to be regarding many other rules of civilized society, including the guidelines surrounding mullets, fem-mullets, mullets on infants and inbreeding.
I arrived before he did, and when I walked in the entire place went silent. It was the weirdest damn thing. If there had been a pub-style restaurant featured in the movie Deliverance, this would be that restaurant. I was afraid.
The Hot Shirtless Cowboy chose the venue, because he could walk there. Despite owning a car, motorcycle, dirtbike and horse in Ontario he was banned from driving for a little while due to some sort of multiple incidents involving speeding, dangerous driving, blah blah. I wasn't really paying attention as I was staring too hard at his pectoral muscles trying to determine whether one or both nipples were pierced. I have no idea if the horse was even part of the story or if I just made that up.
The first few moments were awkward. He was even better looking in person than his picture, and I felt...a little inadequate. A TV commercial for him would read like an ad for a sports car; sleek, manly, hard-bodied and slightly dangerous. My TV commercial would sound more like an ad for toilet paper. Pillowy soft. More to the roll. Quilted.
We loosened up though, and laughed a lot. It was going so much better than I had expected, especially given he let slip that he was getting an average of 12 messages a day from random women on the dating site where we had met. In total, and to this day I have not yet received a total of 12 messages from eligible men. I'm just sayin'. That story really had no purpose, but I really had to say it. A dozen a day. Jesus.
Anyhoo. It's going really well. He's funny, I'm funny and we're joking like we go way back. We slowly start going through the motions of leaving. From the table, to the door, to walking me to my car he mentions how we should see each other again a total of eight times. Eight.
He wants to know my schedule for the week, what are my plans for the weekend and he gives me his whole schedule for the weekend and we should totally hang out this weekend and the only time I'm busy is this time so call me any time before or after that and we should totally see each other again. Only eight times over. Eight.
I was in a very good mood. I didn't get the kind of let's do this again that means nothing -- he actually wanted to see me again. The Hot Shirtless Cowboy and the Pillowy Soft Bambi. I was in there.
It turned out I had plans that weekend, and I was very busy and then I was very busy being hungover from being so busy and didn't call the Cowboy. I didn't feel any shame in this, because he had my number too. I did try to reach him over MSN and didn't get a response back which wasn't terribly odd so I didn't think much about it.
Almost a week to the day we met I do get in touch with him. It's over MSN, because I'm lousy on the phone and I was suddenly nervous. As casually as one can while typing, I suggest we see a movie that Thursday.
Well.
I can't repeat the entire "conversation," because I'm trying to block it from memory but he was rude. Movie on Thursday? Nope. Just nope. No explanation, so I feel like an ass. I take it you're busy? Yep. Busy every day. I'm guessing he felt a momentary surge of guilt because he said he was planning on being out of town on Thursday. At a lake. With no phone or computer.
He shouldn't have bothered with an explanation because I forgot to delete him as a contact before logging off and noticed that he was actively online all day and all night Thursday - definitely in town. Then I deleted him.
This one really puzzled me. We had a good time, and it was better than I had hoped and that was my only expectation. Why go through the effort of convincing me he really wanted to see me again? Was it just practice for when he has to convince some bureaucrat to give him his license back? He really doesn't have to bother. He just has to lift his shirt to his chin and most women will lose all reason -- why the theatrics?
I felt like an idiot, but at least I could still look at him if I wanted to. Before we actually met he had added me on Facebook. I had felt at the time that he was moving a little fast, but now at least it appeared to the outside world that I had at least one hot male 'friend'. Who wasn't gay. But that wouldn't last either.
At some point, I'm not sure when, the Cowboy revoked his Facebook friendship. He was gone from my list of Facebook Friends, and just like that I had achieved yet another unprecedented low in both online dating AND social networking. There were to be new lows to come, but this ended the saga of the Hot Shirtless Cowboy, who I have no doubt is still hot and shirtless at least part of the day.
And I'm still pillowy soft with more to the roll. And I'm glad.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Keep away from open flame...
The amount of suffering you undergo in a job relates directly to the amount of polyester in the uniform. I learned this the hard way.
At 14 years old, I worked the counter at McDonald's and my uniform rendered me flammable. The only natural fibers permitted to touch my body were contained in my underpants - the rest of my required uniform was durable enough to act as insulation for condominiums and or space shuttles.
I wore a green visor on my head, resplendent with the yellow golden arches. My shirt was short-sleeved (polyester of course) with green stripes and the letter 'M' for buttons. I fastened a polyester tie around my neck, which hung in the shape of the arches and required me to button my polyester shirt to the very top. The tie was green.
Dedicated McDonald's employees were permitted to demonstrate their personalities through the wearing of McDonald's issued pins on their ties, awarded for good service. Largely the pins were awarded to employees who managed to go at least three weeks without burning themselves on the fry grease and needing to take time off.
My McDonald's issue pants were black, and could double as a bra in case of some sudden boob emergency - which is to say they were high-waisted. The extra real-estate the pants provided by coming up right under my plastic name badge was made up for by the lack of pants around my ankles - which is to say they were short.
The McDonald's pants were also polyester, and I was fascinated by the fact that any liquid sloshed on my pants during the course of my shift would actually bead. I've spent a ridiculous amount of money on rain jackets that could not repel water in the same way as those pants.
In case my pants ever slipped, I had a canvas snap-on belt with a golden 'M' on the buckle. I'm still not sure on the rationale for the belt, because my pants weren't going anywhere. They were just too high. After sitting for my breaks, the buckle left a red mark in my skin, halfway between my belly button and my flat chest...which coincidentally is just as flat now. Thanks puberty, thanks for nothing.
Taking breaks were a tricky business. If the managers caught you punching your time card after using the washroom or purchasing your 50% discounted meal, there would be hell to pay. You definitely weren't earning any pins for your tie, and would have to give up most of your break for a lecture on loyalty and ethics. If you got away with it, you bought three minutes of your break back - which was well worth it.
Every manager had a reputation that precluded any gray areas to his personality. He was either good or evil, or in one case was either stoned or knocking up your 15 year-old classmate in the laundry room. To this day I have no idea how he got her pants off in the short time our breaks allowed.
I wore the visor for a year, and I vowed I would never work in food-services again. I've kept that vow. Even when all of my friends were making fabulous tips waitressing, I refused because it would have meant working in the restaurant industry and I couldn't bring myself to do it.
While wearing my polyester I was severely scalded, yelled at by drunken customers, forced to clean up puke in the parking lot and locked in the meat freezer by accident. Strangely, my despite keeping me roasting the rest of the time my polyester uniform did not retain heat as I waited for rescue.
I suffered in that job, but I took one thing away from it. I am always, always without fail, kind to the kids across the counter. I don't care how badly they screw up my order - I understand where they're coming from.
At 14 years old, I worked the counter at McDonald's and my uniform rendered me flammable. The only natural fibers permitted to touch my body were contained in my underpants - the rest of my required uniform was durable enough to act as insulation for condominiums and or space shuttles.
I wore a green visor on my head, resplendent with the yellow golden arches. My shirt was short-sleeved (polyester of course) with green stripes and the letter 'M' for buttons. I fastened a polyester tie around my neck, which hung in the shape of the arches and required me to button my polyester shirt to the very top. The tie was green.
Dedicated McDonald's employees were permitted to demonstrate their personalities through the wearing of McDonald's issued pins on their ties, awarded for good service. Largely the pins were awarded to employees who managed to go at least three weeks without burning themselves on the fry grease and needing to take time off.
My McDonald's issue pants were black, and could double as a bra in case of some sudden boob emergency - which is to say they were high-waisted. The extra real-estate the pants provided by coming up right under my plastic name badge was made up for by the lack of pants around my ankles - which is to say they were short.
The McDonald's pants were also polyester, and I was fascinated by the fact that any liquid sloshed on my pants during the course of my shift would actually bead. I've spent a ridiculous amount of money on rain jackets that could not repel water in the same way as those pants.
In case my pants ever slipped, I had a canvas snap-on belt with a golden 'M' on the buckle. I'm still not sure on the rationale for the belt, because my pants weren't going anywhere. They were just too high. After sitting for my breaks, the buckle left a red mark in my skin, halfway between my belly button and my flat chest...which coincidentally is just as flat now. Thanks puberty, thanks for nothing.
Taking breaks were a tricky business. If the managers caught you punching your time card after using the washroom or purchasing your 50% discounted meal, there would be hell to pay. You definitely weren't earning any pins for your tie, and would have to give up most of your break for a lecture on loyalty and ethics. If you got away with it, you bought three minutes of your break back - which was well worth it.
Every manager had a reputation that precluded any gray areas to his personality. He was either good or evil, or in one case was either stoned or knocking up your 15 year-old classmate in the laundry room. To this day I have no idea how he got her pants off in the short time our breaks allowed.
I wore the visor for a year, and I vowed I would never work in food-services again. I've kept that vow. Even when all of my friends were making fabulous tips waitressing, I refused because it would have meant working in the restaurant industry and I couldn't bring myself to do it.
While wearing my polyester I was severely scalded, yelled at by drunken customers, forced to clean up puke in the parking lot and locked in the meat freezer by accident. Strangely, my despite keeping me roasting the rest of the time my polyester uniform did not retain heat as I waited for rescue.
I suffered in that job, but I took one thing away from it. I am always, always without fail, kind to the kids across the counter. I don't care how badly they screw up my order - I understand where they're coming from.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Constipation
It's been strange days. It started when I landed a new job and began my elaborate post-it note and scrap paper filing system in a completely new office. I may be the only woman whose professional success depends largely on my ability to remember what small piles not to use as a coaster for my morning tea.
My boss is fantastic. My co-workers are nice. My keyboard doesn't stick -- and this was just the beginning of the weirdness. Driving away from work today I felt...content.
Holy shit. Now I knew what the problem was. For days and days now, I couldn't think of a single thing to write about. Normally the urge to sit down and start writing is so strong that if it cost money I'd be out knocking off convenience stores just to stay on top of it. And then...nothing
It's not as if all of my urges went away. Strawberry-rhubarb crumble? Eaten. New orange purse? Purchased. Posting to blog? Do I have any of that crumble left...?
It's also not as if there is absolutely nothing wrong in my life. In fact, work may be the only thing that is going really well if I had to think about it. In no particular order...
My boss is fantastic. My co-workers are nice. My keyboard doesn't stick -- and this was just the beginning of the weirdness. Driving away from work today I felt...content.
Holy shit. Now I knew what the problem was. For days and days now, I couldn't think of a single thing to write about. Normally the urge to sit down and start writing is so strong that if it cost money I'd be out knocking off convenience stores just to stay on top of it. And then...nothing
It's not as if all of my urges went away. Strawberry-rhubarb crumble? Eaten. New orange purse? Purchased. Posting to blog? Do I have any of that crumble left...?
It's also not as if there is absolutely nothing wrong in my life. In fact, work may be the only thing that is going really well if I had to think about it. In no particular order...
- I discovered my former boyfriend's cat managed to piss on my favourite pair of sandals at some point before I left (read: fled). They stink, and I can't for the life of me get the smell out. I will not throw out these shoes, because I love them and I hate that cat. The cat must not win.
- I've fallen off the WeightWatchers wagon so hard, I have road rash where others have smooth thighs.
- My Mom keeps phoning me to update me on anybody and everybody she knows or has vaguely heard of who is planning a wedding and finally...
- I may have fallen very hard for a guy who is so religious he's vowed to be celibate until marriage, and we're not engaged. Frustrating. We had time to make that commitment, and I was willing. Our first date lasted eight hours, but I'm losing hope for a second. It's significantly disrupting my plans for our honeymoon.
You would think this list would be enough to inspire me to write something. Anything. Instead, I've been walking to my car every afternoon, slipping my shades on, driving home to the radio and thinking about how damned lucky I am.
Don't worry about me -- it can't possibly last. Something is going to break through my happy glaze and I'll fall atop my keyboard. It's probably going to be the cat piss that does it -- those are some powerfully toxic strappy wedges.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Cape Not Included.
I've been scarce lately, and that's because I have a new superhero identity. I am Coffee Date Girl. Unlike most superheroes however, my uniform is not spandex. It's just not flattering, and nobody wants to be Jiggly Coffee Date Girl.
Ever since switching online dating sites, I've been a dating fool. Not every guy I want to meet wants to meet with me, but I now have enough prospects I need to to double check who in the hell it is I'm running out to see before I leave the house.
Despite this sudden surge in my popularity, my superpower remains the ability to stress out about things nobody else in their right minds would consider a problem. Like this evening, and my date with the hot, shirtless cowboy.
Allow me to attempt to explain how hot the guy I'm meeting with this evening is. He is porn for gay men and straight women. His profile pictures are so...universally appealing that other men I have met who have dared to check out their competition under the Men Seeking Women section have mentioned his profile as a particular sore spot and cause for grief, not knowing that I knew perfectly well who they were talking about and in fact, had been chatting with that guy just before running out to meet them.
I'm not sure why I sent the Hot Shirtless Cowboy a message in the first place, separate from the fact I think of him in my head as the Hot Shirtless Cowboy. His profile wasn't particularly clever, and he only wrote a line or two describing himself.
His series of pictures depict him lounging against a rustic fence in half shadow, his black cowboy hat pulled low over his eyes, his 8000 abdominal muscles highly visible above his low-slung jeans. Think a young Brad Pitt in Thelma and Louise. With pieced nipples.
There he is straddling a motorcycle, smiling and looking away from the camera. There he is again, this time fully clothed in business attire and filling out his button-down shirt. Now he's half-naked again, soaking wet emerging from a pool. You know, as you do.
He doesn't look like a guy you'd marry. He looks like the guy you would cheat on your husband with. His pictures don't look calendar-boy fake - he just looks like that and can't help it. Poor bastard.
So no, I can't think of what possessed me to send him a message, but more importantly, I can't think of a single reason he wrote back, and this is why I'm concerned.
We are not on the same scale of hotness. This is an extremely scientific scale, and to upset the balance of this scale means upsetting the natural laws of the universe. Should we actually start to date I foresee terrible changes to the climate and earth. I mean, more so than usual.
Ever since initially exchanging email addresses he consistently messages me. I don't know why. At first I was thrilled, but soon my excitement was replaced with unease. It's been like being a religious person and having God suddenly show up in your living room to shoot the shit.
At first it's exciting, but at some point the religious person has to wonder why God is talking to her. What does God want? Has God made some sort of horrible mistake and confused her with somebody more worthy? Is God aware she listed her body type as Average for a very good reason? It's unsettling.
I suggested we meet because I had to put a stop to it. I have no sense of his personality, despite chatting with him for two weeks. He gives me one word answers and asks me very little. If it wasn't for his pictures, he would be boring me so I had to move things along. That's how hot this guy is. I don't even care if he's dumb, but it will help if he's blind.
(Confidence was never my superpower, but tonight I'll be faking it for whatever it's worth).
Ever since switching online dating sites, I've been a dating fool. Not every guy I want to meet wants to meet with me, but I now have enough prospects I need to to double check who in the hell it is I'm running out to see before I leave the house.
Despite this sudden surge in my popularity, my superpower remains the ability to stress out about things nobody else in their right minds would consider a problem. Like this evening, and my date with the hot, shirtless cowboy.
Allow me to attempt to explain how hot the guy I'm meeting with this evening is. He is porn for gay men and straight women. His profile pictures are so...universally appealing that other men I have met who have dared to check out their competition under the Men Seeking Women section have mentioned his profile as a particular sore spot and cause for grief, not knowing that I knew perfectly well who they were talking about and in fact, had been chatting with that guy just before running out to meet them.
I'm not sure why I sent the Hot Shirtless Cowboy a message in the first place, separate from the fact I think of him in my head as the Hot Shirtless Cowboy. His profile wasn't particularly clever, and he only wrote a line or two describing himself.
His series of pictures depict him lounging against a rustic fence in half shadow, his black cowboy hat pulled low over his eyes, his 8000 abdominal muscles highly visible above his low-slung jeans. Think a young Brad Pitt in Thelma and Louise. With pieced nipples.
There he is straddling a motorcycle, smiling and looking away from the camera. There he is again, this time fully clothed in business attire and filling out his button-down shirt. Now he's half-naked again, soaking wet emerging from a pool. You know, as you do.
He doesn't look like a guy you'd marry. He looks like the guy you would cheat on your husband with. His pictures don't look calendar-boy fake - he just looks like that and can't help it. Poor bastard.
So no, I can't think of what possessed me to send him a message, but more importantly, I can't think of a single reason he wrote back, and this is why I'm concerned.
We are not on the same scale of hotness. This is an extremely scientific scale, and to upset the balance of this scale means upsetting the natural laws of the universe. Should we actually start to date I foresee terrible changes to the climate and earth. I mean, more so than usual.
Ever since initially exchanging email addresses he consistently messages me. I don't know why. At first I was thrilled, but soon my excitement was replaced with unease. It's been like being a religious person and having God suddenly show up in your living room to shoot the shit.
At first it's exciting, but at some point the religious person has to wonder why God is talking to her. What does God want? Has God made some sort of horrible mistake and confused her with somebody more worthy? Is God aware she listed her body type as Average for a very good reason? It's unsettling.
I suggested we meet because I had to put a stop to it. I have no sense of his personality, despite chatting with him for two weeks. He gives me one word answers and asks me very little. If it wasn't for his pictures, he would be boring me so I had to move things along. That's how hot this guy is. I don't even care if he's dumb, but it will help if he's blind.
(Confidence was never my superpower, but tonight I'll be faking it for whatever it's worth).
Friday, August 3, 2007
Eavesdropping on Americans - Part Two
"I just want some seafood - why is it so hard to find here?"
"What do they have?"
"Prawns and oysters and shit. I want seafood!"
"Well..."
"You know - fish and chips! Seafood!"
- overheard by Fisherman's Wharf
"I love Canadians. You bump into them and they apologize."
- overheard on a crowded sidewalk
"Are we still even in Canada?"
- overheard by...not even sure
"What do they have?"
"Prawns and oysters and shit. I want seafood!"
"Well..."
"You know - fish and chips! Seafood!"
- overheard by Fisherman's Wharf
"I love Canadians. You bump into them and they apologize."
- overheard on a crowded sidewalk
"Are we still even in Canada?"
- overheard by...not even sure
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Everybody's Got One.
You know who I'm talking about. The person in the office who will stab you in the back. Keep quiet track of when you arrive, how long you take for lunch and how early you leave. Agree with you over issues in private and leave you flapping in the wind during meetings. She demonstrates her softer side by noticing, every day, how tired you look. And telling you.
She's the Office Bitch.
She's subtle, so if you try to call her out on anything you end up sounding crazy.
"I was just concerned you weren't getting enough sleep..."
"I know we had talked about Option B, but I didn't think we had agreed on it..."
"I just think it helps to know where everybody is..."
She's the first one to lavish welcome and attention to anybody new to the office. She stops by to see how the newbie is doing, suggests they go for coffee or lunch together and always offers her help any time. She's available for anything. Anything at all.
Everybody else avoids her like Ebola, but nobody admits it. There's no obvious reason she's not included in the office jokes, and nobody seeks her out to chat about the weekend. The newbie will avoid her too, following about the time it takes to order in new desk supplies from Grand and Toy and figure out what the code for the printer/fax is.
Unless the newbie is really young. Or lonely. Or kind. Sometimes he doesn't know any better and goes for lunch, paraded around by the Bitch like a prize. Sometimes he seems relieved he's found a friend and sometimes he seems terrified because he's not sure how he ended up being very best friends with somebody before he even knows where the bathrooms are.
Luckily the Office Bitch gets tired of the game quickly, and always tosses the newbie. The novelty wears off, and it's time to start tracking the extra moments taken on breaks or accidentally not reading critical action-item emails. Th newbie is always either relieved, or sadly baffled at the sudden loss of his new buddy.
Often, the Office Bitch has a holiday sweater for every occasion, but not always. Sometimes the mature woman dressed in a sweater with a satin applique Santa Claus is just a Grandmother/Pollyanna or joker in desperate need of a laundry day.
The Office Bitch can be separated from a woman just wearing a tacky sweater based on whether or not there is acknowledgement of the tackiness of the item. A Grandmother whose granddaughter bought her the sweater will point this out. She will chuckle at the jingly bells hanging off of her matronly boob and we'll all appreciate the sweater because of it. The Office Bitch will offer no explanation for why she's dressed like a giant rancid elf, and nobody will ask.
Often the holiday sweaters are accompanied by the following items depicted as earrings:
She's the Office Bitch.
She's subtle, so if you try to call her out on anything you end up sounding crazy.
"I was just concerned you weren't getting enough sleep..."
"I know we had talked about Option B, but I didn't think we had agreed on it..."
"I just think it helps to know where everybody is..."
She's the first one to lavish welcome and attention to anybody new to the office. She stops by to see how the newbie is doing, suggests they go for coffee or lunch together and always offers her help any time. She's available for anything. Anything at all.
Everybody else avoids her like Ebola, but nobody admits it. There's no obvious reason she's not included in the office jokes, and nobody seeks her out to chat about the weekend. The newbie will avoid her too, following about the time it takes to order in new desk supplies from Grand and Toy and figure out what the code for the printer/fax is.
Unless the newbie is really young. Or lonely. Or kind. Sometimes he doesn't know any better and goes for lunch, paraded around by the Bitch like a prize. Sometimes he seems relieved he's found a friend and sometimes he seems terrified because he's not sure how he ended up being very best friends with somebody before he even knows where the bathrooms are.
Luckily the Office Bitch gets tired of the game quickly, and always tosses the newbie. The novelty wears off, and it's time to start tracking the extra moments taken on breaks or accidentally not reading critical action-item emails. Th newbie is always either relieved, or sadly baffled at the sudden loss of his new buddy.
Often, the Office Bitch has a holiday sweater for every occasion, but not always. Sometimes the mature woman dressed in a sweater with a satin applique Santa Claus is just a Grandmother/Pollyanna or joker in desperate need of a laundry day.
The Office Bitch can be separated from a woman just wearing a tacky sweater based on whether or not there is acknowledgement of the tackiness of the item. A Grandmother whose granddaughter bought her the sweater will point this out. She will chuckle at the jingly bells hanging off of her matronly boob and we'll all appreciate the sweater because of it. The Office Bitch will offer no explanation for why she's dressed like a giant rancid elf, and nobody will ask.
Often the holiday sweaters are accompanied by the following items depicted as earrings:
- Jingle bells
- Easter eggs
- Halloween pumpkins
- Cats
The Office Bitch is always a cat lover. She doesn't just have a cat at home - she has a cat-themed cubicle complete with a calendar, mug and screen saver photo album. Strangely, the scariest Office Bitch will have the cat accessories, but not necessarily own a cat at all.
Forewarned is forearmed. Don't ask her for a favour. Don't let her see you come in from lunch with shopping bags. Don't let your guard down. And whatever you do, don't put her in charge of the birthday celebrations.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Next time I'll hobble.
A friend told me today that my experiences have completely turned her off online dating forever. I'd have thought my experiences would have turned her off heterosexuality but maybe I'm just not trying hard enough.
Either that, or she has a remarkably low tolerance for pain and suffering, in which case I'm glad I didn't tell her what happened the first and last time I was set up on a blind date.
A friend told me she thought I'd be perfect for her friend Doug. Doug is his actual name - I'm doing a public service by revealing it and you can all thank me later should you find yourself attempting to flee a Corvette gracefully and without shoes, like I had to do.
Anyhoo. I spoke with Doug on the phone first, and he seemed smart and funny. We exchanged pictures, and the sight of his face didn't frighten me. So far so good. We arranged to meet, and then it went off the rails.
I agreed to meet him in front of my favourite restaurant, and I would know him because he would be waiting in his Corvette. Foolishly I wore a brand new pair of high heel sandals, and by the time I got to the restaurant my feet were bloody stumps, which is the only reason I later ended up riding in Doug's car - but again I'm getting ahead of myself.
So I'm waiting and oozing blood from my ankles. I can see a Corvette parked across the street, but I don't see a driver. Weird. I wait and bleed another moment. As I'm staring at the Corvette, I see a hand, barely visible, waving over top of the car. Doug has arrived after all, and it's a bit of a shock.
The Corvette, besides being ridiculously uncomfortable and impossible to make a grand exit from without struggling or some kind of assistance, is not a terribly tall vehicle. The average person is perfectly visible standing beside a Corvette. In fact, most people's heads and partial torsos would be visible next to a Corvette. Not Doug.
The top of Doug's head did not make it over top of the Corvette. What I'm trying to tell you without using the words munchkin, little person, garden gnome or pocket-sized is that Doug was WEE. While not officially a midget, dwarf or whatever today's politically-correct term is, Doug was a tiny little mo'fo.
Making matters appear even worse, Doug worked out like a fiend. Rather than stopping work on his upper-body when his neck began to disapear, me must have taken it as a good sign and kept right on going because he had no neck. None that I could see. His attempts to make up for his shortcomings by body-building (Ha! Get it? Shortcomings? Yeah I know. I'm stopping now.) made him appear even smaller.
Doug stood about 4'8. In barefeet I'm 5'11. The barbed-wire sandals I had on would have easily added another three inches, and I had no choice but to come to one sickening realization: I was on a date with a Cabbage Patch Kid.
The restaurant I chose was too busy, so we set off walking for another destination. Crossing the street I felt a sudden and irrational urge to take his hand for safety. When we got to his choice of restaurant my feet had been downgraded from Stable to Critical, soon to be approaching Intensive Care levels.
We ordered our food, and Doug leans across the table and puts his little hand over mine. He asks where I see us going, because he feels a very strong connection between us. I suppose any time I'm crotch level with a man there's a strong connection, but in this case I felt Doug being crotch level with me was not a good sign for the relationship. And I told him so.
Despite my feet crying out for mercy, the fact my date was making me look like a pedophile and the only thing I could find on the menu I felt like eating was chicken strips, I started off answering him in a polite, but firm manner.
I told him that I didn't feel a connection, and did not feel we would go any further. He wanted to know why not. I evaded the question, until pushed to the breaking point, leading to the following exchange:
Bambi: To be honest with you, and this is by no means your problem but it is something I'm sensitive to given I'm much taller than the average woman...I'm just not comfortable with my height around you. You're a good-looking guy, you seem nice...the problem is my own.
(Translation: The thought of sleeping with you ever creeps me the f*ck out, but I'm trying very hard to be nice given my feet will require skin grafts and your eyes are level with my boobs even though we're sitting down so can I please just eat my freaking chicken strips in peace. Thank you.)
Doug:
Doug: YOU F*CKING PRINCESS! HOW DARE YOU SPEAK TO ME LIKE THAT! HOW DARE YOU COME UP IN HERE WEARING YOUR LITTLE F*CKING DRESS AND YOUR HAIR ALL DONE AND YOU"RE A F*CKING PRINCESS WHO THINKS YOU"RE TOO GOOD FOR EVERYBODY!
I apologize for the all-caps, but he was really yelling at me. The entire restaurant can back me up on this point, because everybody else went silent so they could turn around in their chairs and really concentrate on what the couple who had escaped from the circus was going on about.
Also, I'm really not sure why my hair had to be dragged into the conversation. I'm pretty sure I brushed it that evening but I'm not convinced I did anything special enough to my hair to make deserving of special mention during Doug's 'roid rage interlude but there you have it.
Immediately he apologized, and I immediately suggested we get the bill and go our separate ways. My chicken strips were overdone anyway. He argued we could still have a nice night together(!) but I was finished.
Unfortunately, so were my feet. I really couldn't have made it all the way home and I didn't relish going barefoot for 20 blocks so when Doug apologized again, offered me a ride and suggested it was too nice a night not to take a very short ride in a convertible I had very little choice but to agree.
I fall into the vehicle, because really there's no other polite way to sit down in a car that forces your knees to rest on your eyelids. I take my shoes off, and hope I don't bleed on his floor mats. We travel approximately four blocks before stopping at a red light, and Doug turns to me with a question.
Doug: I need to ask you something.
Bambi: What's that?
Doug: Have you accepted the power and love of Jesus Christ our Saviour into your heart?
Well.
This was my cue to leave. I grabbed my shoes, opened the door and proceeded to struggle my way out of the car. All the while Doug is asking me where I'm going, and telling me to get back in the car so we could talk about it. He was born again with God, and he really felt I needed the Word.
Arms and legs flailing in desperation to extricate myself from the bucket seat, I tell him I'm a lost cause because I'm a practicing witch. I'm really not sure why I said that, but I was really wishing one of us could magically disapear and white or black magic, I didn't care which, would have been welcome.
He must have taken it to heart because as soon as I was out and the light turned green, he peeled through the intersection. I walked the rest of the way home barefoot. So great was my desire to call the friend who set me up with Doug in the first place, that I barely felt a thing.
When I finally had her on the phone, she couldn't understand what the fuss was about. She remembered he was short, but not that short...oh wait a minute...oh yeah...THAT Doug. Now it's coming back. The one time they did fool around she remembered it was kind of icky because it felt like she was making out with a toddler. Amd doesn't he have some weird thing for Jesus?
Yeah. That Doug.
Either that, or she has a remarkably low tolerance for pain and suffering, in which case I'm glad I didn't tell her what happened the first and last time I was set up on a blind date.
A friend told me she thought I'd be perfect for her friend Doug. Doug is his actual name - I'm doing a public service by revealing it and you can all thank me later should you find yourself attempting to flee a Corvette gracefully and without shoes, like I had to do.
Anyhoo. I spoke with Doug on the phone first, and he seemed smart and funny. We exchanged pictures, and the sight of his face didn't frighten me. So far so good. We arranged to meet, and then it went off the rails.
I agreed to meet him in front of my favourite restaurant, and I would know him because he would be waiting in his Corvette. Foolishly I wore a brand new pair of high heel sandals, and by the time I got to the restaurant my feet were bloody stumps, which is the only reason I later ended up riding in Doug's car - but again I'm getting ahead of myself.
So I'm waiting and oozing blood from my ankles. I can see a Corvette parked across the street, but I don't see a driver. Weird. I wait and bleed another moment. As I'm staring at the Corvette, I see a hand, barely visible, waving over top of the car. Doug has arrived after all, and it's a bit of a shock.
The Corvette, besides being ridiculously uncomfortable and impossible to make a grand exit from without struggling or some kind of assistance, is not a terribly tall vehicle. The average person is perfectly visible standing beside a Corvette. In fact, most people's heads and partial torsos would be visible next to a Corvette. Not Doug.
The top of Doug's head did not make it over top of the Corvette. What I'm trying to tell you without using the words munchkin, little person, garden gnome or pocket-sized is that Doug was WEE. While not officially a midget, dwarf or whatever today's politically-correct term is, Doug was a tiny little mo'fo.
Making matters appear even worse, Doug worked out like a fiend. Rather than stopping work on his upper-body when his neck began to disapear, me must have taken it as a good sign and kept right on going because he had no neck. None that I could see. His attempts to make up for his shortcomings by body-building (Ha! Get it? Shortcomings? Yeah I know. I'm stopping now.) made him appear even smaller.
Doug stood about 4'8. In barefeet I'm 5'11. The barbed-wire sandals I had on would have easily added another three inches, and I had no choice but to come to one sickening realization: I was on a date with a Cabbage Patch Kid.
The restaurant I chose was too busy, so we set off walking for another destination. Crossing the street I felt a sudden and irrational urge to take his hand for safety. When we got to his choice of restaurant my feet had been downgraded from Stable to Critical, soon to be approaching Intensive Care levels.
We ordered our food, and Doug leans across the table and puts his little hand over mine. He asks where I see us going, because he feels a very strong connection between us. I suppose any time I'm crotch level with a man there's a strong connection, but in this case I felt Doug being crotch level with me was not a good sign for the relationship. And I told him so.
Despite my feet crying out for mercy, the fact my date was making me look like a pedophile and the only thing I could find on the menu I felt like eating was chicken strips, I started off answering him in a polite, but firm manner.
I told him that I didn't feel a connection, and did not feel we would go any further. He wanted to know why not. I evaded the question, until pushed to the breaking point, leading to the following exchange:
Bambi: To be honest with you, and this is by no means your problem but it is something I'm sensitive to given I'm much taller than the average woman...I'm just not comfortable with my height around you. You're a good-looking guy, you seem nice...the problem is my own.
(Translation: The thought of sleeping with you ever creeps me the f*ck out, but I'm trying very hard to be nice given my feet will require skin grafts and your eyes are level with my boobs even though we're sitting down so can I please just eat my freaking chicken strips in peace. Thank you.)
Doug:
Doug: YOU F*CKING PRINCESS! HOW DARE YOU SPEAK TO ME LIKE THAT! HOW DARE YOU COME UP IN HERE WEARING YOUR LITTLE F*CKING DRESS AND YOUR HAIR ALL DONE AND YOU"RE A F*CKING PRINCESS WHO THINKS YOU"RE TOO GOOD FOR EVERYBODY!
I apologize for the all-caps, but he was really yelling at me. The entire restaurant can back me up on this point, because everybody else went silent so they could turn around in their chairs and really concentrate on what the couple who had escaped from the circus was going on about.
Also, I'm really not sure why my hair had to be dragged into the conversation. I'm pretty sure I brushed it that evening but I'm not convinced I did anything special enough to my hair to make deserving of special mention during Doug's 'roid rage interlude but there you have it.
Immediately he apologized, and I immediately suggested we get the bill and go our separate ways. My chicken strips were overdone anyway. He argued we could still have a nice night together(!) but I was finished.
Unfortunately, so were my feet. I really couldn't have made it all the way home and I didn't relish going barefoot for 20 blocks so when Doug apologized again, offered me a ride and suggested it was too nice a night not to take a very short ride in a convertible I had very little choice but to agree.
I fall into the vehicle, because really there's no other polite way to sit down in a car that forces your knees to rest on your eyelids. I take my shoes off, and hope I don't bleed on his floor mats. We travel approximately four blocks before stopping at a red light, and Doug turns to me with a question.
Doug: I need to ask you something.
Bambi: What's that?
Doug: Have you accepted the power and love of Jesus Christ our Saviour into your heart?
Well.
This was my cue to leave. I grabbed my shoes, opened the door and proceeded to struggle my way out of the car. All the while Doug is asking me where I'm going, and telling me to get back in the car so we could talk about it. He was born again with God, and he really felt I needed the Word.
Arms and legs flailing in desperation to extricate myself from the bucket seat, I tell him I'm a lost cause because I'm a practicing witch. I'm really not sure why I said that, but I was really wishing one of us could magically disapear and white or black magic, I didn't care which, would have been welcome.
He must have taken it to heart because as soon as I was out and the light turned green, he peeled through the intersection. I walked the rest of the way home barefoot. So great was my desire to call the friend who set me up with Doug in the first place, that I barely felt a thing.
When I finally had her on the phone, she couldn't understand what the fuss was about. She remembered he was short, but not that short...oh wait a minute...oh yeah...THAT Doug. Now it's coming back. The one time they did fool around she remembered it was kind of icky because it felt like she was making out with a toddler. Amd doesn't he have some weird thing for Jesus?
Yeah. That Doug.
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