Clerk:    What can I get you?

Me:        I’d like a grande cinnamon dolce latte, please.

C:           A grande tazo chai?

Me:        No, cinnamon dolce latte.

C:           (To the barrista) Grande cinnamon dolce latte.

Me:        I’d also like a pumpkin cream cheese muffin.

C:           (Moving to the display case) A cheese croissant?

Me:        No, a pumpkin cream cheese muffin.

C:           A pumpkin scone!

Me:        No.  Muffin.  The pumpkin cream cheese muffin.

C:           (Grabbing the muffin and bringing it over) One pumpkin scone!

Me:        That’s a muffin, the other one is a scone.

C:           Oh, you want the scone??

Me:        (I’m going to kill you.)

Against my character, I contacted him first. He seemed to be reasonably attractive and interesting, so I went out on a limb and sent him a message.  A simple one, commenting on one of his listed “interests”, roller derby.  He responded asking if I wanted to go with him to a bout (match, game, whatever) on the weekend.  Against character again, I replied to his message in the affirmative, “I would love to go to derby with you.”  He responded with a phone number, so I could call to arrange a meeting.  I called, left a message and then, never heard back.  Nonplussed, (I mean, how much can you expect from a man you’ve shared three sentences with,) I made plans to go with a friend to the derby anyway.  She was a derby virgin and excited to go, and hell, it’s a free country right?

At the derby, I casually looked around and indeed found a man I thought could be him.  However, it couldn’t possibly be, because his profile claimed him to be a non-smoker, to only be interested in dating non-smokers, and this man was clearly puffing away on a cigarette.  Putting this stranger out of my mind, I went on to enjoy an evening of high-speed girl-on-girl aggression.

The next day, he called me.  Didn’t get your message until now, he said.  Thought I had ditched him, he said.  We laughed and chatted for a while, deciding to meet in two days time over drinks.  At this point I should remind you that I’m a serial one-dater.  I look for reasons not to date a man, and sometimes they’re even pretty good ones.  Well, during the course of our conversation I already had occasion to find one:  He was showing all signs of being a totally intense, stage-five clinger.  At the end of the conversation he pointed out that we had spent an entire hour on the phone.  I said something like, “Wow, I never talk on the phone that long. I’m not a phone person,” to which he responded, “That’s because you like me.”

“Like you?” I said, “Well, I suppose I’m interested enough to meet you.”  We laughed, I hung up the phone and tried to put the very familiar instinct to run for the hills out of my mind.

On Tuesday, we met.  He was tall, stout, and looked very much like his pictures, except three-dimensional.  He was indeed the man I saw enveloped in a cloud of hazy smoke at the derby, but I put it out of my mind and enjoyed chatting with him over a couple of drinks. Only three years my junior, he seemed rather young, but again, I tried to push that out of my mind. He was nice.  Isn’t all we want in a person is for them to be nice??  We talked about what we were looking for, and he agreed with me that a nothing serious, someone to date, not to jump into anything serious right away was kind of thing for him.  Excellent!  Perfect.  My kind of man.  We realized at this meeting that we both had tickets to a music festival the following Saturday.  Can he hang out with me and my friends, he says. Hesitantly, I agreed, thinking we’d meet for a drink, hang out for a bit, but generally spend the day with our own groups of people.

We texted over the next few days, hi how you doing type things, and Saturday rolled around.  The bands started mid-day and my friends and I had arranged to meet about noon.  At 9:30am he texted me, saying he was already there.  Weird, I thought to myself, but told him our planned itinerary and went about my morning.  Noon time he texted me again, asking where I was.  In line, I say … inside, I say … watching the rest of this band, I say … and then we went to meet him.  He was alone.  He went to the festival alone, and then proceeded to spend the entire rest of the day with us.  All ten hours. At the end of the night, we were watching the last band in the chilly dusk of the late summer’s eve when he put his arm around me.  I saw my girlfriend turn to look at me and turn away wide eyed, knowing how I feel about PDA, but tried to enjoy his warm arm around me.  As we were leaving, we said our goodbye’s and he enveloped me a giant bear hug before leaning down for a kiss. I presented him with my cheek, of course, he was a total stranger after all.  He kissed it and then much to my surprise, swooped in and kissed me directly on the lips.  In public!!!  We parted. My girls chortled while I tried to shake my horrifying case of the icks.

Sunday he called me.  I had a great time with you, he says.  You and your friends are fun, he says. When can I see you again, he says.  Why don’t we watch a movie at your place, he says.  I said I was pretty free for the next couple days, we can hang out whenever, trying to keep it casual.

Next day I texted him asking if he’d like to do something on Tuesday.  What do you have in mind, he says.  Well, you mentioned a movie, I say. Or we could go for coffee, I say.  Or how about a walk, I say.  He responds saying, “I dunno … I’m kinda on a limited budget till Friday … I’m open to spending time with you but nothing too expensive k … Any ideas?”  (It should be noted at this time, I am transcribing his texts verbatim.  Any spelling or grammatical errors you see are his, not mine.)

I blinked at my phone for a good three minutes.  Any ideas??  Did I not just present him with three, relatively free, ideas??  I responded saying something along those lines and he choose, of course, the movie at my place.  (When telling my girlfriend about this encounter later I said something which is surely a universal truth: “I want to be wined and dined, not wheeled and dealed.”  But I digress.)

Tuesday evening he showed up at 8:00 pm.  We rented a movie on demand (not free), his choice, watched it and then chatted for a bit. I was looking at the clock thinking, “damn, it’s past my bed time,” when he leaned in for a kiss.  It was inevitable really. Movies at home?  What did you think would happen?  The kissing was fine and probably would have been quite nice if he hadn’t tasted like cigarettes.  He didn’t, thankfully, try to feel me up.  I shut it down relatively quickly, we made plans for a date on Saturday night, and he left.

Next day I was on my way after work to drinks with some friends when he texted me.

Him:       Hey Heather how was your day?

Me:        Better shortly, margaritas are on the horizon! How was yours?

Him:       Boring but ok … I kept thinking of you k to keep me focused …”

By this time I’d joined my friends on the patio, have read his text with raised eyebrows, and was sipping on my margarita.  He texted again, ten minutes after the first.

Him:       “Did I say something that I shouldn’t have?”

Me:        “No, sorry, was ordering bevvies,” I said, trying to be non-committal.

He proceeded to text me several times over the next hour to tell me things like what he had for dinner, ask me how I was doing, send me various random smilies, and say that he wished he was with me.  I cringed, thinking, “I didn’t invite you,” and told him the patio was nice.  He sent me several more random texts ending, finally, in a good night.

Next day after work, a text.  How you doing, he says.  I didn’t respond for a while as I was busy cooking dinner for some friends.  When I did, I filled him in on my evening and asked how his was going.

Him:       “Tonight I pretty much napped and I thought of you …”

Me:        “You’ve got nothing better to think about?”  I couldn’t help it.

Him:       “What’s wrong with that?”

Me:        “Nothing really, it’s to be expected.  I really am that awesome,” I said, trying to make it light.

He responded by phoning me three times in a row, which I didn’t answer as I was sitting with my friends.  I texted him.

Me:        “I’m sorry. I’m still with my friends.”

Him:       “Well I do think you’re awesome … I figured you were playing hostess …  Call me tonight though … I want to hear your voice … because it’s awesome …”

I resisted the urge to tell him I had just puked in my mouth a little and instead said I would be out late and would talk to him tomorrow.  Later at drinks with my ladies, two to one thought I should write him off right there and then, but that resilient one convinced me to hold on just a little longer and to go on that “fourth” date on Saturday.  I quote the “fourth” because I’m really quite uncertain whether I want to count the second encounter at the music festival as a date.  I’m still not sure.

Next day, Friday, he texted me after work.  Apparently he had been paid.

Him:       “Ahhh, beer …  What are you doing?”

Me:        “Reading my book, sitting in the sunshine.”

Him:       “Watcha doing later?”

Me:        “Napping, then going out with some friends. You?”

Him:       “I guess I’m doing my own thing … I was hoping we could hang out … but I guess you’re busy …”

Me:        “We have plans tomorrow, no?”

Him:       “Yes and I’m looking forward to being with you again …”

Being with me again?!?!?!  I sat in the sun and let that message hang there for a full five minutes.  I thought about our first date.  We talked about this, and we talked about how what we both value most in a relationship is honesty. I texted.

Me:        “Brian, I gotta tell you, you talk a whole lot serious.  I find it a little overwhelming.”

Him:       “Take me or leave me k … Life’s to short to dance around …”

Me:        “I concur, but we’ve only met three times.”

Him:       “Well I like you and I say those things to people I like … Can you handle that …? I’m a good guy k … Don’t be scared it’s how I roll.”

Speaking of, I may or may not have rolled my eyes.

Me:        “Yes, I know. I can tell you’re a good guy.  I’m just not so quick to form feelings for someone.”

Him:       “Well if you snooze you may lose…” (You can’t make up this shit!)

Me:        “That’s understandable.”  I thought some more.  “You do send a rather mixed message.  You say you want to take it slow, you don’t want anything serious.”

Him:       “Ok I ment I’m looking forward to spending time with you again … I can’t help the way I feel k …”

I didn’t know what to say to that and as it was getting late, I closed my book, put away my phone and went home to have that nap.  An hour or so later, while I was in the shower he called me, three times in one minute, and then sent me a text.

Him:       “Are you ignoring me now? I’m sorry things happened this way … I kinda like you and I kinda feel you’re shooting me down now…”

Me:        “I wasn’t ignoring you. I was napping, as I mentioned, and then I took a shower.”

Him:       “Sorry I assumed you were upset with me … Rightfully so though …  Have a good night, Heather …  Enjoy your time with your friends …”

I went out, and I told the drama to my friends.  That same one friend who had convinced me with such fervour to hold on and give him a chance was finally telling me I had to shake this guy, and quick.  “Stage-five clinger!” she declared.  We debated whether I should wait until the next day, but as I was supposed to go on a date with him Saturday, agreed that sooner was better.  I texted.

Me:        “You know what, I don’t think this is going to work out.  It’s probably best  we don’t meet tomorrow.  Thanks very much though, it was nice to have met you.”

An hour later, he returned my text.

Him:       “You and your friends are a bunch of squares … Talk about boring … Thanks for all you had to give … All I did was like you and you can’t handle that … Too bad you haven’t grown to accept the fact that people will like you and maybe even fall for you …  Now I feel bad for you … You have my pity …”

My boring friends and I, the squares we are, read and re-read the text with delight.  Squares!!  Who would ever have imagined such a bizarre response, or a response at all really.  I had honestly intended to just leave it at that, but I couldn’t help myself. Emboldened by my beer, a short while later, after much deliberation, I sent another text.

Me:        “Wow.  I wouldn’t have expected such an immature response. You have to realise affection is not automatically reciprocated.”

I pressed send, and waited.  Nothing.  We three heartily rejoiced at the happy occasion to be rid of such a clear and present clinger so easily. After a short discussion about the obvious bullet I had dodged, we went on to have a marvellous time and didn’t think of him again for the rest of the night.

Next morning I awoke bright eyed and bushy tailed to find my beloved Blackberry a-blinking. I had a text.  From him.  At 5:21 am he sent me the following message.  A short but carefully thought out message, that said simply and emphatically: “You suck!”

I have never laughed so hard, by myself so early on a Sunday morning, in all my life.  This will surely go down as my favourite breakup with my un-boyfriend I’ve ever had.

Since my last post, I have moved away from my tiny little recreational, resort town I was living, returning to the much, much larger oil & gas driven city from whence I came before that.  If you’re Canadian, or maybe from Texas, I’m sure you know where I mean.  Calgary, Alberta – home of the infamous Calgary Stampede and the gazillions oil and gas companies that make this province so rich.  I don’t work in that field, but in the second largest means of making cash around here: construction. Don’t worry, I’m not wielding any hammers. Oddly, amazingly – though it occurs to me now that maybe I shouldn’t be so amazed – my work actually has something to do with my education.  I get to write! Technical manuals and process handbooks and anything and everything to do with our intranet. It’s pretty cool.  I’ve already got a reputation after just two short months of being the persnickety editor and software master I have never really aspired to be, and am daily presented with reams upon reams to edit or format or problem solve and I love every single minute of it.  ”I’m sorry to bother you again,” they say, always looking apologetic when I seriously couldn’t be happier to oblige.  My red pen is at the ready.

I’m single, still or again, depending on how you view things – an area that if you’ve read this blog before, you know I’ll definitely get into more later.  In fact, for my very next post I plan to discuss my most recent, ridiculous dating experience.  Stay tuned!!

Okay, I’m sure there are a few of you that if I used my imagination really, really creatively, I could believe that you’re not, but the rest of us?  Just a bunch of whores. 

Corporate Whores, I mean. 

Most of my adult life I’ve worked in Advertising & Marketing, in some respect or another.  Media Buyer, Account Manager, Research Analyst (read:  Whore, Tramp, Slut), are all positions I’ve held in the industry.  You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?  We’re all a part of it, but advertisers, marketers, they’re the biggest corporate sluts of all.  No really, like Mary Magdalene, we spin doctors are the first in line of the long (long) line of Corporate Whores. 

You probably think I’m talking out of my ass, but listen.  Shuttup.  Listen.  Okay, Mister/Missus Literal, fucking read, but just pull up your panties and pay attention.  What does Corporate … hmm … sounds strange.  I keep trying to use a phrase other than “Corporate America”, you know, since I’m Canadian, but I can’t think of a term that suits it any better right now.  So fuckit.  Corporate America. 

What does Corporate America hope to do?  What’s the goal?  That’s right, money.  Those big-balled cock suckers’ ultimate goal in life is to make money off of ya’ll by selling you their squeaky, shiny, shrink wrapped, pointless, useless, over-processed, overrated, over-abundant goods and/or services.  We marketing savvy not only wrap up those goods up in sparkles, spangles, leather, lycra, latex and lace but we profile you, we get inside your heads and we find even more and better ways of enticing you plebs to buy more.  Buy more, we say, buy MORE!   And you do.  Here, we say, take this “membership reward card” and let us track your purchasing habits in order to figure out how to sell you even MORE and MORE and MORE!  And you do.  You take it and you buy it.  You don’t even just buy it. You actually want it.  You need it.  You motherfuckers line up to get it.  You don’t even have to know what the hell the line up is for.  Is that guy in line?  You want what he’s getting and you want a bigger one. 

Oh, you know you do. 

Uh, just in case you didn’t get it:  Corporate America are the money-grubbing pimps; marketers, the hard-working prostitutes; and the goods, sex. 

Since you brought it up, let’s talk about sex.  

Sex is good!  We all like (love) it.  Don’t we?  For the record, and I’m writing this down so you can quote me later, I am fully convinced that those of you who don’t love sex haven’t ever had a good go of it.  You just need a good tumble with someone who’s got some skills and you’ll be hooked.  Addicted.  I could recommend someone if you need you some learnin’. 

I’m not talking about prostitution, but now that I am, what the hell is so wrong with working in sex?  No really.  Why the stigma? Prostitutes are simply skilled workers offering a premium service.  You want some inexperienced tugging at your privates?  Find yourself a free date at the bar.  You want some real skills that will make your eyes roll into the back of your head and your life flash before your eyes seconds before your body is wracked in earth-shattering delight?  Why not hire a professional?  Or take some classes?  Or, perhaps, purchase a how-to video? 

If you know me, you’ve certainly heard me say that if I could do anything, anything at all, one of the things I would like to do is suntan and fuck for a living, a task I think would be very easily accomplished if I was either an outdoor daytime prostitute or some sort of nature loving porn star.  What’s stopping me?  Well, it’s winter and I live in Canada, but other than that … I can’t fucking say!  Well, yes I can.  You can’t just fuck for a living.  You know, because of the stigma.  Sure enough you can give it away for free and these days all you get is a bad reputation and everyone knows that a bad reputation really means you have a good reputation, but the second you take some hard-earned cash for it … ?  You’re stoned to death. 

Just like Mary. 

There a lot of things I’ve been called unpatriotic for, actually.  Not liking the Olympics when goddamn it they’re in Canada, not liking hockey (it’s a good ole hockey game, it’s the best game I can name), not knowing how to skate, not being much of a skier, not enjoying snow, blahdy, blahdy, blahdy blah.  I’m sure there’s more I’m not thinking of, but you know what?  I don’t give a flying fuck.  I don’t enjoy sports, neither watching nor playing, and I don’t enjoy being cold and since snow requires cold to occur, I therefore reject it’s existence. 

I’d like to say that I don’t reject the Olympics, as I do snow;  I just honestly don’t care.  However, tonight I ended up inadvertently watching the opening ceremonies.  I was at a pub, well a couple pubs, having a few drinks with friends and there it was all over the place.  Every big screen, wide-screen, plasma screen, projector screen tuned into CTV to view the cacophony.  Now, I know the opening ceremonies really have nothing to do with sports, and everything to do with pomp and circumstance, but I have to say, I liked ‘em.  Some of it was kind of hokey, but for the most part I dug the “Canada is Awesome” marketing ploy.  Did you see it?  Did you PVR it?  Did you see the ginormous spirit bear during the first nations mythology bit?  Better, did you see the part after that where they made it look like water with whales and sea otters and stuff light show thing??  It was all pretty cool.  I might even try to find that part of the ceremonies and watch it again I liked it so much.  My bar mates didn’t find it as amazing as I did, but then they don’t seem to appreciate native art as much as I do.  Their loss. 

Also cool, was watching the faces of my bar mates, as they tried to guess who would light the flame.  I enjoyed seeing the curious speculation and wonder at the possibility there could be a virtual Terry Fox running with the torch, and the even curiouser disappointment when they saw Rick Hansen roll up with it.  “Will it be Wayne?” they queried, ”Will it be Wayne?” followed by more and more disappointment every time some other Canadian athelete showed up to light their flame.  The best was the utter delight when “there he is, there’s Wayne” came into the picture.  Pure glee, I swear.  It was lovely, how they watched those Olympic moments, but frankly, what’s the deal with goddamned Wayne Gretzky?  Sure, he’s “The Great One”, I get it, but the man hasn’t lived in Canada for … how many years?  Twenty?  More?  He abandoned our cold existence for warmer climes and I’d like to know how all these defectors get to represent our country?   Where’s the national pride in that?  What is it, like the prodigal son coming home or something?  Gretzky is Canadian when it suits him; I therefore reject his existence.

Anyway, there was a lovely show, a parade of nice people from all over our enchanting little globe, some beautiful singing by some actually Canadian Canadians and I’m feeling oddly patriotic after having seen the opening ceremonies.  I think I just might find myself taking in a little ski jumping, or maybe a little speed skating over the next week or ten days, or however long the bloody thing lasts.  Who knows?  

Ah, who am I kidding?  My kind of Greek games are happily ensconced in literature.  I’m glad, I’m glad … too have … to have …

Chocolate, roses, Capital L Love, St. Valentine … and oh, don’t forget that freakish little imp sidekick o’ his, Cupid.  Who is that chubby little bastard anyway? Cupid.

Chaucer started it.  It was all about the “courtly tradition of love” back in the day.  When people – gentlemen - wrote epic letters expressing their undying love to the lovely ladies they had only just barely espied across the vast expanses of court.  When you had to ask permission of the court to marry your barely sometimes lover.  You ever read Chaucer, by the way?  As a student of literature, it was required of me and I tell you, verily I say unto thee, dear reader, Middle English chaps my ass.

But I digress. 

Geoffrey Chaucer was (supposedly, you can’t believe everything you read on the internet you know) the first MF to associate the day with lovelorn losers:

“For this was on seynt Volantynys day
Whan euery bryd cometh there to chese his make.”
[Chaucer, "Parlement of Foules," c.1381]

Well, ain’t that fucking special.

Last Valentine’s Day I went on a date.  A first date.  A first BLIND date.  No, really.  For serious.  This bird flitted merrily about in the “courtly tradition of love” (sorry, I just can’t say it without a sneer) to find her mate.  You may have already guessed by my still-single status that our romance didn’t last.  I met him on the interweb (a dating source, if you’ll recall, I have since quit.)  It was a nice date, a lovely date, a first and only date.  He was a wonderful man, but not for me. I hope he’s doing well, whatshisname.  I’m kidding. Kidding!! I remember his name and damned well I should remember it, because Greg was the first Valentine’s Day date I ever had.  Before you go imagining some Never Been Kissed story of me, remember, I’ve kissed many frogs.  Fuck, all of them.  Okay, not all, but plenty and I’ve had my share of boyfriends.  Not many, but boyfriends and even some of them lasted over the span of a Valentine’s Day (or two, or three).  However, none of them, not one of my courtly gentlemen, was the sort that felt it necessary to stop beating me with a stick and be nice to me for the one prescribed day per year.  It really doesn’t matter.  I haven’t felt neglected or unspecial or unloved.  I’m not bitter (anymore than usual, anyway.)  This isn’t an appeal.  I’m not looking for sympathy.  I’m just sayin’, mostly because I thought you’d find it amusing.  

What I really want to say, what I really want to point out, to bring to light, to make mention of, to make clear, is how much I think the concept of a special day to treat your lover like a lover is ridiculous.  I would have thought Valentine’s Day was more likely of those ”special” days invented by Hallmark or Coca Cola, like Christmas, just to sell stuff … rather than some day picked out by a bleeding heart poet to celebrate love.  Granted, I think the deal in Chaucer’s day was to choose your lover, your mate, on that particular day, which sounds like a wierd and cultish ritual too, if you ask me.  What did they do?  Rent a hall and hold a single’s social??  In modyrn tymes we don’t pick them out on that day (a point I failed to remember last Valentine’s Day), we put that one day aside to stop beating, berating and belittling our sweethearts and appear in the boudoir wearing nothing but skimpy red panties or leopard print banana hammocks.  Rowr!  Hot.

This Valentine’s Day I will spend my morning having brunch with friends, which will promptly be followed by a drunken afternoon at the pub.  Why?  Because we’re single and we don’t have to light candles and lay in a bed of rose pedals like the rest of you suckers.  We’re going to enjoy our day, without all the expense and pretense of unfulfilled wishes and ruined surprises.  I will, however, still be wearing skimpy red panties. 

I was rather lacking in imagination today, so got a beef and bean burrito at the store for lunch.  And I did it, I looked at the wrapper for the dietary information just as I was about finished eating it.   It contained 700 calories, 27 grams of fat, 82 grams of carbohydrates, and 62% of my daily intake of sodium.  I can literally feel my arteries clogging and my ass getting 62% fatter as I type this.  The only good thing about that damned burrito was that 11 grams of the carbohydrates were fibre.  Fibre is good.  Fibre is our friend.  Fibre will at least cause some of those calories to go right through me.  Thank you beans.   

Then, I did it again.  I looked at the package of black Nibs that I have been munching all morning and for one package (a small package, only 75 grams) it’s 250 calories!  250!  Not only that, but it also contains 14% of my daily intake of sodium and 57 grams of carbohydrates.  

No wonder people are so fat.  It wasn’t a large burrito and it was a small package of licorice.  Licorice is supposed to be one of the better choices because it’s fat free, but that’s a whole lot of calories for such a small package.  I guess that’s because all 57 grams of carbs are sugar.    

The average woman is supposed to consume around 2000 calories per day.  I think just my lunch today proves it’s impossible to do on any sort of quick & easy diet.

Wasn’t I just talking about quick & easy?  More proof that this tv dinner generation, this gotta have it now attitude, is just plain bad for you.

Why?  Why, why, why fucking why.  Why. (No matter how many times I say the word it doesn’t mean anything different.)

I wish I could say, “If I only knew why I could stop doing it”, but I can’t.  I know why.  I’m not stupid, I can spot a pattern.  I know what I do to myself, and I can’t stop.  You know why too, don’t you?  People set themselves up for failure because they’re afraid of what will happen if they succeed.  That’s me.  I’m a fucking failure at succeeding (I’m sure that will make sense in the morning.) I won’t be good at it.  It won’t satisfy me.  I’ll feel good about myself, finally, but it won’t be enough.  I’ll feel good about myself and the empty space made by the feeling of inadequency I’ve felt all my life will be too much to cope with. 

I love writing. It feels good to do it, and yet I spend so much wasted time looking at this blank screen.  It’s not that I don’t have enough to say. It’s not that I’m hoping someone will read my random love song and declare me genius so I’m just aching to make every word, every letter, every nuance, every fucking piece of bloody syntax meaningful and perfect. 

God, look at this.  It’s after midnight and I’ve been drinking, clearly.  Co-workers, wine, and clearly far too much truth for one evening.  All this fucking truth.  This evening was just chalk full of truth, lies and gossip.  I’m not sure where the consequences lie (truth or consequences, right?) but I’m sure they’ll become clear.  In the meantime, while I sit at home rather drunk and feeling truthy maybe we should start being truthful with myself.

I’m happy. 

And I’m so unfuckinghappy. 

Perhaps if I were less … I don’t know, aware?  Intuitive?  Educated?  Perhaps if I were just fucking -LESS- I wouldn’t mind my life so much.  I live in a nice place, have a job and in this economy shouldn’t we be thankful even just for that much?  I have friends, whom I enjoy very much and for all intents and purposes think they appear to also enjoy me very much.  I’m housed, I’m bathed, I’m fed, I’m watered, I’m not living in poverty.  But.

Always that goddamned fucking “but”.  But.  BUT.  Why can’t I just be thankful for what I’ve got?  One of my (former) coworkers told me tonight about her life before moving to Canada and all I could think of was how lucky I am to have been born and raised in a country of such marvelous opportunity.  But.  I just don’t feel opportunistic.  You know?

I know. I’m an ungrateful asshole. 

Yup.

Anyway. 

I write the titles of these posts before I begin, with a topic in mind.  The title usually acts as a beacon to guide me through the fog that is my thoughts, but writing drunk has very clearly shoved a big ole sock over my beacon, because I meant to write about dating.  Remember dating?  Another subject I’m oh, so bloody good at. 

I’ve recently cancelled my online dating profiles. 

I can’t stand it anymore, going on dates.  I can’t stand telling my story over and over again, ad naseum.  You know the story:  I’m from here.  I moved there.  I’m this old.  I look like this.  I like to do that.  I’ve achieved this.  I want to do that.  Look at my crooked smile and my pretty hair, don’t you want to be with me?

Ugh.  People think of online dating as the place to go when you don’t know where else to meet people.  But seriously.  Seriously.  Do you really think that online dating is the place to go to meet your … your … your lobster?  How much truth is really out there when you can say anything, be anything, and do anything you want to, with words?  Look at these words.  They have no measure of truthiness (thanks, W).  Words are slaves to their masters, not willing representatives.  Yes, there are many out there that don’t know what to do with them at all, but there is an equal of a measure of those that do.  I’ll be the first to tell you, if you haven’t gathered this information about me already, that I’m a sucker for words. Well, I’ve learned not to spend (waste) too much time talking to people I’ve met online via email or texts because I’m a goddamned sucker for words.  I’ve also learned that you can’t tell a single goddamned thing about a person through words except what they reveal to you.   Not a thing, and I am not only tired of telling my story, I’m tired of meeting people who don’t measure up to their words.  I’m done.

I’m here to talk about marriage.

What do you think of it?  Perhaps you are married, or hope to be.  Perhaps, like a friend of mine, you’re separated and going through the stages of divorce.  I recently attended the second anniversary of what my friend calls his “emancipation”, the day his wife left him.  On that day, in celebration, we got out the charcoal barbeque, some lighter fluid and burned all of his wedding photographs.  It was an interesting experience for me.  I felt happy he was able to get to a place in his head where he could purge in this way and hell, the fire was awesome, but at the same time, while we looked at each of his memories and threw them into the pyre, I also felt a deep sense of sadness.  Not for their marriage in particular; I’ve never met her and didn’t know him before they were separated.  I felt sad, I guess, for what the institution of marriage seems to have come to mean:  Not much. 

I’ll reiterate that I don’t know her and have only known him as a bachelor, and I also acknowledge there are always two sides to the story, but from his side, she just left.  Perhaps if he did some serious soul-searching he’d understand why, but as far as he knows she packed her stuff up and vacated, never to be seen again.  Adiós.  The end.  And that’s the part that makes me sad.  It just seems like it’s too easy.  You gotta know I’m the last person to preach values and morals and hell, my parents were not only never married but I’ve never even met my father; however, it seems to me that we o’ the younger generations place the same value on marriage as we do … well, everything. 

Don’t like it anymore? Get a new one.

Not working the way you’d like it to?  Get a new one. 

Not as exciting as you’d hoped it would be?  Get a new one.

I can’t tell you how many things in my life I’ve just thrown away because it just wasn’t working for me anymore. 

How many of you took some sort of lessons as children and one day just didn’t feel like doing them anymore so refused to go?  How many of you as teenagers just had to have that (insert fantastic, expensive new fad here) and when you got it, used it for a week before you chucked it in the back of the closet with the rest of your (insert crappy, expensive piece of trash here)?  How many of you just throw something that isn’t working quite right away rather than investigate and try to fix it?

It’s the tv fucking dinners, I swear.  We’re so accustomed to instant gratification we can’t fathom actually have to expend some effort to make something happen.  Why should we, when we can snap our fingers, wiggle our nose and just make something shiny and new appear at will?  It’s so satisfying to get what you want, isn’t it?  Why shouldn’t it be that way with relationships?

I used to work with a Mormon man with whom I once had an argument about gay marriage.  His schtick was that by allowing gay and lesbian couples to marry, it was devaluing the meaning of the institution.  I should have asked him how allowing a loving, same-sex couple to marry devalues marriage any more than allowing a heterosexual couple who are going to get divorced in a year or two does. 

Seriously, how? 

Actually, how on earth hasn’t it been longer?  I’m sure I’m not that busy, am I?

Maybe I am.  I certainly don’t have the time real estate that I had back when I used to write this shit.  Hell, I didn’t have it then, but I had a job that  I could a) make puppies at aalllll day long and no one would be the wiser, and b) one that didn’t track internet usage.  Goddamned internet usage tracking she-devils!  Who do you think you are, forcing me to comply with productivity measures?!  Especially when I produce the shit out of that shit.  I seriously don’t even know what my coworkers do all day, because they seem to work and work and work and never really get anything done.  Last week, I covered for my colleague while she was away, and finished in one day the work that it takes her to do in a week.  Literally.  Not even shitting you.  I have no  idea what she did the rest of the week, but that’s not my concern.  My concern is that it’s pretty clear I could be fucking the dog a little harder at my job.  My question to you is, dear reader, what on earth do you do with your slacker-assed time when you can’t surf the net all day? 

You may have noted that I called the internet usage trackers “she-devils”.  Perhaps I’m being … genderist, but you just know some woman came up with that shit.  Bitches.  Men couldn’t care less what you did with your time at the office as long as you get it done, get it done well, and if you’re screwing someone atop the photocopier, it had better be them.  Bitches, they nickle and dime the hell out of your office time.  KPI’s we keep at my office.  That’s right, Key Performance Indicators, also known as fucking time sheets.  We log our hours down to the quarter with every activity we do.  These, dear office gods, are a joke.  I don’t know one person that under duress wouldn’t admit that s/he either made it all up or just generally made his or her time match the week before with the odd adjustment here or there.  Except maybe the aforementioned coworker that takes a hundred years to do everything.  She means it when she logs those hours, and I tell you, it’s a goddamned embarrassment.  She should be embarrassed by the shit she puts in there.  Last week she logged fifteen minutes to copy a spreadsheet.  Copy it!  You know, like right-click, copy, paste?  Yeah.

I’ve never worked in an office with so many people before, but it really is like in the movies. Think Office Space.  There’s a few core people who don’t suck and the rest are a bunch of incompetent fuck wads.  You know, there’s the type I mentioned above, that pours their heart and soul into their job just to fail miserably at it on a daily basis, and then there’s the type that started off that way and has managed to work their way up to “supervisor” after seventeen or twenty-two years and though they know absolutely nothing about the way business, any business, not even the one they work in, works, nor anything about the actual functionalities of the position they are lording over you, they think they know it all and are going to talk to you like you’re three to make their teeny, tiny, insignificant selves feel like the big man on campus.  Or woman.  Let’s not be genderist more than once per post, shall we?

Welly, well.  I didn’t intend to rant, but I suppose that’s what this place is for isn’t it?  Là pour moi.  To rant, ramble, rave, ravage and rhyme my way into some semblance of sanity.  Or at least, alliterate my little heart out, oui?

In case I don’t see you again before Friday, have a Happy Xmas, and in the words of the immortal Doctor D, “Don’t take any wooden nickles.”