can't stop the weird smell

Archive for July, 2011|Monthly archive page

I’ve Come Second To Porn, A Philly Cheesesteak And A Football Game, But Never A Dog

In categorically uncategorized. on July 25, 2011 at 10:46 am

While cooking dinner with Mr. LA the other night, he casually mentioned that there was something he needed to talk to me about. I bristled, narrowed my eyes and started chopping broccoli with rapt precision. Any time Mr. LA wants to broach a subject he suspects I might have a bad reaction to, he always adopts an air of grand insouciance. Busying himself with a droopy chicken thigh he told me, “My ex-girlfriend was wondering if I would look after her dog while she’s away on vacation.”

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

I put the knife down on the counter (which wasn’t necessarily my first instinct).  I shot him a withering glare. He then proceeded to quickly ramble on that it-makes-sense-because-she-lives-close-by-and-well-she-only-has-two-friends-both-are-busy-and-can’t-take-care-of-it-and-well-a-kennel-you-know…

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

Let’s put aside the fact that ex-girlfriends animals make me asthmatic and break out into hives. Instead, let’s focus on the gall of this woman (which upon further reflection could be the one of the underlying reasons for her limited social circle[i]) of asking such a favour. I mean, seriously.  Even the chicken thigh looked aghast. Her intrepid boldness leads me to believe that she doesn’t quite understand the difference between a friend who is a friend and a friend who is an ex.

They’re not the same.

Looking after someone’s pet is an intensely personal favour. It’s a huge commitment for my boyfriend (not to mention a massive inconvenience for me). It’s a favour that should be reserved for close friends and/or current paramours. Not your ex-boyfriend. And definitely not the ex-boyfriend who is in a relationship. The fact that she elected to ask Mr. LA is completely and utterly disrespectful towards me. She is trying to stake a claim for a part of my boyfriend that she isn’t entitled to any more.  What’s next? Picking up her tampons? Driving her to the airport? Neck massages?

My boyfriend told her that he wouldn’t be able to do it. And just because I like to hammer a point until it’s dead, I told him that for future reference, I refuse to come second to an ex-girlfriend’s dog. He shot me an exasperated look and said that if he had done it, we would’ve found a “compromise. “

I don’t compromise with ex-girlfriends dogs.

But I would’ve been gracious enough to pop by his place to wish him and the dog a happy life together.

Then “accidentally” left the back door open.


[i] Is the dog included in her friend count?


My Definition Of Normal Could Include Sheep Droppings

In categorically uncategorized. on July 6, 2011 at 2:47 pm

Seven months of dating Mr. LA and it’s been relatively low drama. Needless to say, I’m suspicious. No one is this normal for this long. I expressed my concern over his normalcy to my friend over lunch. She shot me a bemused look and dryly commented, “He’s probably been using this time to ramp up his weirdness.”

Oh my god. I never even thought of that.

I started to fret (my friend rolled her eyes).

What if I come home one day and find him hiding in behind my shower curtain outfitted in an ass-less Little Bo’ Peep costume poised to beg for some discipline training because, like a bad boy, he lost all his sheep?

My dubiety is not unsubstantiated. It’s hard to recalibrate one’s normal compass when their past is littered with men who don’t come home at night because they prefer to sleep on a bench in an underground shopping concourse (eluding security by hiding in a faux forest next to Booster Juice), or they are maintaining a “long-distance” relationship with their ex-girlfriend (an alcoholic single mother of four) by posing as a world-traveling soldier (I was particularly interested in how he was going to send her a homemade bottle of wine from Portugal when the greatest distance I had ever seen him travel was from the bathroom to the couch).

Then there was the ex who revealed that while I was away auditioning for grad schools, he had gotten another woman pregnant (his ex-girlfriend, an endomorphic heap of impassivity).  When the shock subsided and I was able to sputter out the words “you asshole,” he shot me an apoplectic grimace before hissing, “Listen, I didn’t sleep with her because I enjoyed it. I slept with her for science! Clearly, you are too immature to understand the difference!” I may have only been 23,  but I was mature enough to identify a steaming pile shit of when I saw one.

Fortunately, the man I dated after him was less science and more romance. We dated for a year before he dumped me out of the blue (I later found out his mid-life crisis was taking him all over the internet in a desperate quest for group sex). He tried to woo me back into his arms by writing a three page Lord Byron-esque love letter that outlined how wonderful I was, how wrong he was and the glorious future we would have ahead of us – if I just took him back.  Two days later, he asked for the letter back, “I don’t think I feel that way anymore,” he said sheepishly.  “My mom made me write it.”

Whether Mr. LA is actively concocting a mind-blowing spectacle of weirdness to bowl me over or he just happens to be the sanest man I’ve ever met,   I’ve learned that it’s wise to keep an eye out for sheep droppings. Just in case.

Revised: Funky Skunky Sex Romps OR Am I The Only Person In The World Not Having Group Sex?

In categorically uncategorized. on July 1, 2011 at 6:24 pm

There are few things I find more irritating than a man who is friends with his ex.

And invariably, they are always quite smug about it. As if it makes him better than those of us who want to melt our exes down into adhesive. As if him telling me that he’s “friends” with his ex will suddenly elevate his standing in the booboise.

Mr. Ripples[i] was friends with his ex. She was his “interior decorator.” With a key to his place.  She also happened to be a minister with the Church of the Universe; an order that considers pot a sacrament and promotes “nudity as a demonstration of human equality.”

Surprisingly, I found that only slightly less threatening than her being a former model.

However, he did make sure to tell me, quite emphatically, that they “hadn’t slept together in five years!”

Colour me dubious.

What guy isn’t tapping the stoned, skinny bitch running around naked in his apartment? Once I was the drunk, regular-sized bitch running around topless in a guy’s apartment and he definitely copped a feel.

Mr. LA is friends with his exes too. All of them. But it’s his most recent that really chafes my ass. She’s French and an artist (Oh, excuse-moi, I meant artiste).

“But she’s crazy!” was Mr. LA’s unhelpful reassurance[ii] (I don’t necessarily know if being French contributes to her “crazy,” but as a general cultural observation, I don’t think it helps).

While information on her and the particulars of their relationship is relatively spotty, it was over drinks with Mr. LA and a mutual friend of his and the cocotte that a most nettlesome piece of information was revealed:

She’s hip to group sex.

One can only speculate as to why this mutual friend felt it would behoove me to know that at a recent party, she instigated an orgy in the bedroom.

Following a cunning Gallic with a suspect degree of sanity is daunting enough. But sexually adventurous one?

When a guy tells you that he’s friends with his ex, the subtext isn’t, “See how sophisticated I am? I can break up amicably with a woman and still maintain a mature friendship.” The subtext is, “I’m keeping my options open just in case she wants to get back together.

Or she needs a spare for a ménage a trois.

[i] Remember Mr. Ripples? For those of you who don’t, he was a firefighter. And smelled farty.

[ii] Oh yeah. We all know how guys don’t care for “crazy” women. Especially in bed.

Deconstructing The Fantasy Boyfriend: The Musician

In categorically uncategorized. on July 1, 2011 at 12:20 am

Fantasy boyfriends. We all have them. The men we dream about dating: doctors, scientists, explorers, pilots, brilliant academics. Some are better than others. Let’s start with the worst: Musicians.

Musicians are not men. They are people who happen to be male. It’s not that they can’t do things that real men can do like change a light bulb, hold down a job, buy you dinner or discuss topical issues of the day, it’s just that they don’t really need to.

Light bulbs are unnecessary. Their talent can illuminates a room. There is no time for day jobs because they’re already performing three hours a week. And besides, “What if I get suddenly need to go on tour? Then I’m just going to have to quit, anyway.”

And dinner? No need to go out. He’s already eaten. By the way, you’re running low on potato chips. Would you mind picking up a few things for him at the grocery store? (He’s helpfully jotted them down for you on the notepad beside the fridge.)

Fortunately, the sparkling conversation always makes up for their oblivion to housewares, generating income and dining-out. You will often be bowled over by thought-provoking inquiries on topics such as aesthetics, sexual rites and current affairs: Are they more handsome on a Tuesday or Friday? How do you feel about giving him a blow job in ladies room at Starbucks? Didn’t you find his performance at [insert any dive bar] far superior than Michael Buble’s recently released DVD, “Live at Madison Square Gardens?”

Admittedly, before I started dating a musician, I didn’t fully understand what it took to be an artist of his caliber (I mean, do you know how hard it is to win a Juno?!). For example, as a Great Talent, you must spend hours a day cultivating your gift through technical exercises that foster introspective thought and creativity.  These, to the layperson, are known as video games.

One must dedicate at least nine hours a day to this activity as it gives the artistic mind a chance to weave through the creative process, somersaulting and churning out important cultural contributions to society. Time spent with great literature can also facilitate artistic growth. No one can dispute the creative benefit reaped from reading about the adventures of two men named Lorenzo and Florin who roam around Middle Earth pretending not to be gay.

When a musician takes a girlfriend, it’s because he needs an administrator, a cheerleader and somewhere to sleep (only the untalented pay rent). His career aspirations become your part-time job because he is simply too absorbed in Lorenzo and Florin to go out and hustle up some gigs, update his website, return his manager’s call or brush his teeth.

Eventually, the glamour of being musician’s girlfriend fades.  The evenings hanging around other musicians who have no discernible source of income, the babysitting of the men with no discernible income, but who always seem to have money for alcohol. (Theirs, not yours.) There is attending all the fancy performances in places that smell like feet and perfunctory sexual relations. (Is it possible your face has become permanently frozen in feigned admiration?)  Then there are the nights in the studio where he comes home at 3AM, drunk and wants to engage you in an earnest discussion about how his new album is going to change the world. And would you mind undoing his shoelaces because he can’t seem to find his feet.

When you break it off with them (and you will), they will be confused. But only momentarily. For it suddenly becomes clear that you never really understood their genius and how important their music is to Canada.

Or Middle Earth.