Thursday, November 24, 2005

F Me Hard In The Arse

on my own personal idiot

My boyfriend loves to shop. He rarely buys, it more the thrill of the chase for him. I currently work in retail so shopping for me is as rewarding as eating my finger nail clippings. But, I 'suck it up' (who coined that phrase) and enjoy the moments with the man I love. There are a lot of these moments, I love him beyond them. So, he currently has this thing where he is in search of the perfect fake xmas tree. It can't look fake (although it is) and must embody the exact nature of a tree that is, ohh, I don't know, REAL. He notices short comings in most FAKE christmas trees. So the search is long and hard, and rarely yields any real possibilities. I stagger up and down aisles pressing the buttons on anything that might sing to me and don the hexmas spirit (which I totally have). Have you any idea how many cool little animated decorations are out this year. I just saw a dancing and singing Santa, that's like 5 feet tall (sorry Cheryl) for like 69.99 here. I so want it, actually, I thought about dry humping it, but that's a story for another blog.
My boyfriend is a shopper.
God love him.
So he takes me into this posh home store, and I'm not talking home outfitters or Homesense, I'm talking like 90 bucks for a wine cork.
I get bored of the xmas tree chat and venture out on my own.
Nice glasses, nice tables, nice accent pillows (did I just say that) and then I see these words, they look like they're sculpted out of marble.

I'm new in this city, and often nostalgic, so they catch my eye.
I pick one up (Dream) and flip it over to check the price. In my head I'm like "Oh what $119.99 for a fucking fake rock word".
To my surprise, a meager $14.99, and with the fact that Alberta has no PST, I thought "hey, I can totally afford to buy this shit".
So, (the man I am) I take it over to my boyfriend and ask if it is okay if I buy it, and when I get the okay, i proudly march to the register (which by the way was manned by a woman whose face looked like a road map, and who (by stereotype) should have been selling me a mickey of vodka) and display my purchase proudly on the register desk.
"I'll take this".
She brushes a few wrinkles out of her eyes and begins to gently wrap my new purchase in soft and delicate tissue paper. So much so that I start to get agitated by how much 'tissue paper' she is wasting.
"Just put it in the fucking bag".
Yeah right, like I said that.
It was like 16.09 with tax. UNHEARD of in Ontario.
I was happy.
The shopping comes to an end, we go home and crawl into bed. My boyfriend grabs my cock and begins to pull vigorously on the shaft, I felt myself beginning to....
ah fuck off
The next morning Johnny goes to work.
When I wake up I stumble about to gain my senses and then remember my fake rock purchase (who am I to bag on fake xmas trees when I buy fake rocks with pretentious meanings?) and I snatch it off the counter.
In the bedroom I try to scope out the best place for it. I know I am not an authority on design so I try to REALLY think about where it would really "POP".
I find myself at a bit of a loss.
Johnny's headboard is wooden, thick, and rounded. It arches between each pillar that marks the end of each side of the bed.
I want it in the middle.
There are those metal rivets on the back of the stone word Dream, but, I think, design challenged as I am, that it would look best sitting a top the arch of the headboard.
The word is maybe 1 1/2 inches thick, the headboard, maybe 2 inches thick.
The word dream sits there perfectly.
Then, I imagine John rolling about in his sleep, whacking his hand off the headboard and the word dream pulverizing his skull and ruining the effect.
So, I stand at the edge of the bed.
Reconfigure the force of our fuck and with my leg apply that perceived pressure onto the foot of the headboard.
The word DREAM falls elegantly backwards and tumbles to the ground behind the bed. What I didn't think about until later were the marks on the wall as it fell. OOPS.
I was kinda peeved.
Now I had to bend over, visually locate the word the dream, and then try to find somewhere it wouldn't fall from. I did to. I picked it up, tried it here and there. moved it about the room. I could feel my patience and interest dwindling. But I fought through it, and came to the conclusion that we would have to nail it into the wall just below the dried floral arrangement for it to be best suited.
Pride for a job well done bit slightly into my left butt cheek.
I was confident that I had made the right decision.
And with that confidence I put down the word dream and forgot all about it.
I'm writing an email to one of my friends.
Enter John
"Ian, did you drop this?"
And he's holding the rock word dream in his hand.
My first inclination is "Why the fuck can't I get away with ANYTHING?"
Me: What? (like i didn't hear)
John: Did you drop this?
Me: Oh yeah, it fell off of the back of the headboard when I was trying to decide where to put it!
John: Oh, so it left marks on my wall
Me: (in my head) Zoot, that's how I got caught!
Me: Sorry honey.
John: Read the word
Me: What?
Me: Dream
Then I looked, like I was all of a sudden tuned in. It didn't say DREAM but what did it day? It was close.
John then (as a final clue) produced the extra arch of the letter M out from behind his back. What my nostalgic, pretentious word actually read was DREAN, drean, drean, I'd completely snapped off the end of the word during my headboard testing phase. GONE. MIA. It was gone.
I carried that fucking fake rock word around the room for a good 45 minutes, then set it down and walked away, all the while NEVER noticing that the word had morphed into something dark and unrecognizeable.
SO, for now, i call attention to my personal idiot.
I gracefully awknowledge that he "one upped me"
and i ask him to beware. Because i am coming.
I am sharpening my axles as we speak.
I will no longer carry DREAN around a room as i try to decorate. I WILL BE SMART.
and on my inner idiot!

Thursday, November 10, 2005

What Gay Means To Me

YEARS ago....
I went to a gay support group meeting with some of my nearest and dearest. A very good friend of mine at the time was quite keen on becomming a mentor in the gay community and thus sucked the rest of us into attending a meeting.
It happened to be around the time of the cities pride festivities so we painted banners to carry in the parade (which most of my friends backed out of doing).
But, there was a question presented during the meeting which later became the butt of jokes for my friend Dan and I.
The question...
Seated in a circle the question passed from one fag to a dyke and back to a fag until it got to me.
Face burning red I spouted out something about not being ashamed of who you are. At the time it felt prophetic, smart, well thought out.
Now, my answer would be absurd, naieve, unfounded and ignorant.
NOW, i have more to base it on.
Lets start with my first boyfriend.
I spotted him in a bar and sent my friend Deanna over to talk to him. She asked if he was single and he responded that he was, but that he was gay.
Sorry sweetheart, no fish in my diet
But she told him that she was in fact asking on behalf of her friend.
Enter Ian, standing against the far wall looking around as if he didn't know what was going on.
Said guy told my friend that I was cute, and to have me come and talk to him myself.
I walked over, asked if he would be there the following saturday, he said he would, and then I said goodbye and walked away.
In the car I felt like a louse.
I was in fact.
But the following saturday I made my way back, we exchanged phone numbers and the rest (although short lived) was history.
The most predominant memory I have from that relationship is as follows...
We pulled into the driveway of the house that he shared with his roomate. A foreign car was parked in the driveway, boyfriend of the time exclaimed "Oh no, Kevin's mother is here".
I wanted to drive away, but I kept cool.
Boyfriend of the time opened the front door and walked into the house, myself following closely behind. Roomate and roomate's mother were seated on the blue faux suede L Couch in the livingroom.
Roomate: "Oh, there's Michael, and his new honey hole".
The mother gasped and swated her son, acting ashamed while she giggled reluctantly.
Boyfriend: "Kevin" agitated.
Me: "Hi, I'm Ian, the new honey hole"
Mother: "Oh jesus, sorry about my son Ian, nice to meet you!"
No one was more sorry about her son at that moment then i was.
fuckin HONEY HOLE.
The relationship lasted about 5 months, and the thing that sticks out the most is getting called HONEY HOLE by some obtuse fag with nil social skills.
I told my mother over the phone, I was away at school.
She didn't believe me, thought I was 'pulling her leg'. I used the F-Word (uncharacteristic at the time for the relationship that my mom and I shared). When I said fuck in my exclamation, she gasped. Not at the word fuck, well okay, maybe a bit, but that was when the realization set it. I didn't talk to her or my father for months afterwards. Not by their choice, but by mine. In the end my father was cool with it all. My mom took me to a shrink. The shrink told me that all kinds of people can be gay, doctors can be gay, lawyers can be gay, just because I was gay doesn't mean I couldn't achieve my dreams.
Did that mean I'd be sucking Arnold Schwarzeneggers cock by that time the following week?
Not so much.
It meant I could learn not two be so stoopid ifv I weally twried.
Then she made me say that i was gay.
Me: "I'm Gay"
Shrink: "Now say it like you mean it"
Me: "I'm Gay"
Shrink: "No, c'mon, say it like you really mean it"
I'm fucking gay, wanna throw a cock in my ass and hear me squeal you sick fucking twat?
Me: "I'm Gay"
All the time my mother sat in the waiting room hoping I'd resurface with a copy of 'Swank Magazine' in my hand and a noticeable hardon in my Joe Boxers.
I didn't, I just resurfaced the gay kid who had admitted it 21 times in the past 15 minutes.
They're fun in the way that a car accident can be fun if no one gets hurt. Like the excitement of the rush you wish you could relive, but at the time it's all whirlwind and encompassing. That's the diamond nights though. It can also be trying to avoid the OBVIOUS stare of a man who resembles your father yet dressed in leather, like the BLUE OYSTER of police acadamy fame. Or worse.....
Creep: "If I get some cocaine, will you sleep with me?"
Me: "Sure, if you get some coke I will"
Creep: "Okay honey, I'll be back"
Me: running to my friends "Oh my gawd, you would not believe this, that black guy with the green contact lenses just asked me if I'd sleep with him if he got some cocaine"~!
Friends: "What did you say"?
Me: "I said i would, like, where's he going to find cociane here"?
I was in a fucking gay bar! I didn't think he'd be able to find cocaine?!?
I walk out to the cab, dude with the creepy contact lenses runs over holding a small bag with a drug i didn't even know you could get in Canada and asks where I live.
Me: "Oh, I don't do cocaine"
Jump into cab and drive away.
There are worse pick up lines, but, I don't even like it when people assume I smoke cigarettes, let alone snort fucking coke. i felt cheap. I fart on creepy contact lens guy.
It's a love hate relationship. As in, I love some of them, and hate some more of them.
Straight people: "When did you know"?
Me: "OMG, Just now when I realized how horrible it would be if I had to spend the rest of my life living with you."
Straight people: "Is there always a man and woman"?
Me: "No, there's always two men or two women, that's what makes it GAY you grain fed fuck stick"
Straight people: "Is it a choice"?
Me: "Whether or not I crotch punch you right now is a choice"
Straight People: "I'm so proud of you for admitting who you are"
Me: puking.....violently
Straight people: "It must be so hard for you"
Me: "well, it's hard for me, but I think lesbians like it softer"
Straight people: "How did you know you were gay"?
Me: "C'mere, I wanna kiss you deeply and with tongue, OH NO, I DON'T, does that mean I'm a homo"?

In conclusion....
Fags have no tact, gay bars are hit and miss, with too many miss's and not enough hittin, and stupid people are still breeding.
Could I paint that on a pride banner?

Wednesday, November 02, 2005

Why Being A Lazy Bastard Sucks

My boyfriends not home tonight to make me dinner or talk me into going out for food.
I thought about just enduring hunger until tomorrow, but it got the best of me.
First I opened the fridge and saw one of those roasted chickens that my friend Lisa who used to work in a grocery store deli always warned me not to eat.
I pulled it out, smelled it, because of course a quick wiff of cold dead chicken will inform me of it's edibility (is that a word?).
My nose didn't seem to pick up any warning scents, so I grabbed a steak knife and began shaving off pieces of meat as if it were a turkey (only smaller).
I got about 3 shavings in and chewed before what I was doing struck me.
I grabbed the oversized plastic lid, sealed it up and returned the bird to the top shelf of the refridgerator (where I am pretty sure it will remain until it begins to rot).
I opened the little pantry door and saw the box of 'Smores' flavoured 'Poptarts' that I bought over a month ago.
I know they are preservable, but for some reason the shelf life of a poptart turned my stomach and I cancelled another possible culinary option.
I turned to another shelf and saw a huge, like costco sized bag of chocolate pudding mix.
Mmmmmm pudding....
But then I'd have to pour milk into it, and maybe even find a blender. That was too much effort, and since my health freak brother moved to Australia I haven't seen anyone 'blend' their dinners.
Nope, the pudding was out the fucking window.
You know when you get that shakey, hollow kind of hungry?
Yeah, i was borderline, so I went back to the couch and laid down to think.
"Should I walk to Burger King?"
Yeah fuck that, I'd piss the couch before I'd get up to pee, walking ain't in the cards.
Nope, not some genius idea ringing in my head, but the signal that my laundry was done and ready to be folded.
I actually got up.
WALKED downstairs and grabbed the laundry.
Then, there it was, and I had forgotten all about it.
The deep freezer.
I cracked that puppy open with a new hope in my heart.
Then there it was.....
Eggo Waffles. :-)
I remembered that the toaster was still sitting on the counter so I didn't even have to bend over, open the cupboard, pull it out, put it on the counter and plug it in.
It was easy enough.
I WALKED back upstairs with an 8 pack of eggos under my arm and my laundry only a sweet smelling memory sitting on top of the dryer.
A few labourous movements and I had my dinner cooking and a plate and fork all ready.
I toyed with the idea of just buttering them and eating it like that, but figured it would be dry. I hate dry, I'd put sauce on everything if it was socially acceptable.
I'd have to bite the bullet and use MAPLE SYRUP.
Fuck, even the name of that shit makes me sick.
It's secretions from a fucking tree, and we drizzle it over food to make it taste better.
Tree puke, or blood or cum, whatever, it's fucking nasty, but, being that I am a lazy bastard I had to overlook it.
I opened the fridge again, tried to divert my eyes from the cold dead bird and spotted a 1 litre bottle of maple syrup (gulp) on the third shelf.
I grabbed it and it felt empty.
A little shake eased my mind that enough foliage jizz was in there to coat my toasted waffles.
Then I tried to open it, i was sort of holding it over the plate, which by this point in time held my dinner all spaced out and ready to be dampened.
I unscrewed the cap, and a big chunk of dried out tree spunk fell directly into one of the divets on the second waffle from the right.
I could actually feel my throat opening up.
But I ponied up (ponyed up) and shook it off into the sink, where i quickly rinsed it down the drain.
Now I'm thinking, 'Hmm, if it's all dried out and crusty like the corners of my old neighbours mouth who always talked too much and got spit bubbles going from extended sentences (much like this one) should I be eating this.
I went back over the choices in my head, pudding, poptarts, hunger, and then I just dumped it on.
I carried it to the couch, flicked the TV on so that maybe if I was eating funky tree splooge I might not notice cause my attention would be diverted elsewhere, and I ate.
All four waffles.
They were good too.
I hate that I am a lazy bastard, because now I am hungry again, and going over the choices in my head. But, the laundry is done, so there's no reason to go back downstairs and look in the freezer. I mean, if there were two reasons to go I could justify it, but there just isn't.
Maybe someone could just run me over a hamburg?