Adventures in the Café

Panties

G sent me a message the other day indicating that she had been broken up with by her young man. He's a few years younger than she is, and apparently pretty immature as evidenced by the way he chose to end things. Perhaps he was raised by wolves, perhaps he had laryngitis, or perhaps he is the Hammer's Reigning Panty. Whatever the reason was, he decided to break up with G via email.

This implies a decided lack of effort and respect. Not to mention a total lack of balls. She has decided not to respond to him at all, but rather chalk it up to a loss. I agree with her maturity and respect her for it. I, however, would love to start sending one liners to him citing the various synonyms of female genitalia that describe him perfectly. Bridget Jones' Diary introduced us to the term "fuckwit" and never has it been more applicable than in today's dating climate. A climate wherein people are more circumspect about the level of involvement, emotional attachment, and interaction they have with members of the opposite sex.

Some people just want a fling, some want relationships, some want a partnership, some want a mate, and if you're the women I used to work with you want men who do shift work so that they're barely around, but boy, when they are...Have you really paid attention to firemen lately? Utterly lickable.

When G told me about this I was angry for her and I asked the boy I'm seeing to promise me that if he was going to break up with me he'd do it over the phone or in person, and not via email. He didn't really respond in the desired fashion. "Oh my, God, of course not! That's so rude." Fine, fair enough, but I was really hoping for something along the lines of, "I would never do that, and I would never break up with you either because you are my sun, my moon, my starlit sky. Without you I wither in darkness. Tonight let me worship you in my arms!" I really liked Val Kilmer in Willow. I really like Val Kilmer.

I'm usually the dumper, but on occasion have found myself as the dumpee. When Dave the Third dumped me it was less of a true break up than a "I'll call you when I get out of the shower." To my knowledge the poor bastard drowned in there because I never got that call.

The ending of my most recent relationship went much better than expected to the point where I was given presents. It was close to Valentine's Day and he was honest enough with himself to realize that he'd never take the stuff back, so I got it anyway. It's a surreal experience to receive gifts for breaking someone's heart.

Of course you're going to hurt someone's feelings when you break up with them. It's rejection and that is painful, but more hurtful is the lingering death throes of a doomed relationship. The kind where you just let it drag on and on and continue to let your feelings get hurt by the indifference of someone who is too chicken to just say that they don't think it's happening; you're not the one for them. I hate that, rather than stewing and ignoring and avoiding, just say. And this applies to both parties. There's no reason why the person who's sitting around wondering what's going on and why the other person seems so withdrawn to show a little spine and decide that they're not going to put up with shit anymore.

At any rate, everyone hears this, but it's completely true of G. His loss, so, so his loss. And G, if you feel any sort of negative emotion whatsoever you can comfort yourself with this much-loved schlocky expression of Oprah's: "he is a child of God put on this earth to teach you a lesson no one else could." Like how to be a panty.

Random Thoughts and Updates
 
I guess it’s pretty obvious that I’m back at work now.  I’ve really been trying, but haven’t been able to make it past the half day mark. I’ve come in each day with every intention of making it until five, only to kuck out at one. Except for yesterday, that is, yesterday I stayed until four. Then, while driving home and stuck in construction related traffic I almost started to cry because I wanted to be home in bed so badly. This Mono’s a tenacious little disease.
 
They seemed to have done just fine in my absence, though someone was brought in to help during the two weeks I was at home sweating and sleeping. Coffee proved to be the biggest stumbling block. Both my boss and CL could not manage to make coffee without having it all boil over and create a giant mocha lake. It’s so gratifying to be indispensable.
 
When is Linkin Park going to come out with a nice love song, or rock ballad, or something? All of these doom and gloom songs about conformity and being misled are getting tiresome. It’s high time Linkin Park mixed it up a bit by doing a Neil Sedaka cover song. You know, just to prove that they are true artists who can rise to a creative challenge.
 
The situation with the cats has also normalized. After two weeks of being home, three days of quarantine in my room (yeah, two weeks? Didn’t happen. I paroled her after two days and she was fine. I couldn’t handle the litter box in my room any longer than that), and the constant vigilance of Subterranean Septic Removal Services (me) everyone is now crapping exactly where they should be.
 
In an interesting and unpleasant twist of media news, Sara and Nick have apparently been canned for breach of contract and they might not be on CSI next season. I don’t like Sara much, but Nicki! Th’art cruel, Fate. He’s not as lickable as Warrick, but still, he wouldn’t get kicked out of bed for eating crackers. They’ll either work the problem out and give the kids more cash, they’ll be written out, or they’ll be replaced – which is always weird.
 
I’m feeling sucky and sorry for myself today, because people have fun plans for the weekend and I am still “resting quietly.” Can I just say how fucking sick I am of resting quietly? It eats. Friends and loved ones are being nice and supportive, and they’re coming to play with me when they can, but still, it’s lonely and it’s boring. I have lots of books to read, but all I want to do is go hiking. Sadly, after half an hour on a treadmill I’m ready for a little lie down, so heading off into the woods isn’t my best bet. The wolves would be circling in less than ten minutes. “Hey, check it out, let’s pick off the one with the puffy spleen!”
 
If anybody reading this happens to know who sings the song, “Say Hello, Wave Good-Bye,” could they please drop me a line and let me know? Thanks.
 
I have purchased one of those Oral B Hummingbird thingies in an effort to be more vigilant with respect to dental hygiene. Maybe I’ve been watching too many Sex and the City reruns on TBS, but if things don’t work out between me and the Hummingbird in terms of dental care I can think of something else to use it for. Good Lord. Do you suppose they considered this facet during product development? I think I’ve figured out how to…entertain… myself tonight after all!
 
And finally, my employers went to France for a conference and very thoughtfully brought me back a gift. There are chocolates, they’re good, and there’s a shirt. Coming soon, to a garage sale near you, is a one of a kind (at least I hope it is) tank top. It’s sort of a mottled beige and grey, with larger than average rivets on the shoulders. That in itself would be fine, but for the design on the front. It’s an embroidered Holly Hobby meets Eurotrash combination of three female gardeners and their equipment. SO nice of them to think of me, but really, you shouldn’t have…I’m a bad person.

Happily Ever After

It has been argued that women are unhappy in their romantic relationships because they have been programmed with unrealistic expectations from books and other forms of media.

Our earliest examples of romance, aside from our parents, come from fairy tales in which people who don’t really know each other end up together after a certain amount of adventure and danger and they live “happily ever after.” Disney makes movies about these sorts of things all the time. Harlequin sells millions of books a year peddling the same sort of tale, except that they talk about loins and nipples more.

It’s always what happens after that’s the problem. After the adventure and after the first kisses and first everythings you move into the great unknown. Relationships take work, but we wouldn’t know about that, all we know is happily ever after. We want spontaneity and first kisses, and fun, and excitement, and dragons. We don’t want Prince Charming to grow a pot belly and sit around watching football all the time and complaining about the bad back he has from all the dragon slaying and castle storming he did as a tot. And we certainly don’t want our sagging bodies, the pinched look of disappointment we get more often now, or the shrill tone our voices take on when we’re angry.

Happily ever after is just too vague, too non-committal and it doesn’t do us any favours. Because of getting wrapped up in these stories women subconsciously adopt the belief that if they are patient “it” will happen to them too. How many disappointed people are there out there as a result?

Disney’s The Little Mermaid. Okay, so she realizes her dream of becoming human and goes off and marries the handsome prince. No one comes right out and says happily ever after, but it can be assumed. It’s a good thing that they don’t say it, because there is no way in hell that they COULD live such an idyllic life. His is a coastal village, likely with a maritime based economy. Sailing and fishing are their bread and butter; they wouldn’t just depend on the sea for their own food, but also for their economic well being. How long before this became a major issue for the happy couple? She’d either have to become a total sellout and disassociate herself from her heritage, or else he would have to plunge the kingdom into financial ruin to appease her. Then there would likely be a coup d’etat and no one’s idea of happily ever after ends with heads on spikes on the castle wall.

Snow White. Try and tell me, just try, that after listening to that voice for a week straight that Prince Charming wouldn’t be either an alcoholic or a wife beater. I could hardly make it through the movie without it happening to me.

In all of these movies, give or take, none of these couples take the time to form a lasting foundation of love and respect to ensure them a happy relationship. As such emphasis is placed on destiny and the assumption of happily ever after. Little girls don’t stand a chance against this ideological barrage. You have to be pretty, graceful, kind, good with animals, brave, feisty, and yet needy, to snag prince charming, who has to be able to rescue you from something in order that his self-worth be actualized. Once you have him, good luck!

It just doesn’t seem fair.

Fun, Fun, Fun

G and I were talking last night about hanging out. I’m on the wrong side of the GTA, and as such, visiting people takes a lot of planning. When I lived in Edmonton, if I felt like visiting someone for coffee or whatever all I had to do was walk around the corner. Here if I want to have coffee with someone I have to borrow a transponder and drive for an hour. It just doesn’t seem worth it for a two-dollar cup of coffee, if I’m going to drive out there I want an event, and possibly a parade.

We decided that I need to make friends who are closer, and it’s so true. She suggested I create flyers to attract young, like-minded people to my cause. Then we wondered if that might not be taken the wrong way. In this way the Giant Mocha Orgy was born. We’ll take over a Second Cup close by and we’ll smear caramel corretto all over each other, then we will take turns licking it off. This will probably be our second meeting, because meeting one will be “get-to-know-you” games. “Think of an adjective that has the same letter as the first letter of your name, then repeat everyone’s name and their descriptor who came before you! Ready? Okay!”

It’s fun to have a car to be selective about. I got my first car ever in March, before that I contented myself (if that’s possible) with public transit and mooching off family. There are so many wonderful perks to having a car. I never have to listen to anything I don’t want to hear on the radio - I am in control. I can leave parties or gatherings whenever I want. I can put obnoxious stuffed animals in the windows, Kleenex boxes in the back seat, and novelty mud flaps with Winnie the Pooh or Taz on them if I so choose. As the captain of this vessel, my word is law.

It’s nice to be able to go wherever I want whenever I want, though I rarely seem to. As is the case with driving an hour to have coffee with someone, sure I CAN, but is it a good idea to? Not necessarily, and it’s not just a laziness factor, there’s a cheapness factor as well. Gas is expensive, so is maintenance, insurance, and my vanity plates.

Predictably, my family had some interesting cars growing up. I don’t remember all of them, just my favourites, but my parents did have a tale or two of the cars they drove when they were growing up. My mother’s were the best. She drove a Gremlin and a Roadrunner, I believe, as well as a Nash Metropolitan. The Nash Metropolitan will always be funny because of Dave Barry, who wrote about the cars his father used to drive, among which the Metropolitan features prominently. Dave Barry is a funny, funny man.

We used to have a Dodge Dart. It was a bilious green colour, and was not the most reliable of cars, but my father liked it. We also had a gray Ford Ltd. Station wagon, which was later dubbed the “war wagon” by some of Val’s friends. It certainly looked like it had been through a war.

During highschool Val and I drove to school in a black 1999 Ford Mustang, which was pretty cool right up until I crashed it. One day Val was going to pick our father up from work, and he was looking pretty swanky. It was a warm spring day and he was wearing shades and had the window rolled down. He was likely listening to 102.1, the Edge, which was THE radio station for angst-ridden angry teenage music. He told the story to us later, and I kicked myself for not having been there, he pulled a cigarette from the pack and put it in his mouth while he waited at a light. The other people waiting likely weren’t paying attention, so when he brought the lighter up to the cigarette and flicked it they didn’t see the two-foot jet of flame that shot from the lighter directly up his nose. The cigarette flew from his mouth, and the sunglasses were knocked unceremoniously from his head as he clamped his hands to his scorched nose and howled. I like to imagine that the light turned just then and someone honked at him to hurry up.

Everyone who’s taken public transit, even if it was only one time, has got a story. I have used public transit in many countries for a great many years, and it doesn’t really bother me that much. The wait is horrible but if you have a book or a Discman you can live with it. It’s certainly much nicer to be reading than staring at the back of someone’s bumper wishing death upon him or her and all of its descendants. I was on a bus in Edmonton one day when two women were having a very loud argument about whether one of the women was disturbed enough to be attending a schizophrenia support group. It seems to me that if someone is willing to make a case for their inclusion, that they should be allowed to attend.

One thing that never failed to astonish me about using public transit was people talking on their cell phones. “Hi, I’m on the bus. THE BUS. Yeah. We just turned a corner. Now we’re stopping. What? Oh. About fifteen minutes.” I felt so privileged to be included in their day as, I’m sure, did the rest of the commuting population.

So the long and short of it is that I’m glad to have a car, and I appreciate it. I waited almost three decades before having my own means of transportation. This doesn’t mean that I’ll never take public transit again, far from it, driving in downtown Toronto eats, but it’s nice to know that if I feel the need to drive to Guelph for coffee, I can!

Time for a ZZZZZ…

I’ve been kind of out of the loop lately, and I want to fire off an entry quickly before I need to take another nap. I was diagnosed with mono last week, and even thinking makes me tired. You’d think that I’d be writing like a fiend, that I would have accomplished so much, but what with the whole needing to sleep so often, it hasn’t happened quite like that.

Mono is officially no fun, although it does have a few perks. Initially my appetite was non-existent, so I was pretty psyched about losing all kinds of weight while I was sick. Sadly, it’s returned, and since I can’t really exercise too much or my spleen will explode, I’m going to turn into a killer whale. You get to sleep as much as you want whenever you want without feeling guilty about it. I’m sleeping about ten hours a night and I have two two hour naps a day. If it weren’t for the laziness thing, I’d be loving it. There is, however, something decidedly depressing about going to sleep before the one year old baby, waking up after him, and napping more than he does.

When I am awake I’m tired, and therefore don’t have a lot of energy to put into the things I’d love to be doing if I weren’t sick and listless. I’d write so much, I’d paint the kitchen, I’d exercise like a fiend, I’d go hiking, I’d make mosaics, I’d single-handedly find a cure for world hunger! Of course if I weren’t sick and listless I’d be at work and wouldn't be able to do any of those things anyway, so really, anything I accomplish while here is a bonus. Gotta love cognitive dissonance.

They don’t want me at work right now, and I don’t really want to be there. When I need a nap, I NEED a nap, and there’s no where comfy there to do it. I wonder if they’d shell out for an employee hammock? One problem is that I doubt like hell that I’ll be getting paid for the time I’m taking off. I don’t know if I get sick days or not, and I also don’t know how long I’ll be out, but if I’m not getting paid for being away I have a feeling that I’ll just need to load up on caffeine and suck it up. Puffy spleen be damned, I’ve got expenses.

So, instead of writing, hiking, painting, or mosaicing (new word!) I am reading Joy Fielding novels, watching CSI on DVD and sweating. How hot is that? This fun little virus could stick around as long as six to eight weeks, although I’ve heard stories of people who’ve had it for only two, if it does last as long as average then I will be sick for the rest of the summer. Huh. It also means that I’m not allowed to kiss anyone, or engage in any sort of, um, private extra-curricular activities. Did I mention before that I’m dating someone? He came over last week when I was all-feverish to bring me some ice cream (Moosetracks, soooooo good) and nothing else. Nothing but hugs and hearty handshakes for the rest of the summer, I’m afraid.

That’s what's happening over here. Not very exciting, I’ll grant you, but I thought I should explain why I’ve been gone. I’ll try to write more now that I’ve got a bit more energy. Perhaps I could go into length about the puffiness of my glands, or about how I’ve found new lymph nodes. Did you know that you have them on the back of your head? It’s true! And when they puff up they hurt and give you a headache.