Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Killing Cupid

Ah, February! That time of the year again when a majority of the human population gets all soppy and brain-dead, because their pituitary gland somehow detects which month it is and decides that it's time to release dangerous levels of oxytocin, which gives them an excuse to turn into complete and utter idiots. Having just emerged from the bomb shelter where I hide every 14th of February to escape the assault of pink and red heart-shaped candies, cakes, balloons, cards, gift-boxes, flowers, and a millions other what-nots, I just want to say-Pardon me, but I am really not in the mood for Chicken Soup for the Lover's Frickin' Soul. I do, however, want to share with you a lovely Valentine's Day story, verbatim, in the words of my dear friend, (let's just call her Sara)--

' So there was this guy I met a couple of times at the grocery store, right, who I used to chat with sometimes, just generally, you know? Can you take a look at the price of those strawberries? The brown bread's not too fresh today, that kind of thing. So anyway, he asks me out, and I say yeah, sure, why not? It's only when I go home and check the date that I realise that we would be going out on Valentine's Day, but then I think, what the hell, it's no biggie. It's definitely better than sitting at home and watching a re-run of Serendipity, isn't it? He asks me to meet him at this fancy-ish restaurant that's pretty expensive, and I'm thinking that he could have come pick me up, right? But I think, what the hell! It's not as if he's my boyfriend or anything. When I get there, I have to wait, because he's half an hour late, and you know how I hate waiting, don't you? I mean, it's okay if a guy has to wait there for a while, right? But a girl waiting for a guy tends to look a little desperate, know what I'm saying? So anyway, he shows up and says "Am I late?", knowing very well that he is, and not seeming the least bit aplogetic about it.

He's been to this place before and all, so he orders for both of us. Don't you hate when that happens? I mean, I appreciate the fact that he's been there before and all would like to order something tried and tested, but still...but it's probably best that he ordered, 'cause there was this time that I went to a Chinese restaurant once and ordered something called 'Jade-something-or-the-other' and it ended up looking like green snot with chicken in it, and probably tasted like it too. I wouldn't know, 'cause one look at it, and I wouldn't have eaten it if you'd paid me a million bucks, I swear!

So anyway, he ordered this stuff that looked like tiny little pieces of toast with some toppings on it, and the next thing that came to the table was this tiny little piece of chicken looking lost in a sea of orange sauce, and a few veggies on the side. I mean, give me a frickin' break! That stuff probably didn't even make it down to my stomach and got lost somewhere along the way. And all the while he kept talking about himself, like he was the best thing to have ever happened to mankind since Post-Its, or the bloody iPhone, you know? I ask him what w'ere ordering next, and he looks at me, all surprised and all, and asks, "Are you still hungry?" in an accusatory tone that you would employ with a greedy witch who has just devoured five plump children for breakfast, and still wants more, but not too accusatory, in case the witch was so hungry that she might decide to eat him next. But I can tell you this, that if I were a witch, I'd rather starve than eat his sorry ass.

"Er, yeah. Aren't you?' I say to him, and he says, "Well, I'm quite full, actually" and rubs his belly to emphasise the point. I'm telling you, seriously, D, that this guy's a really cheap SOB, or then he has the smallest appetite of any living creature. Smaller than a baby bird, which would be just about right, 'cause that would match his brain, wouldn't it? I'm wondering whether now would be a good time to have a PMS-induced bitch-fit right then and there, but I decide against it. So not worth it!

I've had more of him than I can take at this point, and so I excuse myself, saying that I need to go to the restroom, and while I slip out, I say to the captain "Today's a very special day," flashing a diamond ring that I bought myself last year "so why don't you serve everyone here your best wine, compliments of my fiance?" I also flash him a jaw-achingly sweet smile and make my exit, never to return again. Needless to say, the grocery-store guy never called me back.'

That story certainly warmed the cockles of my heart, and made me do a little dance on behalf of all the women who have had to endure jerks, cheap b******s or boors as dates. All I know is that the next time my date turns out to be a doozy, I'm doing a Sara on him.

Monday, February 08, 2010

Dog poo: the secret to literary success.

So, here's the thing. I've always wanted to be a writer, right? So what would I write about? Well, Plan A was that I would write a marvellous novel, full of drama, intrigue, unrequited love, suspense and what have you. Since that sounded like a lot of hard work, I came up with Plan B, which was writing about my dog, Winfrey. Well, I figured, if John Grogan can do it, so can I.

 A number of practical difficulties present themselves to me as I mull over this idea, such as-what has Winfrey done in his miserable, crummy little life so far that I can write about? I decide to make a quick checklist of Winfrey's and Marley's traits/behaviour, to assess whether Winfrey has it in him to be a star in the league of Marley.

  • A cute, huggable Labrador
  • Chewed, broke and totally destroyed things
  • Had ADHD-like symptoms
  • Was unhinged to a spectacular degree
  • Had a blink-and-you'll-miss-it starring part in a Hollywood production
  • Despite the fact that he behaved like he was demonically possessed, his owners adored him till his dying day.

  • A furball of undetermined lineage.
  • Lies around all day, barks a couple of times, and then crashes out because of all the effort that it involves.
  • Has no apparent disorder except a maniacal need to bark at car tyres.
  • Is a totally crazy little turd of a dog who can produce the smelliest farts ever. I mean, ever!
  • Doesn't even look good in pictures. As evidence, I present to you Exhibit A (and don't be fooled by his blond glowiness. Photoshop can make anyone look half-decent, even Donatella Versace. Well, okay, almost anyone.)
  • Occasionally tries to suckle puppies, not ever realising that he doesn't have the necessary equipment, i.e., dog-boobies.
  • Was once caught trying to make out with a stuffed rabbit (we left them alone, to spare him the shame of having us witness him being rejected by a stuffed toy, for Chrissake!)
  • Makes us want to slap him silly just because he's there-some people just make you want to do that, you know, like Vince Vaughn?
So having weighed the pros and cons of having to follow Winfrey everywhere he goes in a bid to collect material for my book, filming him while he walks around emptying his bowels, eating poisonous leaves, and spewing gross, green upchuck, and the absolute horror of being assaulted by his silent, lethal farts, I think I'll pass on this one. Sigh! Back to Plan A.

Tuesday, February 02, 2010

Whoa! Er...excuse me, Sir, but you might want to keep your feet on the floor...

When I step onto the crosstrainer at the gym, I notice that the guy who was on it before me has sweated all over the thing and left a little pool of his sweat for me to deal with. This is a very large man with hairy shoulders, wearing a singlet and shorts, and arm bands and a head band. Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against large hairy men. I also have nothing against sports gear that makes a person look like Richard Simmons gone off the deep end. I have a problem with sweat puddles and guys who consider using a towel an affront to their manly principles.