It's tourist season in Victoria. This means that on any given day I'm less than three tire rotations away from getting out of my vehicle and beating a Clydesdale horse to death with my bare hands, while a carriage full of horrified Japanese people snap pictures with their camera phones.
Getting stuck behind the slow-moving horses and carriages while on my way home and needing to pee is one thing, but it's the tourists themselves that can really push me over the edge. Particularly the tourists who arrive by cruise ship.
Perhaps it's dropping anchor alongside an island that gives these visitors a feeling of needing to conquer the local primitives. They haven't arrived in a city - they're at a destination, and they will photograph the sights regardless of whether you might be trying to walk, run, drive or just make it past the crowd taking pictures of the shrubs outside of your apartment door.
Cruise ship tourists are a different breed altogether.
I was feeling slightly bad for my fits of rage over these cruisers invading my neighborhood so I stopped and offered to take a picture for a very attractive guy and his grandmother with the ocean in the background. He was very tall, and his grandmother was very short so they were laughing and having difficulties taking a self-portrait.
After noticing the situation my good nature, and libido, led me to offer my services. They were very happy I could take a picture of them both and within seconds I had done my good deed and handed back the camera.
I was just about to strike up a conversation when the young guy dipped the little old lady backward and they began making-out. If I had ever doubted that the cruise ships drop off some bizarre fanny-packed disasters straight into my neighborhood, I never will again.
They annoy me, they overcrowd me and they need to stop taking pictures of random flowers. But I have to say...there is one little old lady in a pink polyester pantsuit who's surely back aboard some floating monstrosity right now, who is my new personal hero. She's welcome back to my city any time - just as long as she tells me how she does it..
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Monday, July 21, 2008
The Neighbor
I have some bathroom related issues that I'm fairly well-known for. I don't like others hearing me pee, so in the early stages of any relationship I come close to kidney failure because I will hold it rather than let a guy hear me pee, regardless of how intimate we might have been together just minutes earlier. And it goes without saying that I would sooner actually explode than face the prospect of...well...I can't even say it. If number one is an issue than number two is off the agenda entirely.
Surprisingly, I'm fine with actually sitting in a public bathroom stall unlike some people I know. I won't hover or waste valuable time draping the toilet with a protective tissue barrier. If I can't visibly see it, then I don't want to worry about it. Also, I just don't have the strength in my quads to hover over a toilet and clutch my purse in my lap at the same time, but brava to those who do.
The other bathroom related issues I have are currently being tested on a weekly basis. Unlike the bathrooms in the last office I worked in, our washrooms are not unpleasant. There are six bathroom stalls with automatic flushers and all is usually right with the world. I will always choose a stall at one far end or another -- it's just what I do.
And at least once a week, some other woman will enter the washroom and take the stall right next to mine. She has four eligible toilets to choose from that do not put her in close enough proximity to tap my toe with hers, and yet if I'm in there, she wants to be near me. This bothers me.
Even though I can't actually see her feet, I know it's the same person, every time. I know this because of the humming, and the speed in which she does her business. She's got to wear pants with velcro because she starts peeing no sooner than the stall door is closed and locked. It's as if she had no clothes on to bother with at all, but that just can't be right.
She pees like she's part of a relay race. It happens fast. The only way I think she can pee any faster is if it were in capsule form. It's brief, but powerful and throughout the entire disintegration of her bladder she hums. Just one note. This disturbs me.
And then she's gone. As the toilets are autoflush she storms out of the stall as quickly as she arrives and just leaves, not even bothering to make sure it flushes. And she never washes her hands.
There I am, minding my own business as quietly as I possibly can when suddenly I'm hijacked by some kind of humming/peeing/personal space invading/personal hygiene avoiding bandit.
She's never there longer than I am so I can't wait around to see who she is. I can never see her shoes and I can't recognize her voice in her oddly meditative humming.
We're never finished at the same time because I pee at a normal rate of speed and usually have some sort of fastening devices to contend with at the end.
Every time it happens I'm slightly shaken. Which probably makes me as weird as she is.
Surprisingly, I'm fine with actually sitting in a public bathroom stall unlike some people I know. I won't hover or waste valuable time draping the toilet with a protective tissue barrier. If I can't visibly see it, then I don't want to worry about it. Also, I just don't have the strength in my quads to hover over a toilet and clutch my purse in my lap at the same time, but brava to those who do.
The other bathroom related issues I have are currently being tested on a weekly basis. Unlike the bathrooms in the last office I worked in, our washrooms are not unpleasant. There are six bathroom stalls with automatic flushers and all is usually right with the world. I will always choose a stall at one far end or another -- it's just what I do.
And at least once a week, some other woman will enter the washroom and take the stall right next to mine. She has four eligible toilets to choose from that do not put her in close enough proximity to tap my toe with hers, and yet if I'm in there, she wants to be near me. This bothers me.
Even though I can't actually see her feet, I know it's the same person, every time. I know this because of the humming, and the speed in which she does her business. She's got to wear pants with velcro because she starts peeing no sooner than the stall door is closed and locked. It's as if she had no clothes on to bother with at all, but that just can't be right.
She pees like she's part of a relay race. It happens fast. The only way I think she can pee any faster is if it were in capsule form. It's brief, but powerful and throughout the entire disintegration of her bladder she hums. Just one note. This disturbs me.
And then she's gone. As the toilets are autoflush she storms out of the stall as quickly as she arrives and just leaves, not even bothering to make sure it flushes. And she never washes her hands.
There I am, minding my own business as quietly as I possibly can when suddenly I'm hijacked by some kind of humming/peeing/personal space invading/personal hygiene avoiding bandit.
She's never there longer than I am so I can't wait around to see who she is. I can never see her shoes and I can't recognize her voice in her oddly meditative humming.
We're never finished at the same time because I pee at a normal rate of speed and usually have some sort of fastening devices to contend with at the end.
Every time it happens I'm slightly shaken. Which probably makes me as weird as she is.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
E-Harmony Sucks
The commercials finally got to me, and I had to admit that sleeping with the guy who stole my vibrator has been an ill-advised decision. Regardless of why, I signed up for E-Harmony. And it sucks.
For all those who wonder what magic E-Harmony weaves to match people based on a billion points of compatibility, I can now tell you. The survey you have to fill out takes just enough time to make you wonder when you'll regret losing those precious minutes you'll never get back.
The questions are probing, and by probing I literally mean you'll feel like your underpants have crawled way up your ass. For example:
The people I enjoy spending time with most are:
For all those who wonder what magic E-Harmony weaves to match people based on a billion points of compatibility, I can now tell you. The survey you have to fill out takes just enough time to make you wonder when you'll regret losing those precious minutes you'll never get back.
The questions are probing, and by probing I literally mean you'll feel like your underpants have crawled way up your ass. For example:
The people I enjoy spending time with most are:
- Friends and family
- The corpses I've most recently buried in my yard
- Anybody who will talk to me
- Whoever it is who slides my food through the slot in the door
So it's really not difficult to ace the survey is what I'm saying. Assuming everybody else can out-think the survey, it's not difficult to get matches regardless of who you are.
Once a 'match' has been made, you get an email telling you that a computer program feels you would be highly compatible with a 41 year old, 5'6, retail sales clerk in Brampton, Ontario who has two beautiful children.
Let's assume you're a 32 year old, 5'11, professional in Victoria BC who would want children only to harvest their organs. However, you do both enjoy spending time with friends and family so who knows? Maybe you two crazy kids might just make it!
Occasionally you'll get an email congratulating you that a match has requested communication. E-Harmony is stricter than the Amish when it comes to allowing open communication between the sexes. You simply can not begin emailing back and forth.
If you want to communicate with one of your matches you have to send them five even more probing questions that they answer and send back. I'm not sure what happens after that because I haven't been able to figure that out.
I have figured out that there is a particular type of man who finds me most alluring. He is bald. He is much older. He is short. He has at least 2.5 children and I make more money than he does. Based on the E-Harmony matches who want to probe me further - this is my kind of man.
I hate you E-Harmony.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
And then things got weird. No really.
I'm at such a loss to even explain this latest situation that I've included a Q&A section at the end of my post. I've been asked the same questions over and over again, and I struggle with how to answer every time so perhaps this will finally lead to clarification.
It began well enough, but then the bar wasn't set very high. My last date had fled through a back exit immediately after looking at me, so the fact PB* and I had made it to sitting on a patio together drinking sangria was a victory.
PB was cute. Better than cute actually. I had to listen to more stories about his lacrosse team and the finer points of riding motocross than were really necessary, but all the same I found myself feeling very...warm.
Hard body, slow smile...this was a manly man. This was a guy who could throttle an attacking grizzly bear with one hand while pleasuring a woman with the other and dammit...I wanted to be that woman. Less than an hour later -- I was, romance and or exchanging of last names be damned. Let's not judge.
I maintained some small amount of decorum and refused to have sex with him outright. While this doesn't necessarily qualify me for an award, it probably should given what he looked like with his shirt off. Being the enterprising and enthusiastic date he'd already proven himself to be, he asked me if I had any toys.
(And if you don't know what kind of toys I'm talking about you should probably stop reading right now and just wait until I post again.)
Being a single girl, of course I did. It stood to reason that my manly man would enjoy power tools and we both enjoyed very much. Some time later, it was time for PB to go.
He was so sweet. It was late and he insisted he didn't need the light on because it might hurt my eyes, and I should just stay in bed. He tucked me in and kissed me once more before letting himself out.
I allowed myself a few moments of laying there in happy bliss before getting up to officially get ready for bed, and put away my clothes and everything else that had been left on the floor.
This included my vibrator, which was now gone.
PB (as in Perverted Bastard) had stolen my vibrator.
At first I refused to believe it. I crawled all around the floor. I checked under every nook and cranny, all the while knowing that the missing item was not exactly the proverbial needle in a haystack. It's not something that can just blend in with the surroundings, and I knew it wasn't blending. It was gone.
When your date steals your vibrator, it's a natural time to reevaluate your choices and your chosen path in life. After confirming that my wallet and the panties I had so hastily removed just a few hours earlier were all present and accounted for, there was nothing left to do but to sit down and write the most bizarre message over MSN I've ever had to compose. After all, it's not like I could file a police report.
Knowing the message would be waiting on PB's computer when he got home, this is what I wrote:
"PB - I can't believe I'm even having to write this message, but did you seriously steal from me? You sick fuck. That is really fucking sick."
Then I went to bed, and lay awake for most of the night feeling violated. The breach in vibrator security was traumatizing.
The next day, PB responds to my message with, "What are you talking about????"
And so began one of the most bizarre exchanges in MSN history. I explained that my vibrator was missing. It wasn't where I left it and it wasn't anywhere in my bedroom. Unless the Bermuda Triangle was actually located right next to my bed and I had never before noticed the squadrons of small aircraft being sucked into the mysterious vortex in my bedroom, my vibrator had left the building and I had no other option but to assume he took it.
He denied taking it, and asked me if I had looked under the bed. Since I sleep on two mattresses sitting atop a box spring sitting on the floor like I'm the princess and the goddamned pea, I assured him it was not under the bed.
And this is when it gets weird. PB carries on asking me how my day was like I hadn't just accused him of walking out of my apartment with my personal massage device tucked away hidden in his clothing.
At a loss, we carried on a normal conversation in which he told me how much he liked me and wanted to see me again. And I surprised myself by telling him I wanted to see him again too, and even more shocking - I did really want to see him again. I liked him. He stole my vibrator. But I liked him. Jesus.
As a friend pointed out, if he hadn't taken it he would assume I was one crazy bitch and he wouldn't want to see me again. This wasn't the case. Me accusing him was perfectly normal and we were making plans to get together again.
It's not like I was going to make the same mistakes again...not all of them at least. I told PB that even though I liked him and enjoyed our last evening together we would have to scale things back and take things slower. He agreed this would be fine, because he really liked me and he "had sparks with me." He could be patient. The next time we got together, our clothes just fell off again.
Still, I refused to go any further than softcore. This time however, when he got up to leave I jumped up and turned on all of the lights, blinding both of us but reassuring me that all of my belongings would stay where I had intended. I followed him out and when I hugged him good-bye I patted him down as best I could.
Now I knew I had a problem. I liked this guy enough to abandon all reason. Just hearing his voice caused the angel on my one shoulder and the devil on the other to start licking one another.
We set another date for last night, and we were going to have a little chat about the way things were heading, unbeknownst to him. Specifically, I was going to chat and he was going to inwardly groan as I suggested that perhaps we could see a movie some time instead of attacking each other like rabid raccoons, only that never happened. PB stood me up.
He was going to come by at 8:00. At 7:15 I get a message saying he's just getting ready and he'll see me at 8:00, and he didn't show up. His cell phone was turned off, and I haven't heard from him since. I'm a little baffled.
And so, without any further ado, should you have the same questions everybody else has been asking, I'll attempt to help out.
Q. He stole your vibrator? Seriously?? What the fuck!
A. What the fuck indeed. He did seriously steal it. It's been over a week and it's not turned up. This is not an item that should normally require any kind of anti-theft device with a locator option like when you lose your car in a parking lot and can hit a button to make the car's horn beep...this is a freaking vibrator. Although if I could make it beep I would have tried that.
Q. Why would you want to see him again? He stole your vibrator for Christ's sake! How is that OK?
A. To be fair, that's actually two questions, but nonetheless...I want to see him again because there was just something about him. Chemistry. Absolutely mindless, oh dear God I want you right now chemistry which I didn't experience for a single minute in my last relationship. I had forgotten what that was like, and now I remember why it's a bad idea.
Q. If you marry him can I tell this story at your wedding?
A. If you tell this story at my wedding can I stab you in the neck with my fork? That's what I thought.
Q. Please tell me you're not going to forgive him for standing you up.
A. Not at all. Unless his excuse involves an ambulance ride or time spent lying broken and bleeding in a ditch, we're done. But in that case...I'm really going to need a new toy.
It began well enough, but then the bar wasn't set very high. My last date had fled through a back exit immediately after looking at me, so the fact PB* and I had made it to sitting on a patio together drinking sangria was a victory.
PB was cute. Better than cute actually. I had to listen to more stories about his lacrosse team and the finer points of riding motocross than were really necessary, but all the same I found myself feeling very...warm.
Hard body, slow smile...this was a manly man. This was a guy who could throttle an attacking grizzly bear with one hand while pleasuring a woman with the other and dammit...I wanted to be that woman. Less than an hour later -- I was, romance and or exchanging of last names be damned. Let's not judge.
I maintained some small amount of decorum and refused to have sex with him outright. While this doesn't necessarily qualify me for an award, it probably should given what he looked like with his shirt off. Being the enterprising and enthusiastic date he'd already proven himself to be, he asked me if I had any toys.
(And if you don't know what kind of toys I'm talking about you should probably stop reading right now and just wait until I post again.)
Being a single girl, of course I did. It stood to reason that my manly man would enjoy power tools and we both enjoyed very much. Some time later, it was time for PB to go.
He was so sweet. It was late and he insisted he didn't need the light on because it might hurt my eyes, and I should just stay in bed. He tucked me in and kissed me once more before letting himself out.
I allowed myself a few moments of laying there in happy bliss before getting up to officially get ready for bed, and put away my clothes and everything else that had been left on the floor.
This included my vibrator, which was now gone.
PB (as in Perverted Bastard) had stolen my vibrator.
At first I refused to believe it. I crawled all around the floor. I checked under every nook and cranny, all the while knowing that the missing item was not exactly the proverbial needle in a haystack. It's not something that can just blend in with the surroundings, and I knew it wasn't blending. It was gone.
When your date steals your vibrator, it's a natural time to reevaluate your choices and your chosen path in life. After confirming that my wallet and the panties I had so hastily removed just a few hours earlier were all present and accounted for, there was nothing left to do but to sit down and write the most bizarre message over MSN I've ever had to compose. After all, it's not like I could file a police report.
Knowing the message would be waiting on PB's computer when he got home, this is what I wrote:
"PB - I can't believe I'm even having to write this message, but did you seriously steal from me? You sick fuck. That is really fucking sick."
Then I went to bed, and lay awake for most of the night feeling violated. The breach in vibrator security was traumatizing.
The next day, PB responds to my message with, "What are you talking about????"
And so began one of the most bizarre exchanges in MSN history. I explained that my vibrator was missing. It wasn't where I left it and it wasn't anywhere in my bedroom. Unless the Bermuda Triangle was actually located right next to my bed and I had never before noticed the squadrons of small aircraft being sucked into the mysterious vortex in my bedroom, my vibrator had left the building and I had no other option but to assume he took it.
He denied taking it, and asked me if I had looked under the bed. Since I sleep on two mattresses sitting atop a box spring sitting on the floor like I'm the princess and the goddamned pea, I assured him it was not under the bed.
And this is when it gets weird. PB carries on asking me how my day was like I hadn't just accused him of walking out of my apartment with my personal massage device tucked away hidden in his clothing.
At a loss, we carried on a normal conversation in which he told me how much he liked me and wanted to see me again. And I surprised myself by telling him I wanted to see him again too, and even more shocking - I did really want to see him again. I liked him. He stole my vibrator. But I liked him. Jesus.
As a friend pointed out, if he hadn't taken it he would assume I was one crazy bitch and he wouldn't want to see me again. This wasn't the case. Me accusing him was perfectly normal and we were making plans to get together again.
It's not like I was going to make the same mistakes again...not all of them at least. I told PB that even though I liked him and enjoyed our last evening together we would have to scale things back and take things slower. He agreed this would be fine, because he really liked me and he "had sparks with me." He could be patient. The next time we got together, our clothes just fell off again.
Still, I refused to go any further than softcore. This time however, when he got up to leave I jumped up and turned on all of the lights, blinding both of us but reassuring me that all of my belongings would stay where I had intended. I followed him out and when I hugged him good-bye I patted him down as best I could.
Now I knew I had a problem. I liked this guy enough to abandon all reason. Just hearing his voice caused the angel on my one shoulder and the devil on the other to start licking one another.
We set another date for last night, and we were going to have a little chat about the way things were heading, unbeknownst to him. Specifically, I was going to chat and he was going to inwardly groan as I suggested that perhaps we could see a movie some time instead of attacking each other like rabid raccoons, only that never happened. PB stood me up.
He was going to come by at 8:00. At 7:15 I get a message saying he's just getting ready and he'll see me at 8:00, and he didn't show up. His cell phone was turned off, and I haven't heard from him since. I'm a little baffled.
And so, without any further ado, should you have the same questions everybody else has been asking, I'll attempt to help out.
Q. He stole your vibrator? Seriously?? What the fuck!
A. What the fuck indeed. He did seriously steal it. It's been over a week and it's not turned up. This is not an item that should normally require any kind of anti-theft device with a locator option like when you lose your car in a parking lot and can hit a button to make the car's horn beep...this is a freaking vibrator. Although if I could make it beep I would have tried that.
Q. Why would you want to see him again? He stole your vibrator for Christ's sake! How is that OK?
A. To be fair, that's actually two questions, but nonetheless...I want to see him again because there was just something about him. Chemistry. Absolutely mindless, oh dear God I want you right now chemistry which I didn't experience for a single minute in my last relationship. I had forgotten what that was like, and now I remember why it's a bad idea.
Q. If you marry him can I tell this story at your wedding?
A. If you tell this story at my wedding can I stab you in the neck with my fork? That's what I thought.
Q. Please tell me you're not going to forgive him for standing you up.
A. Not at all. Unless his excuse involves an ambulance ride or time spent lying broken and bleeding in a ditch, we're done. But in that case...I'm really going to need a new toy.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
But will it be fuel-efficient...?
As I've mentioned in a previous post, my new chin is going to be ridiculously expensive and therefore spectacular. My new chin will be hounded by paparazzi and linked romantically to Prince Harry, causing great scandal in Britain.
Photographed by Annie Leibowitz and featured in a PSA ad campaign my chin will single-handedly reverse the effects of global warming, and male pattern baldness. That's how spectacular my new chin ought to be, given some of the costs provided at my most recent appointment with the orthodontist.
He started by showing me x-rays of my jaw, which is apparently so malformed it's a wonder I can chew food. My teeth don't line up, one side of my jaw is higher and one jaw-joint is a completely different shape than the other. The bones in my face look like they came from a mismatched set. I could see how some sort of action may be required.
Next he outlined my options. Since my lower jaw sits too far back, one option could be to move my top teeth back. Cheaper, and no surgery. I was nodding slowly until he said this option may cause my nose to appear larger. Sweet blessed Jesus. On to option two.
Option two is what I was expecting. Braces for two years, surgery after a year and I enter my 23rd awkward stage in a row. He showed me a computer enhanced photo of how my profile will look once the surgery is over and it was fascinating.
My nose, and this may just be wishful thinking, but my nose looked just a smidge...just a teensy bit...smaller. My face looked slightly more...balanced. It wouldn't be so noticeable to everybody else, but I couldn't stop looking at the computer screen.
The doctor thinks I may actually need two surgeries to align my jaw perfectly, which won't be happening. It gets done in one shot or I live on smoothies for the rest of my life. I may still need skin grafts on my gums, but if I have to pay for those then I'm putting it off until the bottom half of my skull falls into my lap through the gaping spaces where my gums used to be. Like I said, my new chin is going to be expensive.
$1200 upfront for the braces. $225 every month afterward for two years. $4000-$5000 on top for that new chin smell. Crikey.
I know I have to go through with it, it's just a matter of when. The doctor advised I may want to consider timing my braces carefully. Will I have wedding photos coming up? A big holiday perhaps? No to both, and my new chin is likely to keep it that way.
Photographed by Annie Leibowitz and featured in a PSA ad campaign my chin will single-handedly reverse the effects of global warming, and male pattern baldness. That's how spectacular my new chin ought to be, given some of the costs provided at my most recent appointment with the orthodontist.
He started by showing me x-rays of my jaw, which is apparently so malformed it's a wonder I can chew food. My teeth don't line up, one side of my jaw is higher and one jaw-joint is a completely different shape than the other. The bones in my face look like they came from a mismatched set. I could see how some sort of action may be required.
Next he outlined my options. Since my lower jaw sits too far back, one option could be to move my top teeth back. Cheaper, and no surgery. I was nodding slowly until he said this option may cause my nose to appear larger. Sweet blessed Jesus. On to option two.
Option two is what I was expecting. Braces for two years, surgery after a year and I enter my 23rd awkward stage in a row. He showed me a computer enhanced photo of how my profile will look once the surgery is over and it was fascinating.
My nose, and this may just be wishful thinking, but my nose looked just a smidge...just a teensy bit...smaller. My face looked slightly more...balanced. It wouldn't be so noticeable to everybody else, but I couldn't stop looking at the computer screen.
The doctor thinks I may actually need two surgeries to align my jaw perfectly, which won't be happening. It gets done in one shot or I live on smoothies for the rest of my life. I may still need skin grafts on my gums, but if I have to pay for those then I'm putting it off until the bottom half of my skull falls into my lap through the gaping spaces where my gums used to be. Like I said, my new chin is going to be expensive.
$1200 upfront for the braces. $225 every month afterward for two years. $4000-$5000 on top for that new chin smell. Crikey.
I know I have to go through with it, it's just a matter of when. The doctor advised I may want to consider timing my braces carefully. Will I have wedding photos coming up? A big holiday perhaps? No to both, and my new chin is likely to keep it that way.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Just me and the Oompa-Loompas.
I've been looking pretty good lately. I haven't lost any more weight and I'm hovering in that purgatory between normal sizes and plus sizes which is making shopping for anything a cringe-worthy experience, so I don't have Weightwatchers to thank for my new boost in confidence.
My most favourite moments are when some little girl the size of my right leg knocks on the change room door to make sure I haven't died in there and asks if I need any other sizes. I would love to say yes, but I know perfectly well that the pants I can't close around my ass are the largest size in the store and to ask for anything larger would lead to a very awkward moment. Thank Goddess I'm so tall because if I was any shorter I'd have the shape and consistency of a cream puff pastry.
And yet, three people have stopped me today to tell me how good I'm looking so let's hear it for harmful UV rays! Yes, I've been taking my life into my own hands and tanning. I am naturally rather pale, and by rather pale I mean vampiric, so at first the staff at my tanning salon seemed hesitant to take my money and stick me in a bed for fear of lawsuits and or explosions but I've been surprising everyone.
For the first time ever, I have some colour in my face which has led several people to tell me I'm looking 'well-rested.' In actual fact I haven't been sleeping very well due to lying awake worrying about my chin, my back, my pelvic region, my finances, my parents, my home, my future and whether or not my next door neighbor can hear me pee, as I can hear him pee through the apartment wall between our bathrooms, which is disconcerting.
I can see how people start tanning indoors and then not know when to stop. It's warm and relaxing and for the entire duration of your session you're not expected to do anything but just lie there. This doesn't excuse the women who tan themselves into Chicken McNuggets but I think I'm vain enough to escape that fate.
My only concern so far is the white stripe I've developed down either side of my body, making me look like the world's lightest and largest Oreo cookie. I'm trying to remedy this, and it's reminding me why people say they're "working" on their tans. It is actual work.
My goal in exposing myself to skin cancer is to cover up my inability to lose substantive amounts of weight. Much like in a house, if you're unhappy with the walls, you paint them. I'm painting my rear end, and it's working wonders.
My most favourite moments are when some little girl the size of my right leg knocks on the change room door to make sure I haven't died in there and asks if I need any other sizes. I would love to say yes, but I know perfectly well that the pants I can't close around my ass are the largest size in the store and to ask for anything larger would lead to a very awkward moment. Thank Goddess I'm so tall because if I was any shorter I'd have the shape and consistency of a cream puff pastry.
And yet, three people have stopped me today to tell me how good I'm looking so let's hear it for harmful UV rays! Yes, I've been taking my life into my own hands and tanning. I am naturally rather pale, and by rather pale I mean vampiric, so at first the staff at my tanning salon seemed hesitant to take my money and stick me in a bed for fear of lawsuits and or explosions but I've been surprising everyone.
For the first time ever, I have some colour in my face which has led several people to tell me I'm looking 'well-rested.' In actual fact I haven't been sleeping very well due to lying awake worrying about my chin, my back, my pelvic region, my finances, my parents, my home, my future and whether or not my next door neighbor can hear me pee, as I can hear him pee through the apartment wall between our bathrooms, which is disconcerting.
I can see how people start tanning indoors and then not know when to stop. It's warm and relaxing and for the entire duration of your session you're not expected to do anything but just lie there. This doesn't excuse the women who tan themselves into Chicken McNuggets but I think I'm vain enough to escape that fate.
My only concern so far is the white stripe I've developed down either side of my body, making me look like the world's lightest and largest Oreo cookie. I'm trying to remedy this, and it's reminding me why people say they're "working" on their tans. It is actual work.
My goal in exposing myself to skin cancer is to cover up my inability to lose substantive amounts of weight. Much like in a house, if you're unhappy with the walls, you paint them. I'm painting my rear end, and it's working wonders.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Hit and run.
I'm a cynical optimist. For example, when I go on holiday I pack at least three emergency items for every fun item in my suitcase. One bathing suit equals one package of Imodium, one can of Solarcaine and a defibrillator.
In my dating life, this means I expect nothing good to come out of anybody I meet...but I shave my legs anyway. I expect the worst but am secretly crushed when it happens making me both the first to say, "I told you so!" and "I had no idea that could happen!" at the same time.
This works well for me. I go about triumph and disaster with all bases covered until something so unexpected happens, both the cynic and the optimist in me are awed into mutual silence.
Like on Sunday morning. A new date, same Starbucks near my place. Jay was funny, smart and his picture looked good. We had even spent a few hours on the phone so I was confident the conversation would be easy.
I arrived a little early so I went in and got my standard date drink. Large enough for me to nurse if I'm having a good time, small enough for me to finish quickly should he have bells on his shoes, hit on the coffee barrista or appear riding a unicycle - basically should he demonstrate any of the unfavourable dating characteristics to which I've become so accustomed.
Jay came in while I was waiting for my drink, and I had a hard time recognizing him because I had to mentally add 10 years to the picture he sent me. He squinted his eyes at me but I wasn't entirely sure. I went outside to wait for him on the patio. If it was him he could come find me, and sure enough he did, moments later.
He walked up and introduced himself, and then went back in for his drink. It was a beautiful sunny day and I suddenly felt optimistic. A nice patio, a good drink, some good conversation...it wouldn't be so bad.
And it wouldn't have been so bad had Jay not left through the back exit, never to return. After the first five minutes I felt badly that a massive line up must have gathered spontaneously and he was stuck in it. After 10 minutes I wondered just what in the hell kind of caffeinated concoction he had ordered. After 15 minutes I felt like an idiot.
I waited around for another 10 just in case he was stuck in the bathroom. He wasn't. Bewildered, I made my way home.
I've been stood up before. I've been left waiting when a guy doesn't show up at all, no explanation or apologies. I've been on dates where the guy showed up but it would have been better if he hadn't. This was an altogether new experience.
A few hours later Jay sends me a message that went exactly like this:
Bambi - I'm sorry I had to leave. I could see right away that we weren't going to be compatible -- a no class exit. I'm just so tired of either being rejected or having to do the rejecting. It's so frustrating!! I wish we could just find what we want!! Time is marching on for both of us.
I would like to clarify that at no time did Starbucks catch on fire or need to be evacuated for any other reason during the half hour or so I sat on the patio. Jay did not "have" to leave. I would also like to clarify that more than one exclamation mark is never, ever appropriate.
Also, Jay is a f*ckwit.
The declaration that time is indeed marching on was really the frosting on the fruitloop. Until that point, I was unaware that I was about to max out any sort of time limit. Born without a biological clock, I feel no particular urgency to meet and marry or procreate other than a nagging fear that much like pierced ears, if I don't use it it's going to grow over.
This should be the end of the story, but it's not. Jay has since been in touch, wanting to make friendly chit-chat. Flirting with me even. I suggested that since I was so hideous he had to flee the scene, he really shouldn't bother sending me any more messages. No really - don't bother.
He said I wasn't hideous, but he knew it wouldn't work out long-term and he sensed that was what I wanted and it wouldn't have been fair for him to stay. I'd tell you what I answered but I blacked out after my head repeatedly hit the keyboard.
He went on to say how he felt a good connection with me and wanted that again. I told him he had his chance and then I went to bed. This morning I logged on to MSN only to get this belated message from Jay:
We both know we need one another.
Um. Apart from the sheer entertainment value his crazy is now providing me, I'm not entirely convinced I need him. And so I reply:
Wow. I need a guy who left a first impression so rude, and so without class that it's mind-boggling? Really??
So my cynical and optimistic sides are now clutching one another like two former strangers brought together by trauma. Why couldn't he just have been riding a damned unicycle like a normal person?
In my dating life, this means I expect nothing good to come out of anybody I meet...but I shave my legs anyway. I expect the worst but am secretly crushed when it happens making me both the first to say, "I told you so!" and "I had no idea that could happen!" at the same time.
This works well for me. I go about triumph and disaster with all bases covered until something so unexpected happens, both the cynic and the optimist in me are awed into mutual silence.
Like on Sunday morning. A new date, same Starbucks near my place. Jay was funny, smart and his picture looked good. We had even spent a few hours on the phone so I was confident the conversation would be easy.
I arrived a little early so I went in and got my standard date drink. Large enough for me to nurse if I'm having a good time, small enough for me to finish quickly should he have bells on his shoes, hit on the coffee barrista or appear riding a unicycle - basically should he demonstrate any of the unfavourable dating characteristics to which I've become so accustomed.
Jay came in while I was waiting for my drink, and I had a hard time recognizing him because I had to mentally add 10 years to the picture he sent me. He squinted his eyes at me but I wasn't entirely sure. I went outside to wait for him on the patio. If it was him he could come find me, and sure enough he did, moments later.
He walked up and introduced himself, and then went back in for his drink. It was a beautiful sunny day and I suddenly felt optimistic. A nice patio, a good drink, some good conversation...it wouldn't be so bad.
And it wouldn't have been so bad had Jay not left through the back exit, never to return. After the first five minutes I felt badly that a massive line up must have gathered spontaneously and he was stuck in it. After 10 minutes I wondered just what in the hell kind of caffeinated concoction he had ordered. After 15 minutes I felt like an idiot.
I waited around for another 10 just in case he was stuck in the bathroom. He wasn't. Bewildered, I made my way home.
I've been stood up before. I've been left waiting when a guy doesn't show up at all, no explanation or apologies. I've been on dates where the guy showed up but it would have been better if he hadn't. This was an altogether new experience.
A few hours later Jay sends me a message that went exactly like this:
Bambi - I'm sorry I had to leave. I could see right away that we weren't going to be compatible -- a no class exit. I'm just so tired of either being rejected or having to do the rejecting. It's so frustrating!! I wish we could just find what we want!! Time is marching on for both of us.
I would like to clarify that at no time did Starbucks catch on fire or need to be evacuated for any other reason during the half hour or so I sat on the patio. Jay did not "have" to leave. I would also like to clarify that more than one exclamation mark is never, ever appropriate.
Also, Jay is a f*ckwit.
The declaration that time is indeed marching on was really the frosting on the fruitloop. Until that point, I was unaware that I was about to max out any sort of time limit. Born without a biological clock, I feel no particular urgency to meet and marry or procreate other than a nagging fear that much like pierced ears, if I don't use it it's going to grow over.
This should be the end of the story, but it's not. Jay has since been in touch, wanting to make friendly chit-chat. Flirting with me even. I suggested that since I was so hideous he had to flee the scene, he really shouldn't bother sending me any more messages. No really - don't bother.
He said I wasn't hideous, but he knew it wouldn't work out long-term and he sensed that was what I wanted and it wouldn't have been fair for him to stay. I'd tell you what I answered but I blacked out after my head repeatedly hit the keyboard.
He went on to say how he felt a good connection with me and wanted that again. I told him he had his chance and then I went to bed. This morning I logged on to MSN only to get this belated message from Jay:
We both know we need one another.
Um. Apart from the sheer entertainment value his crazy is now providing me, I'm not entirely convinced I need him. And so I reply:
Wow. I need a guy who left a first impression so rude, and so without class that it's mind-boggling? Really??
So my cynical and optimistic sides are now clutching one another like two former strangers brought together by trauma. Why couldn't he just have been riding a damned unicycle like a normal person?
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