I'm not your bitch, don't hang your shit on me.

Wednesday, June 01, 2016

You should water your plants

Last year was the first time I had some greenery on my patio.  In previous years it was barren; no plants, no pots, no nothing.  Last year I bought some trees and potted flowers (I'm not allowed to dig into the concrete).  It looked great and I loved sitting outside surrounded by nature, rather than glass and steel.

Unfortunately, even though the plants were all designed to tolerate sun, they weren't designed to tolerate the amount of south-facing sun they received.  Last year was a dry year, and coupled with 12-hour days of - mostly - direct sunlight, left them... parched.

"They wouldn't have died if you watered them," is what my father said, repeatedly, after I told him I was buying new greenery for my patio. 

"I had direct sunlight for a full day and I watered them daily," was my stock answer.

"You should water your plants," he'd say.

"I did water them," I'd reply.

"No, you didn't because they died."

"Do you really think I'd spend the entire summer not watering the plants?"

"They died, didn't they?"

This conversation loop continued for weeks.

After purchasing new plants, I hear my father say the same thing:  "Make sure you water your plants this time, or else they'll die."

If they do die, I'll make sure to buy plastic ones for next year.

Wednesday, May 18, 2016

Get me off this plane (an L.A. story)

Plane rides are never comfortable for me. There are numerous reasons for this: an enclosed and crowded space filled with crabby people, little lavatories, foul food with shitty service, and of course, crying children.

Throw in some concrete and barbwire fencing and you’ve got an inner city school.

On my way back from L.A., I’m surprised the flight isn’t that bad up to this point. Even though I don’t get the window or aisle seat (as per my request and reservation), the seat is comfortable, I don’t need the loo, I don’t eat a thing since it’s a short flight, and the children remain quiet (even the babies).

Unfortunately, I’m sitting beside someone who is making it very uncomfortable for me and the other passengers on the plane.

If the doors could open mid-flight, this bitch would be thrown out. It’s not that she does anything in particular to irritate me, but she does everything to irritate me.

Let’s call her Mirrita.

During the flight, Mirrita fidgets in her seat, leans forward and back to get things that slide off her lap, gets up several times and removes her bag from the overhead bin to get some things (a strong sedative isn’t one of them), eats messy snacks which leave crumbs all over her and me, fidgets some more, talks to every person who walks down the aisle (creating a pissed off group of people who have to use the can), fidgets again, and wraps herself in several support appendages to keep her fuckin’ immobile (talk about irony) for the rest of the flight.

That's not all.

The worst part comes when she pays for her $5 in-flight snack with change nickels and dimes. She pulls out a small bag that makes a ka-chunk sound when she places on her folding tray (which makes the front seat recline backwards another three inches) and begins to count. "Twenty cents, thirty cents, thirty-five cents…" she says while placing each coin in her palm.

By the time she gets to $4.10, the steward snaps, takes the money and gives her the damn snack.

Mirrita falls asleep soon after. Thankfully, she's lucky I don't smother her with the dinky airline pillow.

The plane arrives in Toronto and everyone is happy to be back on terra firma. The passengers who are sitting behind Mirrita, wait for her to take her bag out of the overhead bin. She pulls and pulls and can’t seem to get it out. Instead of letting everyone pass, she crates the same line-up of pissed off people (only they didn’t have to use the loo this time).

When we get to the connecting tunnel, I run past her and nudge her to the side with my bag, making her hobble a little.

Fuck, I hope customs finds that eight ball of coke I planted in her purse and gives her a full cavity search.


Note: These circa 2006 writings are personal observations of a wide-eyed Canadian, and are not reflective of the residents of L.A.

Friday, April 15, 2016

Sticking out (an L.A. story)

When traveling, it is always a good idea to blend in with the people of the area. You don’t feel like an outsider and you don’t turn into a mark for potential kidnapping attempts by bumbling and inept fools wanting to make a fast buck off you because they think you lay around a large bed, writhing in money, like Demi Moore in Indecent Proposal.

When in Rome…

Only, I’m not in Rome. I’m in L.A.

And, L.A. is not Rome.

When speaking of my physical attributes, I'm sticking out and look out of place. This world is filled with Paul Walkers, and I resemble Paul Giamatti by comparison.

Having a healthy body image, I never thought there was anything wrong with my physical presence. Back home, I look normal, but normal is a relative term and doesn’t exist here.

Within a few hours in L.A., I’m realizing that…

- I am fat and out of shape and should join a gym stat
- I am pale and require a lot of sun/sunless tanning product/a tanning bed
- I have bad skin that need a series of creams/surgical procedures to eliminate the ravages of time
- I have lousy hair and the colour needs to be fixed since black isn’t the new black
- I am hairy and should get shaved/waxed/tweezed/lasered

And, that’s only a small smattering.

God forbid if I went on to talk about the rest of my body.

But, what’s odd is most people are accepting of this high maintenance. They enjoy going to the gym and working out. They like the sun, then removing the traces of sun damage with trips to the dermatologist. They want to spend money on their hair – getting it done and removed.

Fuck. It already takes me too long to look average. I don’t want to spend the rest of my days in front of the mirror trying to achieve a tiny semblance of perfection, while never quite reaching it.

It’s like climbing Mount Everest using only your teeth to scale the rocks.

Anyway, it wouldn’t matter what would happen to my choppers since they’re small, crooked and yellow.


Note: These circa 2006 writings are personal observations of a wide-eyed Canadian, and are not reflective of the residents of L.A.

Thursday, March 10, 2016

Follow unfollow

The social media world is a funny and fickle place to visit.  It's packed with fully realized individuals who are connected to others, yet aren't attuned to the behaviors of actual human beings.  First it was with Facebook, then Twitter, now it's the same thing with Instagram.

I created an account not too long ago to be "kept in the loop" with all social media and also because it was a benefit for my non-job-job (i.e. the one that doesn't really pay the bills).

Although I crack jokes that I'm just as unpopular in social media as I am in real life, it's an ego-boost when someone who you don't know adds you.  And it's even more so when someone "popular" (a.k.a. someone with a large readership) does the same.  It's very high school, with the geeks being brought into the fold of the cool crowd.

Quite often, I get a follow from someone I don't know because I assume they like my photos.  I'll follow them if I like what I see.  Then, they quickly unfollow you (because they just wanted you to follow them first so they could increase their readership).  And then I catch on and unfollow them (because why would I follow someone who's that petty?).

Yes, it sounds like high school all over again.  In the real world, or the digital one, we're all a bunch of 14-year-old girls.

Wednesday, February 10, 2016

My mother, my decorator

It's the weekend and my parents have come to visit me downtown.  The usual schedule occurs: they arrive two hours early for lunch (I'm still drinking breakfast); they make their entrances like the whirling dirvishes they are; my father complains about wanting to go home (even before having lunch); we all help in cooking/setting up/cleaning; the three of us collapse in a carb-heavy coma.

Before we head out for coffee, both of my parents sit on the couch.  They're discussing my interior decorating talents, or lack thereof.

"I told him I'd buy him one of those long things," my mother leans forward and extends her hands out, making a rectangle shape.

"You mean an ottoman?" I ask while walking back from the kitchen.

"Yes, like your sister."  My sister has a large ottoman in her family room, but although it works for her space, it wouldn't work for mine.

"I like what I have and this works for me." I say.

My mother scoffs.

"First, the cubes I have work because they have storage inside them.  See?" I lift the lid and show her what I keep hidden in one.  She rolls her eyes.

"Second, I don't have the space to put a large ottoman in my living room."  And I don't since my space is about 100x smaller than my sister's house.

"Third... you don't have any decorating taste."

"You wish!"  She loudly laughs and elbows my father for a reaction.  He also laughs.

This kind of reaction I would understand if my mother was legendary British designer, Nina Campbell, who disdained neutrals (she loves pattern-on-pattern).  But, my mom is not Nina Campbell.  My mom is a woman who thinks 1983 was the best year for design; look at my parents' living/dining/bedroom for proof.

And just like she dismissed my love of minimalism, I dismissed her love of... dismissing my decor.

Monday, January 04, 2016

Social media IRL isn't so social

Sometimes the people we see/follow on social media end up being different than what you expect.  Never assume, is one of my personal maxims.

This was true when blogging first started, then later with other platforms like Facebook and Twitter. Now with Instagram, you feel like you know people just by looking at their carefully curated images (let's be honest, they're not as random as we want them to believe).

But it's disappointing when they end up, you know, disappointing you.

For a while, I've been skimming through the images of friends of friends on Instagram.  And after realizing that one of them was the same person I had been corresponding with for a few work projects, I send an email (that I thought was kind of funny in a wink-wink kind of way).

Quick question:  Are we going to play the chicken game on Instagram (like for like) and see how long it takes before following one another?  Haha :P

The response was not what I was expecting.

I dont think I know you sorry.

That's self explanatory. 

The odd thing is after we were messaging for some work things, he then liked/commented on a few images (I don't have many) right after we first emailed one another.  To throw this dismissive reply my way was a little cruel.  Dude, you know who I am.  Is breaking the fourth wall really that unsettling?  Is it best to just be "friends" in the digital world, rather than the real one?

Not only do I feel stupid for sending the email but also for the emotional owie I got from someone I was "friendly" with.  And that hurts.  How disappointing.

Tuesday, December 01, 2015

Dating world equation

A friend and I are catching up during lunch and there's a lot to talk about.  Inevitably the conversation veers towards relationships, or those who aren't in them.  It's a complicated world, but I tell her a lot of it comes down to a simple equation.

"The dating world is full of fives who think they're 10s, and they're looking for an 11." I say between sips of water.

"Oh my God, it's so true," my friend, R, laughs while patting the table with her hand.

"It's like, oh this guy is a rich supermodel, who is smart, nice, funny, great in bed with a 12-inch penis... but I think I want a guy with a 13-inch penis."

She laughs, again.

"That shit doesn't add up," I say as I nod my head.  "No wonder why so many people are single: they're always looking for something better when they don't even realize what they have."

I take another bite of my lunch then finish off my thought.

"And all of that," I swirl my fork in the air, "I can understand if you're Bradley Cooper, or something.  But, R, these guys ain't Bradley Cooper."  Fuck, they're barely Brad Garrett, I think, but don't say out loud for fear that Brad Garrett is within hearing distance.

The grass is always greener on the other side, but what if there's no grass, let alone another side?  These people don't care since they're deluded to think they'll always be a catch no matter how old they get.  Get some realistic standards because no one finds a 50-year-old hunting down 20 year olds to be particularly attractive.

Now, that's simple math.