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Like a waterfall in slow motion, Part One
1 year ago
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Steve the Landlord
I've been doing a little bit of cat-sitting lately - a small favour for my friends C&G, who have looked in on my feline Spawn of Satan on occasion. And as a result, I have now met Steve the Landlord, who lives in the apartment below C&G's. Here's how we met:
On the first day of my cat-sitting stint, I arrived at the house to find Steve in the front yard mucking around in the garden. I introduced myself as the cat-sitter and proceeded to the front door where I fumbled around with the alleged front-door key like the mechanically challenged nitwit that I am. Steve, who appeared to be a COMPLETELY NORMAL PERSON, noticed that I was having trouble with the keys and offered to let me into the house.
I went upstairs, did the usual cat-sitting-related activities, watered the plants, and headed downstairs. Then, I knocked on Steve's door to let him know that I was leaving (so that he could lock the door behind me). And when he answered the door...
STEVE WAS NAKED.
Not just a little naked. But freshly-showered-with-a-towel-slung-over-his-shoulder naked. On purpose naked. Steve's junk was just a'wavin' in the breeze:
Me [oh my god, are you NAKED?]: Oh. Um. You're... Hi... uh, hi there! Sorry to bother you!
Steve: Oh don't worry, you're not bothering me.
Me [Jesus Christ, you ARE naked. What the FUCK?]: I just wanted to let you know that I'm... uh. I'm leaving! So I guess you can lock the door when you, um, when you get a minute.
Steve: Okay, thanks. Do you need me to let you in again tomorrow?
Me [What, so that I can see your unsightly testicles hanging there like the last chicken in the shop again tomorrow? I think not]: NO! No, no. I'll get a set of keys from someone else. Thanksforyourhelpbyenow.
Steve [waiving enthusiastically]: Bye!
Steve taped an apologetic letter to the front door the next day, which I appreciated. But the official explanation was that I 'caught him off guard'. Uh... yeah. What the fuck, Steve? Ever heard of using the little known phrase 'just a second'?
Surprisingly, the top response to this story has been 'Was he cute? Is he single?' But you know what, Internet? I'm pretty sure The Dude is not someone who greets strangers at the door in his alltogethers.
On the first day of my cat-sitting stint, I arrived at the house to find Steve in the front yard mucking around in the garden. I introduced myself as the cat-sitter and proceeded to the front door where I fumbled around with the alleged front-door key like the mechanically challenged nitwit that I am. Steve, who appeared to be a COMPLETELY NORMAL PERSON, noticed that I was having trouble with the keys and offered to let me into the house.
I went upstairs, did the usual cat-sitting-related activities, watered the plants, and headed downstairs. Then, I knocked on Steve's door to let him know that I was leaving (so that he could lock the door behind me). And when he answered the door...
STEVE WAS NAKED.
Not just a little naked. But freshly-showered-with-a-towel-slung-over-his-shoulder naked. On purpose naked. Steve's junk was just a'wavin' in the breeze:
Me [oh my god, are you NAKED?]: Oh. Um. You're... Hi... uh, hi there! Sorry to bother you!
Steve: Oh don't worry, you're not bothering me.
Me [Jesus Christ, you ARE naked. What the FUCK?]: I just wanted to let you know that I'm... uh. I'm leaving! So I guess you can lock the door when you, um, when you get a minute.
Steve: Okay, thanks. Do you need me to let you in again tomorrow?
Me [What, so that I can see your unsightly testicles hanging there like the last chicken in the shop again tomorrow? I think not]: NO! No, no. I'll get a set of keys from someone else. Thanksforyourhelpbyenow.
Steve [waiving enthusiastically]: Bye!
Steve taped an apologetic letter to the front door the next day, which I appreciated. But the official explanation was that I 'caught him off guard'. Uh... yeah. What the fuck, Steve? Ever heard of using the little known phrase 'just a second'?
Surprisingly, the top response to this story has been 'Was he cute? Is he single?' But you know what, Internet? I'm pretty sure The Dude is not someone who greets strangers at the door in his alltogethers.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
How Could You Just Leave Me Standing Alone in a World That's So Cold?
When I was a kid, roped into attending church services every Sunday morning and Wednesday night to hear sermons about sin and redemption and forgiveness, I never really understood why everyone got so jazzed up about Judas. Okay, yeah, he sold his buddy Jesus up the river. And that's not cool. But he wasn't the one who drove in the nails. What about the dudes with the hammers? Shouldn't we be focusing all of our wrath on those guys?
But now I know: betrayal changes everything.
I saw my ex-husband today for the first time in five years. If you told my 23-year-old self about the conversation we had - less than a minute of pleasantries between strangers - she would have used words like 'not us' and 'never' and 'impossible'. And yet there we stood, completely unknown to each other now, despite our promises to love and honour and cherish for a lifetime.
The events that transpired, the things that were said and done to bring us to today's strange and remote exchange can never be accurately described. But betrayal was the root of it.
The realization that you've been sold up the river by the person who's supposed to have your back is a transformative moment. It changes you, it brings you to your knees, it lays you bare. What you chose to do from that moment on, though - and what you chose to do every day after that - well, that is what defines you as the new person you have now become. Will you become smaller and meaner until you can taste the bitterness of betrayal in every conversation you have with every person you meet? Or will you conquer the world with your eyes wide open to the complexity of human nature and your Slightly Blackened Heart-of-Gold made resilient by virtues of the fires of adversity?
Internet, I think you gotta go with the latter. Am I wrong?
But now I know: betrayal changes everything.
I saw my ex-husband today for the first time in five years. If you told my 23-year-old self about the conversation we had - less than a minute of pleasantries between strangers - she would have used words like 'not us' and 'never' and 'impossible'. And yet there we stood, completely unknown to each other now, despite our promises to love and honour and cherish for a lifetime.
The events that transpired, the things that were said and done to bring us to today's strange and remote exchange can never be accurately described. But betrayal was the root of it.
The realization that you've been sold up the river by the person who's supposed to have your back is a transformative moment. It changes you, it brings you to your knees, it lays you bare. What you chose to do from that moment on, though - and what you chose to do every day after that - well, that is what defines you as the new person you have now become. Will you become smaller and meaner until you can taste the bitterness of betrayal in every conversation you have with every person you meet? Or will you conquer the world with your eyes wide open to the complexity of human nature and your Slightly Blackened Heart-of-Gold made resilient by virtues of the fires of adversity?
Internet, I think you gotta go with the latter. Am I wrong?
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Instant Messaging: An Open Letter
Dear Horatio T. Millionaire-
First of all, nobody believes you're really a millionaire. I would suggest you try a more standard internet dating lie. Here are a few ideas:
Also: you should think about cutting back on the porn. Bow chicca bow-bow BOOOOOW.
Love,
ProngTwo
First of all, nobody believes you're really a millionaire. I would suggest you try a more standard internet dating lie. Here are a few ideas:
- I'm 6'2" (actual height: 5'8")
- I work out every day (actual work-out schedule: three times per year)
- Here is a recent photo (photo circa 1993)
- I'm an actor (actual occupation: waiter)
- I love all kinds of food (will only eat meat and potatoes. If they are not touching each other on the plate. Sauce of any kind will be met with shrieks of horror. Salt is the only 'spice' that is acceptable. Vegetables? Ugh. You're not one of those VEGANS are you??)
- I'm an actor (actual occupation: lawyer)
- I have a great sense of humour (thinks puns are hilarious)
Also: you should think about cutting back on the porn. Bow chicca bow-bow BOOOOOW.
Love,
ProngTwo
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
The House Guests
Not much progress on ProngTwo this week, Internet. But for good reason! First, Hurratio XVII died. Which was obviously very tragic.
And then I had house guests.
They were the kind of house guests that happen to you. You know what I mean. The ones who call up and say "hey, great news! We're coming to visit you!" and you're all "wait... what? Who is this again?" But then you're too much of a pussy to just tell them that they're not really invited.
Let me start by saying that no matter how uninvited or intolerable the guest, I am a staunch defender of the Art of Hosting: guests must be made to feel welcome and comfortable at any cost. But I have paid dearly for this conviction. Oh yes, I HAVE PAID.
I thought it would be sort of tolerably lame. But OH GOD. It was one of the worst, longest, most relentlessly irritating weekends of my entire life. It is a miracle of epic proportions that I did not murder anyone or just throw myself in front of the subway.
It wasn't bad enough that they insisted that I accompany them to every single tourist-infested 'attraction' in the area (we went to the ROM and the CN Tower and the Science Centre AND the zoo!) For those of you who don't know me, I'm really more of a lounging-around-at-home-in-my-scanties type of weekender. Add a couple of clowns to the ROM/CN Tower/Science Centre/Zoo scenario, and you have a classic ProngTwo nightmare.
It wasn't bad enough that they commandeered my lone bedroom (with fan) so that I was forced to sleep, in the stifling heat, on the couch. And by 'sleep on the couch', I mean that I did not sleep for the entire duration of their four-day visit.
It wasn't enough that they are jointly allergic/averse to almost every ingredient on the planet, making it virtually impossible to cook a meal that everyone would 'safely' agree to consume. My teeth were ground down to tiny stumps while I attempted to buy groceries and prepare individually agreeable allergen-free home-cooked meals three times per day in between all the sight-seeing.
It wasn't enough that the 10-year-old daughter, while insisting that we visit each and every landmark in the city, ceaselessly complained that her legs were sore, she was too hot, the air smelled bad, the subway was too crowded, she was hungry, she was thirsty, she wanted her picture taken, she didn't want her picture taken, she didn't like the meals that were prepared for her, homeless people were weird, the animals at the zoo weren't moving around enough, the useless crap that had just been purchased for her wasn't as amusing as it should be, etc, etc.
Oh no! Sunday morning, just as I had finally drifted off to sleep at around 5:30 am, The Mom clomped into the living room, sat down on the couch next to my head and shuffled around until I was forced to 'wake up'. Then, she proceeded to regale me with the details of her childhood abuse and consequent therapy. For FOUR HOURS. There was no escape. Believe me I tried. I would've just burned the apartment down, but I couldn't get 30 seconds away from her to find the damn matches:
The Mom: I mean, I've been really trying to work through my issues with my Dad. But...
Me: Wow! Will you look at the time! Maybe we should wake up The Daughter and get this show on the road!
The Mom: Oh, let's just let her sleep. She's pretty tried after the CN Tower and the museum yesterday. She should rest up for the zoo and the science centre today. We really do want to see everything! So anyway, then my therapist brought up the idea of doing a victim statement...
Me: ...
I literally skipped out of Pearson Airport on Monday morning. If I'd had bunches of flowers, I'd have flung the petals hither and yon with festive flare.
That being said, a House Guest Disaster Relief Program has been implemented in the form of music-playing, laundry, sleeping (IN MY OWN BED) and assorted bouts of non-tourist-trap-related shenanigans. Regular ProngTwo operations will be back in effect in short order.
And then I had house guests.
They were the kind of house guests that happen to you. You know what I mean. The ones who call up and say "hey, great news! We're coming to visit you!" and you're all "wait... what? Who is this again?" But then you're too much of a pussy to just tell them that they're not really invited.
Let me start by saying that no matter how uninvited or intolerable the guest, I am a staunch defender of the Art of Hosting: guests must be made to feel welcome and comfortable at any cost. But I have paid dearly for this conviction. Oh yes, I HAVE PAID.
I thought it would be sort of tolerably lame. But OH GOD. It was one of the worst, longest, most relentlessly irritating weekends of my entire life. It is a miracle of epic proportions that I did not murder anyone or just throw myself in front of the subway.
It wasn't bad enough that they insisted that I accompany them to every single tourist-infested 'attraction' in the area (we went to the ROM and the CN Tower and the Science Centre AND the zoo!) For those of you who don't know me, I'm really more of a lounging-around-at-home-in-my-scanties type of weekender. Add a couple of clowns to the ROM/CN Tower/Science Centre/Zoo scenario, and you have a classic ProngTwo nightmare.
It wasn't bad enough that they commandeered my lone bedroom (with fan) so that I was forced to sleep, in the stifling heat, on the couch. And by 'sleep on the couch', I mean that I did not sleep for the entire duration of their four-day visit.
It wasn't enough that they are jointly allergic/averse to almost every ingredient on the planet, making it virtually impossible to cook a meal that everyone would 'safely' agree to consume. My teeth were ground down to tiny stumps while I attempted to buy groceries and prepare individually agreeable allergen-free home-cooked meals three times per day in between all the sight-seeing.
It wasn't enough that the 10-year-old daughter, while insisting that we visit each and every landmark in the city, ceaselessly complained that her legs were sore, she was too hot, the air smelled bad, the subway was too crowded, she was hungry, she was thirsty, she wanted her picture taken, she didn't want her picture taken, she didn't like the meals that were prepared for her, homeless people were weird, the animals at the zoo weren't moving around enough, the useless crap that had just been purchased for her wasn't as amusing as it should be, etc, etc.
Oh no! Sunday morning, just as I had finally drifted off to sleep at around 5:30 am, The Mom clomped into the living room, sat down on the couch next to my head and shuffled around until I was forced to 'wake up'. Then, she proceeded to regale me with the details of her childhood abuse and consequent therapy. For FOUR HOURS. There was no escape. Believe me I tried. I would've just burned the apartment down, but I couldn't get 30 seconds away from her to find the damn matches:
The Mom: I mean, I've been really trying to work through my issues with my Dad. But...
Me: Wow! Will you look at the time! Maybe we should wake up The Daughter and get this show on the road!
The Mom: Oh, let's just let her sleep. She's pretty tried after the CN Tower and the museum yesterday. She should rest up for the zoo and the science centre today. We really do want to see everything! So anyway, then my therapist brought up the idea of doing a victim statement...
Me: ...
I literally skipped out of Pearson Airport on Monday morning. If I'd had bunches of flowers, I'd have flung the petals hither and yon with festive flare.
That being said, a House Guest Disaster Relief Program has been implemented in the form of music-playing, laundry, sleeping (IN MY OWN BED) and assorted bouts of non-tourist-trap-related shenanigans. Regular ProngTwo operations will be back in effect in short order.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Hurratio XVII
Hurratio XVII is probably dead. I say this because we had a fabulous first date, complete with excellent witty banter, a captivating and sincere discussion about our respective careers/passions, and a decent amount of hockey-related trash talking. I'm pretty sure even the waitress wanted us to have a second date - that's how awesome date number one was. Consequently, this is how we ended the evening:
HXVII: So listen, I had a really great time. Can we do this again sometime?
Me: Me too - I'd love to meet up again soon!
HXVII: What's your schedule looking like next week?
Me: I have house guests arriving on Thursday, but sometime before that would be great!
HXVII: So... should I call you?
Me: Definitely! You've got my number, right?
HXVII: [getting out his cell phone]: Let me just make sure I've got it... it's 416-xxx-xxxx, right?
Me: Right.
HXVII: Okay, I've got your number! Talk to you soon?
Me: Talk to you soon.
And... NOTHING. Not a call, not a text, not even one of those pathetic OKCupid winks. Just a long blank silence. Which means he died, right? Sudden coronary, traffic accident, lightening: something like that. I mean, I haven't been perusing the obituaries, because I don't want to invade Hurratio XVII's right to a private, stalker-free memorial service. But I'm thinking he's definitely bit it sometime in the last seven days. RIGHT?
HXVII: So listen, I had a really great time. Can we do this again sometime?
Me: Me too - I'd love to meet up again soon!
HXVII: What's your schedule looking like next week?
Me: I have house guests arriving on Thursday, but sometime before that would be great!
HXVII: So... should I call you?
Me: Definitely! You've got my number, right?
HXVII: [getting out his cell phone]: Let me just make sure I've got it... it's 416-xxx-xxxx, right?
Me: Right.
HXVII: Okay, I've got your number! Talk to you soon?
Me: Talk to you soon.
And... NOTHING. Not a call, not a text, not even one of those pathetic OKCupid winks. Just a long blank silence. Which means he died, right? Sudden coronary, traffic accident, lightening: something like that. I mean, I haven't been perusing the obituaries, because I don't want to invade Hurratio XVII's right to a private, stalker-free memorial service. But I'm thinking he's definitely bit it sometime in the last seven days. RIGHT?
Friday, July 2, 2010
Updates
The Lead Guitarist
Well. I finally decided on A's 'balls out' approach to the LG situation and just asked him if he wanted to meet up. The reply from LG was that he would definitely love to set something up (YES), but he will also be busy all summer (WHAT?). The Wing Woman asserts that LG is actually busy all summer and has a variety legit/complicated issues to contend with that will get in the way of his doing any summertime dating. I strongly suspect LG is employing Dating Guideline Number Three. Either way, a date with LG is probably not on the horizon. I have officially put the ball in LG's court and now I'm walking away. Perhaps he will bean me in the back of the head with the ball and take us all by surprise. But if I were you, I wouldn't wait for it.
Hobbits
Conversation my friend had with her autistic son after discussing The Hobbit Story with him:
Mom: So what did we learn from this story?
Son: If a hobbit comes to the door and I manage to catch him, don't lock him in my room.
The Interwebs
Did you know that going on eleven frillion blind dates with single guys who are mainly employed in the tech industry and consequently are a thousand times better at writing HTML than conversing with a real live woman can remove your Will to Live? Yeah. I took a little break from the interwebs dating over the past month. This freed up my time for some very important activities:
I'm meeting up with Hurratio XVII at Margret tonight, 8pm.
Well. I finally decided on A's 'balls out' approach to the LG situation and just asked him if he wanted to meet up. The reply from LG was that he would definitely love to set something up (YES), but he will also be busy all summer (WHAT?). The Wing Woman asserts that LG is actually busy all summer and has a variety legit/complicated issues to contend with that will get in the way of his doing any summertime dating. I strongly suspect LG is employing Dating Guideline Number Three. Either way, a date with LG is probably not on the horizon. I have officially put the ball in LG's court and now I'm walking away. Perhaps he will bean me in the back of the head with the ball and take us all by surprise. But if I were you, I wouldn't wait for it.
Hobbits
Conversation my friend had with her autistic son after discussing The Hobbit Story with him:
Mom: So what did we learn from this story?
Son: If a hobbit comes to the door and I manage to catch him, don't lock him in my room.
The Interwebs
Did you know that going on eleven frillion blind dates with single guys who are mainly employed in the tech industry and consequently are a thousand times better at writing HTML than conversing with a real live woman can remove your Will to Live? Yeah. I took a little break from the interwebs dating over the past month. This freed up my time for some very important activities:
- Season Six of The Sopranos.
- Drinking multiple gin and tonics (with cucumber) in the back yard with impunity, having no place to drive to or be sober for in the foreseeable future.
- Sorting out of differences with The Cat: we had a very terrible fight over my repeated absences, wherein we both said and did things we regretted such as biting (him), name calling (me), and throwing large plastic cat toys (me again). My dating hiatus has allowed us to cement our reconciliation. And by reconciliation, I mean that the biting, name calling and throwing is back down to reasonable levels.
I'm meeting up with Hurratio XVII at Margret tonight, 8pm.
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