Who Plays a Mean Pinball?

Well certainly not me. I'm great at video games. I won't lie. I have been known to pop a game in when I wake up on a drizzly Saturday... you know, to kill some time while I am having my coffee, only to look up at 6pm and wonder where the day went... But I could never understand the appeal of the pinball machine... Anyway, whatever... that has nothing whatsoever to this entry.

So last Sunday was an interesting day. A phone call from a friend who I had not heard from in a very long time. I think we ladies all know the type of gentleman friend who calls out of the blue and it leaves you wondering just what in the world happened that day that brought you to the top of their mind? I have a few of those in my life. I find it highly amusing. So over to hang out I got ready to go when lo and behold, my phone rang...

"Bea, what are you doing tomorrow night?"


I have to admit that I dislike those types of questions. What to say? Because the end result can be good. But it can also be bad. For example:

"BEA, what are you doing tomorrow night?"

"Nothing, why?"

"I was wondering if you wouldn't mind helping me clean my septic tank."

See what I mean? So it was with great trepidation that I answered 'Nothing that I can think of.". See? See how I left myself a possible out? So that in the event my chum were to ask me to help clean her septic tank I could come back with "Oh, shoot, you know what? I'd love to but I just remembered that I have this thing at the thing..."

Luckily for BEA, the offer was less about septic tanks than it was about free tickets to see The Who the next night. Sufficed to say my answer was more along the lines of "Are you f*cking kidding?!?! Like, yah, I'm all over that sh*t." Or something like that... probably more along the lines of "Yes, I think that would be a rather pleasant way to spend the evening. Thank you very much for your kind and generous offer."

So I was excited. I'm not a huge Who fan mind you. I don't not like their music but never went out of my way to buy albums or anything like that. So I was excited, mostly because the ticket was free and free tickets, to pretty much anything, are always exciting.

But oh my god... Come concert time? I lost my she*T... Seriously. We had great seats just to the right of the stage so we could see both Daltrey and Townshend quite clearly. And in the words of my favorite celebrity gossiper Lainey... LOIN QUIVERING. Who knew that I could go from loving 6'7" 25 year old soccer player one day, to loving a 5'6" 62 rock and or roller the next? I'm sure I didn't.

Loved it... Anyway, back to loving my PC now, but it was touch and go for a few days there. I'm sure PC is relieved. Although probably more relieved that I will be pretty much as far away from him as humanly possibly in less than a week, for back to the rock that is Saltspring I go. Looking forward to nursing my back, which has left me practically couchbound these last couple of months... and nursing my sinuses, which have left me wanting to be bedbound for much of the same time. Good times.

Now I wonder which of the 2 pubs on Saltspring is the soccer pub? Hmmm... guess I better start researching lest I go into withdrawls.



Gentle Giant My Ass

So I am considering turning BP into the unofficial Peter Crouch appreciation site. I can’t help it. Ok, so it’s mostly because of late I have had nothing going on in my life, especially in the love department, but all that aside, I truly do no know what to do. The only thing keeping me from stalking the poor guy is a small little detail known as the Atlantic Ocean… also a few little minor provinces to the east of me, but mostly the ocean. And money… OK, so three things, but all quite major obstacles along the path of uniting me with my one true love. So what if he is like 6 years younger than me. It’s not like I have never dated a guy several and I do mean several, years my junior… and to wonderfully amazing consequences… just ask my boobies… Anyway, I digress…

During Wednesday’s game, some Jerky McJerk decided to be a jerk to my Peter. And my Peter doesn’t stand for that kaka. Granted the poor guy is all skin and bones and his arm would more than likely snap off were he to get physical with a foe… but why would he even bother with the physical? Why would he bother when he can turn around and simply scare the living sh*t out of those who choose to underestimate the awesomeness of the greatest thing to hit Liverpool since The Beatles?

The answer?

He doesn’t.


Praise be the lord


So pretty much the most hilarious thing that I have seen in about 5 minutes was delivered to my inbox courtesy of my English Chemist.

Yes friends, t'is a glorious day. The world is now officially perfect. For in no other world but a perfect world could you get a Peter Crouch mask.

Oh yeah, I was soooo all over this today. I was so all over it that I damn near fell off my chair when I saw it and then walked around the office with barely able to contain my titillation... to the point where people must have thought I had just downed some 'shrooms or something.

And before you ask YES I did print it up on the colour printer at work and I will fight you to the DEATH if you were to argue that it is not the most appropriate use of the colour printer.

What was a girl supposed to do?


Extra, Extra... Read

In what I consider to be THE most groundbreaking story of the year, trumping TomKat, Britney and K-Fed, Reese and Ryan and yes, even Madonna’s adoption…

I have recently discovered something about myself that I never knew was possible. To put it bluntly, I am now a naked sleeper.

Shocked? So am I. In real life, I am what is known as a “prude.” Prudes shun nudity in any shape or form. To put this into perspective, it took me like 6 months to wear something other than a one piece bathing suit when I worked at Club Med. And it wasn’t because I thought I would look fat or anything like that. It was purely because in my prudish mind, only whores wore bikinis… Granted all of my friends wore bikinis but I considered them whores, ever last one of them. I broke down eventually because believe it or not, it is possible to be too hot wearing a one piece bathing suit. If anyone has ever experienced Mexico in the middle of summer, this might make sense. So eventually I broke down and got myself some two-pieced numbers and never looked back. Sufficed to say that I quickly changed my opinion that only whores wore bikinis… I may be a floozy at times, but I am no whore…

But still, nudity made me uncomfortable. And of course the Universe has always thought it would be freaking hilarious to consistently throw naked-loving boyfriends my way. It’s true… my memory cannot come up with one single one, short or long-term, who was not more comfortable in their altogether. I am convinced that even the former-PNB was a closet nudist and only put clothes on for my benefit… To the fly on the wall we must have looked like an odd couple indeed when heading to bed… him naked as a jay bird and me wearing as much clothing as humanly possible short of a winter coat and a toque.

But that was then. And this is now.

Now happened a couple of weeks ago when, after gracefully returning to my abode after an evening of having some leisurely drinks with friends, I was just tired too find my pajamas. Feel free to read “too tired” as “too drunk” because that may or may not have been the case… but whatever. So too “tired” I was and to sleep I went. Feel free to read “to sleep” as “passed out” because that may or may not have been the case…. but whatever. The POINT I am trying to make has nothing whatsoever to do with the amount of alcohol that may or may not have been consumed but rather the end result of having (or not) consumed (or not) large quantities of booze (or not) which was that due to the fact that I may have possibly (or not) been too tired to find my bed clothes that I was forced to sleep (or pass out) in my birthday suit. Or not.

And? So?

Well, it turns out that sleeping starkers is quite the way to go. I can’t remember having been so comfortable lying between the sheets. I’m not hot, nor am I cold but more importantly there is nothing there to get bunched up, if you get my drift. I never realized that I spent a goodly portion of my night fidgeting with my pajama pants which always twisted and bunched up as I flopped around in my restlessness. Was this the sole reason behind my lifelong propensity for insomnia? Well, no, of course not, but I would be lying that even removing just one factor out of the equation has led to more than a few slightly more restful nights than usual. Something to be celebrated to be sure!

Anyway, I just thought that I would share that with you… You know, being pretty much the most earth-shattering news ever to have come from Humankind, ever, in the history of this planet we call Earth.

Is it Christmas yet?


I cant' believe it's been like 3 weeks since I've posted. Not that I actually have anything new to report in those three weeks... Well, I do but no one wants to hear Bea go on feeling sorry for herself. Bea doesn't even want to her herself go on about how she is feeling sorry for herself. No, instead Bea would like to talk about herself in the third person as if that was entirely normal thing for someone to do.

So, in a nutshell, Bea's been out of sorts. Back issues, as well as sinuses and now the flu, Bea has not been feeling her best. And of course, as always, ye olde love life is still as disastrous as ever, with Bea making a fool out of herself over a boy yet again. Sigh, Bea is so silly.

One good thing is that work finally got of their arses and decided that the old girl was worth keeping around so yay, being moved around a la Office Space Swingline Stapler Guy aside, that is definitely something to be joyous about one supposes.

In conclusion, Bea's got some sh*t to sort out and she expects that a fair bit of it will get done when she visits the folks for the holidays next month. Bea has also been on lots of muscle relaxants and thinks that may have addled her brain just a tad. It might SEEM amusing to listen to her refer to herself in the third person on a short little blog posting but imagine how the TTC guy must feel when she tries to get onto the subway.

'She would like 10 tokens please'

It also causes problems when ordering at restaurants and when responding to emails at work, as I am sure you can well imagine. Let's all send happy thoughts Bea's way so she can get past this slight rough patch.

Cheerio, pip-pip and all that fun stuff


To Laugh or Not to Laugh


So we all know that I am single. And we all know that I am sort of mostly OK with being single. But sometimes a truly unique experience gets thrown my way whereby part of me laughs hysterically to the point that I have to run to the bathroom lest I tinkle on the couch... and the other part sobs like a little girly-man at my lot in life re: my love-life situation.

Something that may not be as well known as my lot in life is that I LOVE Borat. I saw the movie ages ago and it was like, the funniest thing ever. After watch the movie film I speak like Borat for many days. You like?

The following is a copy and paste of an e-mail I got on my soon-becoming-not-so-favorite online dating site. HOPEFULLY you are familiar with Borat and read the following in his voice. If not then it makes the following not so much hysterically funny as it does pathetic and sad. And by pathetic and sad, I am referring to my life...

i need date from you, im loving caring respecting guy
i give pure love , i dont hurt my girl at all
i m alone without partner for more than one year becouse of my travel.(No sex too becsue its not my target)
i need girl to be my love forever
i wish she is you
tell me something about you
are u really single?
tell me about ur study or work.
tell me about ur family,your life,when it was last time for you with man in relation,last time u had sex.,kind of places u like to go??
give me your mail to add you plz?!!

I should mention here that is particular fella, who had no pic and listed his height as smaller than 5 feet, had the following three interests: friends, sex, reading.

In that order.

I like reading too.


To Move Or Not to Move...

That is the Tuesday...

Please find following a diagram that, for the most part, sums up my day.

To Whom It May Concern;

Please accept this letter of introduction as my intent to apply for the position of *insert job title here*.Currently I am employed as the chief ass wipe at the *insert company here* but increasingly, I am beginning to question whether my employer values my skills or the importance I play in the day to day operations of my department. Although probably not the most appropriate place to bring this up, I would like to mention here that I am pretty much the only person at said organization who knows how to do anything. End of story. But do they listen to me when I try to tell them this? I think we both know the answer to that.

However, my reasons for wishing to leave are thus. Firstly I will no longer have access to natural light. This, in essence will cause me to wilt away and, I am quite positive, die. Secondly, and perhaps more importantly, they have taken away my red Swingline stapler. I had rightfully swiped this stapler from the office of the last person to be "restructured" out of a job and I say FINDERS KEEPERS and I refuse to be a loser weeper dammitt. That stapler is rightfully mine and I will shoot staples at you to the death, to the DEATH if you try and take it away from me. And believe me, I will not come out on the losing end. SUCH, is the power of the Swingline stapler.

In conclusion, I thank you, in advance, for considering me for the position of *insert job title here*. If I may be so bold as to suggest that we not even bother with the preliminary interviews and that instead you just make things easier on everyone and go ahead and offer me the position now. $90,000 per annum should do it. Oh, plus benefits, expenses and company car etc... References available upon request, unless of course you are actually going to phone them and then screw you... I do not want to work for any company who does not trust me.

Beatrice Petty

PS... 4 weeks of holiday is also a must.


My Bad


So further to several postings that I have made over the course of the three years or so I have been writing this danged thing... I am the biggest and most clueless idiot ever.

So not only was I completely wrong about the Scotsman maybe wanting to be more than just friends... Apparently I was wrong about him wanting to be friends at all, or even casual acquaintances, chat buddies...anything. In short, I was wrong about him even admitting that he knew who I was after we met... And NO... no funny business happened. If it did, I could at least have understood the complete and utter lack of acknowledgment that I even existed. How does someone go from being infatuated with someone one minute, to hanging out and simply watching TV the next... to never wanting to speak to that someone ever again ever for as long as they both shall live?

Will I ever understand men? Me thinks not. But then again, that's why I am single.


A Funny Thing Happened...

On the way to making friends. So it turns out that my wee Scottish laddie and I are MFEO, whereby MFEO means that we pretty much have everything in common, but enough not in common to make things interesting. Whether that translates into something more than friends remains to be seen but we may be on the way to something a little more. Who knew that ‘friends’ plus ‘hang out’ could equal ‘dating’? We hung out last night for the first time. Watched some vids at his place which I know seems quite like a bad idea to do with someone who you have never met in person, but honestly, I can’t remember the last time someone had seemed so familiar to me. So really, I felt like I was spending time with someone whom I had known for ages. It was truly the most bizarre thing.

Another bizarre thing, somewhat but mostly completely unrelated, is living once again in a neighbourhood where I actually know people. No longer is heading anywhere after work a production… no subways or buses… literally a 5 minute walk, at the most, to pretty much anywhere I might want to go. Such is the case with Scottie. The only downside being that where I would practically prepare to be away from the loft for days at a time when I went out, now I barely bother to even put on anything besides flip flops because it feels like I am just jotting next door to the neighbours to borrow some sugar. The only downside to this, as far as I can see and in fact happened last night, was that one might forget to bring some quite useful things along with one when one leaves the house. Things that were one traveling quite far would surely take in certain circumstances.

For example, if one was planning on walking far from one's home for long distances on a dismal October evening one would surely take along, say, perhaps a coat. And should that particular evening have been preceded by one of the rainiest days in recent memory with the weather folks only omising more, one might also think that an umbrella was a good thing. For while it may not be pishing when one leaves one’s own place it very well possibly be raining when one left someone else’s place in a few hours time. And even though one might only live a very short distance away from someone else, even walking 5 minutes with no coat in the pouring rain at 12:30am would still be enough to soak oneself, leaving said person looking like a drowned rat.

Lesson learned? Probably not. But then again, sometimes one has a hard time learning from one's mistakes and one repeats them over and over and over again… which one might do the very next time one leaves one’s house on a dismal October evening that threatens rain with no coat or brelly to go over to someone’s house that one has never even met.


Cross-Dressers and Scotsmen

Hope everyone’s turkey weekend was great! I am happy to report that in addition to hobbling around the mini-apartment, I was able to gimpily make my way to a pub down the street to watch my boyfriend play against Macedonia. A few thing things to note, besides chastising someone for dissing my Peter… Ok, so he mostly just heads the ball but he can’t help it so shut the hell up (making friends is fun)… The first being that despite the former-PNB telling me that this particular establishment was a dive and that I should never ever go… it was not, in fact a dive. Proof positive that one should never take anyone’s word for gospel, especially former-pnbs.

The other thing to note, perhaps the more important of the two, is that in addition to be the only female in a see of fun-living and beer-drinking at noon on a Saturday… about 90% of these gents were of the British persuasion. I felt like I was in pig heaven albeit slightly saddened that I had waited until now to attend a game there… words for gospel… former-pnb… blah blah blah…

So that was exciting and well worth the 10$ places such as these charge to watch games. We didn’t win but I got my Peter Crouch fix which should tide me over for the next little while.

And now, to more important things… Me. More specifically me and dating. There hasn’t been anything new to report because, well… there has been nothing new to report. I’ve met a couple of people but no one really outstanding save for the short and bald English dude who, quite frankly, I never would have given a second thought were it not for the fact that he was English. There was a guy who seemed quite promising however I could not seem to get it through his head that taking naked pictures of himself and offering to send them to me was a huge turnoff. Nor was wanting to see naked pictures of yours truly going to happen either.

By way of background, I have no issues with people who take nude pictures of themselves, or who like to take nude pictures of their significant other. I myself am just not into these sort of behaviours. This is mostly/ entirely due to my oh-so-prudish nature. Also, I get cold without any clothes on so sitting there waiting for someone to take my picture in the buff just doesn’t work for this reason alone… but it’s mostly because I am a prude and proud of it. I also don’t want to see pictures of myself on the internet. Nor do I want to have said person send these pictures to others in his acquaintance. You might laugh at that but I have this friend. I love him to death, but he’s a bit of a dirty bird and while I may not agree with some of the things that he chooses to do in his life, I love and support him no matter what. But because of this friend I have seen more naked web cam pictures of girls than I would care to admit and I am sure, if anyone were to steal my computer and open my received files, they would probably assume that they had stolen the computer of a lesbian. A lesbian addicted to cybersex. So a bit of advice to those who engage in this sort of behaviour, especially women. You can rest assured that the person with whom you are engaging in this act with will almost definitely pass the pics along to someone else in their circle of friends. In fact, I may have already seen your naked ass…

Ok, so enough about me being more prude than a Catholic nun… So buh-bye naked pic guy… Next…

Next was Samantha. Samantha was a cross-dresser and a very beautiful one at that. It’s amazing how some make-up, a wig and some girl’s clothing can turn even the most masculine of men into a very feminine and attractive woman. I had to give this gentleman props about his honesty and truth be told, I am more open to dating a man who likes to wear women’s undies every now and again than one who likes to take and exchange nudie pictures. But… well, in the end it's not really my thing either. Thank goodness Samantha was not English otherwise I would have had quite the dilemma on my hands.

So after my heavenly afternoon spent in the company of English football hooligans, being wooed by a naked lawyer and very gentlemanly cross-dresser, I decided to once again take a break from dating. Not to say that I do not want to meet people, but not for dating. At least not like this… The great thing about this particular site is that you have several options to chose, not just dating, or relationship… you can dabble in ‘intimate encounters’ or ‘other relationship’, which I have never understood because you also have ‘friends’, ‘hang out’, ‘activity partner’ and ‘talk/e-mail’. I honestly cannot figure out what ‘other relationship’ entails so if anyone can shed some light on this that would be great! this may or may not have something to do with the fact that prudish people do not engage in 'other relation ships'.

So ‘friends’ it is. And the outcome? Well, I would be lying if I did not mention that I spent the better part of yesterday speaking with a Scottish chappy who lives but a block away from me who is also looking for people to hang with. Sigh, it’s been ages since I’ve been blessed with a wee Scottish brogue. I’ve been promised the opportunity to meet more expats in the near future and have returned to pig heaven from whence I came earlier in the weekend… or brogue heaven as the case may be.

Stay tuned for news at 11


Hob, Hob, Hobbling Along

Happy Turkey Weekend all… Especially to my good friend Wee who is tying the knot this weekend in Vancouver. Work commitments left me unable to attend originally but those have since been usurped by ‘Back Healing' commitments.

I envision this weekend to go something like this:

3am - Awoken by Hugh who still deems 3am as an acceptable time to play

5am - Fall back asleep

7am – Awoken by Hugh… again, but this time with string in tow. I will rue the day I taught him to play fetch.

8am – Fall back asleep… again

9am - Wake up, this time without help from Hugh. Hugh fast asleep. Take advantage of cat nap (literally) to make up for lost sleep during the night

9:30-11am - Get out of bed at some point... Hobble to the washroom… Hobble to the couch…

5pm - Hobble off the couch to make dinner

5:30pm - Hobble back to couch

10pm- Hobble to bed

Repeat as necessary

Good Times


It's a Bird... It's a Plane...

Hello Friends,

In honour of the fact that I have joined a recreational soccer league (I choose not to go into the details of how I am working from home the past two days because my body does not enjoy playing soccer as much as the rest of me does...).

So it's been a while since I have mentioned by favorite FIFA, now FA boyfriend, Peter Crouch.

Below is a little show-and-tell I would like to present to you. Call it an Ode to Crouchie if you will. Here are some pics from the latest Champions League Liverpool versus some Turkish team that starts with a G and kind of sounds like Galapagos.

For people even newer to "football" than I am, city specific teams play in leagues in their own country, but they also play teams from other cities throughout Europe and can win both their country's league as well as the European league... and this is not to be confused with the Euro Cup, nor the World Cup. Make sense? Hence why Liverpool can play a Turkish team whose name sounds somewhat like a group of islands studied at length by one Charles Darwin. Or something like that.

Anyway, thanks to Getty for letting me lift images from their site. I promise that these images will be used strictly for educational purposes, in that they will be used to educate the people as to the amazing awesomeness of the tallest footballer in all the land. Peter, call me...

Here he is with the look of dogged determination on his face. How cute is that?

Here's my future husband doing who knows what with his body. He's pretty agile for a guy who is tall enough to reach up and touch the moon. I will ask you to take note at the fear that PC inspires in the Galapagos player. OOh... scawee...

Same shot but from the front. Super Crouch!

What you did not see is that only seconds before this picture was taken, Super Crouch was half way around the world saving a bus load of orphans from crashing into a ravine. He then stopped for a milkshake before returning to the field in perfect position to score a goal. Thank you Goddess for creating such a man.

For what I think are pretty obvious reasons, this is my favorite picture of all time! Ever. In the history of the Universe. In sickness and health. In good times and bad. For ever and ever. You may kiss the football.

How Ali G Ruined My Life

Hey Everyone,

Remember me? That’s right, it’s Bea.

As usual, Bea hasn’t been writing because life has been so utterly exciting-activity free. But here is something to wrap your heads around… Before I begin however, I would like to stress that although it may seem that I am anti-short and anti-bald, nothing could be further from the truth. OK, well, short maybe, but I am quite fond of the bald/ balding man. Unless if course you are Joey Lawrence and then your baldness just creeps me out…

So we all know that I met a guy in July/ beginning of August. He was bald. He was short. We had a very fun night out that ended with what I now fondly call “DVD-gate”, where he lent me the second season of Ali G and I lent him my first season of House. Seemed like a fair trade at the time. I was reasonably confident that I would get it back after all, who would NOT want their second season of Ali G back? Am I right ladies? Then, of course, things took a turn for the annoying and the next month went a little something like this:

I really want to see you let’s do something on Friday… Oh, something came up…. But I really want to see you, let’s do something Friday… Oh, I have to work late… But I really want to see you, let’s do something Friday… Oops I broke my ankle and eff you for calling me a liar.

I did apologize for politely suggesting that he did not break his ankle and that he was full of foul smelling brown stuff, but in more of a Bart Simpson kind of way, where I didn’t mean it because I really do think the he was/ is full of smelly brown stuff but I hate confrontation so I just said sorry in the hopes that one day we could exchange property?

Anyway, at this point the above is really neither here nor there… old news. In the meantime, as somewhere deep inside I have accepted the fact that I now OWN the second season of Ali G and not House season one, I have no qualms about lending out said second season of Ali G to whomever I see fit to lend it to. And lend out I did… to a colleague who lives in my building who was itching to jump onto the Borat bandwagon. And, as my first foray back into dating culminated in I really want to see you let’s do something on Friday… Oh, something came up…. But I really want to see you, let’s do something Friday… Oh, I have to work late… But I really want to see you, let’s do something Friday… Oh, but I broke my ankle and eff you for calling me a liar… I am sort of lukewarm about the prospect right now. I swore that I was done with short, bald men.

Last week, enter short, bald man part deux. True, I had sworn myself off of short, bald men, but this one had a piece de resistance that I just could not, um, resist. Short, bald CANADIAN men, forget it. Short, bald ENGLISH men? All bets are off.

As (mis) fortune would have it, SBEM is also a big fan the second season of Ali G (I am sensing a pattern here…) and suggests that we get together sometime to watch it. Unfortunately, the copy of the second season of Ali G that I possess, which is not really mine but abandoned by another short bald guy, was not to be found in my possession at the time. Instead, it was in the same building in possession of my colleague who, although on the bald side himself, is not short. SBEM says no problem because, like any good short, bald man, he has his own copy of second season Ali G and that he would gladly come all the way over to my little abode that afternoon and we could watch.

Like, whatever. I had nothing else to do that afternoon anyway except laundry and if I had to choose between doing laundry and sitting on my ass… sitting on ass option will always win. Always.

Later that day, I could not help but chuckle to myself about the entire situation. There I was sitting next to a short, bald man while watching the second season of Ali G that he had brought over. Meanwhile, a copy of the same DVD was not more than 4 floors above my head in the hands of another bald man. The copy of THAT second season of Ali G having itself been brought to the building by way of another short, bald man.

Sometimes you just can’t see the forest for the bald men.

PS. Thanks to MySpace for their preview of Borat last night. I can’t promise that is the funniest movie ever made, but it’s pretty much the funniest movie ever made. Jagshemesh!


Sleep, Glorious Sleep

It’s be a super long time, I know. I’ve been mostly just relishing the fact that I the cats are gone and I have been able to sleep. My cat is positively on cloud none now that it’s just the two of us again and I have forgotten what an evil little bugger he was for the past month.

So what’s new?


Last week I learned about what a small world it was. I ended up spending the Monday of Labour day weekend at some thing called Beachfest. Without going into the details, I found myself in a position of spending the day with a group of people who I swore I would never come within 10 feet of, let alone hang out with for the whole day. Sufficed to say that I was more than happy to spend the day sipping beer in ye olde beer garden. Anyway, upon arrival, one of the above mentioned mean girls had with her a guy who looked awfully familiar upon first glance. Not necessarily familiar in the “I know you” kind of way… more in the “He looks likes someone on TV” kind of way. Introductions were made and at the exact moment that this fella was being introduced, a plane from the air show did a fly by and I missed his name. Being the polite person that I am, I did the old lean in and apologized that I didn’t catch his name. “M”, he said it was as we shook hands and I said it was nice to meet him.

And then it was time for beer and music. A few hours and another airplane goes by and I glance behind me to look (what can I say, I like old planes) and M just so happened to be standing there. At that moment, I swear the look on my face must have been priceless, for in all of my dating adventures in the Big Smoke, I have never run into anyone who I had gone out with. And not just gone out with:

How is it possible that I could have not remembered a guy who I made out with along the busiest street in Toronto? No idea, but remember him I finally did. The world is too small my friends… Too small.

Last week was mostly about sleep.

This week? The Toronto international Film Festival. I didn’t volunteer again this year because I really wanted to have the flexibility of actually seeing the movies that I wanted, like we did last year. A few things have put a monkey wrench into the machinery. First and foremost is that my favorite (and only) festival buddy is still laid up with a bummed ankle and is unable to tiff this year. This would no be such a problem were it not for the fact that no on else I know is really into it. Granted, heading down to Yorkville to celebrity watch is super fun and all… but not every night. However, speaking of… Girl and I went down on Saturday to see what we could see and have a few bevies and decided to take a stroll to the Four Seasons and… Like, oh my gawd, like we totally saw… get this… Kevin Costner. I have the mobile phone pic to prove it (I tried to post it, but as per usual, Blogger is having image posting issues...) Note to self… a phone camera is no substitute for a real camera. So, yeah… my other peeps are just not into actually seeing movies so much. Although, I must give Celebrity Boyfriend Stealer a bit of a break. She worked her arse off with Rebelfest this weekend… Think the antithesis of the TIFF… and had the task of shepherding Tom Sizemore around to this that and the other thing. By the way, Mr. Sizemore is apparently the nicest of gentlemen, or so she says.

I’m also not completely all over the line-up this year either. Last year there seemed to be some much to choose from… this year? Besides Borat, and the new Christopher Guest mockumentary, there is not a lot that I would be willing to wait in a four hour line-up in the rain to see. I will see something though, not to worry. My money is on the closing gala Amazing Grace, which stars one of lesser known celebrity boyfriends Ioan Gruffudd. It also features a person with my new favorite name off all time-- Benedict Cumberbatch. I have no idea who this person is, or what he looks like, but I can only imagine that someone with a name like that must be quite a character and someone who I think I should like to marry. What a couple Benedict and Beatrice Cumberbatch would make don’t you think? We would have three children. Barnard and Bernice, twins of course. And the oldest… Bartleby. He would be a barrister when he grew up. Barney and Bernie would follow in their father’s footsteps and become actors and would go down in history of being the first brother and sister to win the Best Actor and Actress Oscar in the same year. Bernie, of course, will win for portraying the lead in the film adaptation of her mother’s Beatrice’s best selling novel. Barney will take home the prize for the drama version of Dude, Where’s My Car, which would also pick up the Oscar for Best Motion Picture that year.

And here I am with the stupidest last name EVER of Petty. I can scarcely bare to look at myself right now.


Things That Have Happened This Week... So Far... Part 2

1) Hootie and the Blowfish concert was last night. It was pretty much exactly how I figured a Hootie and a Blowfish concert would be, except I wasn’t expecting the lead singer to be wearing one of those little metro cowboy hats the entire time. With the exception of the drama surrounding my gay date and the crazy fella from a little further down the row stalking him for an hour and a half, I am a little annoyed that those are 2 hours out of my life that I will never get back and could have spent at home watching all my favorite Brit comedies. I take comfort in the fact that the other couple of thousand people felt the same way. How could I tell? Well, to quote my favorite book from last year: “The crowd is just not into you if… they only really clap at the cover songs from other bands you are playing”. No word of a lie, the crowd roared with delight at 54-40’s I Go Blind. You could almost collectively hear the crowd thinking “Wow, a 54-40 concert would be so much awesomer than the one I am at right now."

2) Thrice Disser kinda sorta apologized to me. It turns out that he was a little miffed that I didn’t believe that he broke his ankle and accused him of lying. Who knew that guys could be so sensitive? No word on just when I will be getting my House back so I suppose I will just have to take comfort in knowing that season three start next week. Hooray!!!

3) Right now I can hear the airplanes getting ready for the air show this weekend. I like airplanes. Kind of have the yen to go see Snakes on a Plane right now...

Have a good weekend y’all. Kitties are going home this weekend. When? No idea… But hopefully at some point I will be able to have the first decent night’s sleep in what seems like forever and not be such a brainless twit next week. It will be nice to have my boss ask me a question and be able to do more than stare blankly back like someone who has temporarily forgotten the English language.


Things That Have Happened This Week... So Far

Please bear in mind that at this point, I have scarcely had more than 3 hours sleep on any given night since the beginning of the month.

1) Cats playing/fighting all night long. Every night. Ear plugs don’t work. Nor does gravol. Or a bottle of red wine.

2) My basil package fell out of my cupboard and straight into the sink full of soapy water and dished. There was basil everywhere. All the basil was completely ruined and needless to say, I had to empty the sink and start over. This may not seem like a big deal but if you add the fact that I am so exhausted that I cry at the drop of a hat WITH the fact that are all soon to experience a basil shortage of global proportions (it’s true, I read it in the paper), well, one word. DISASTER.

3) I found out my uncle has been addicted to crystal meth for the last couple of years. Suddenly his antics at Christmas last year make much more sense. Oh, and he might also be going to prison. Oddly enough the “Affair of the Basil” was much more upsetting.

4) A guy who has dissed me not once, not twice but thrice told ME to feck off when I had the nerve to ask him if we could switch the dvds we had swapped. Call me crazy but Dude, my first season of House is worth far more to me than your crappy second season of Da Ali G Show. Note to self… do not lend strangers ANYTHING. Oh, and I might have accused him of faking a broken ankle and some other stuff. But let’s all remind ourselves that I am running on about 24 hours of sleep for the entire month. But he was a big meanie to me. Next.

5) I am covering for 2 other people at work this week. I am not a machine people!

6) This hasn’t happened yet, but a work colleague invited me to a private concert for tomorrow to see… wait for it… Hootie and the Blowfish. Now, only really my old school uni peeps will know this about me, but if there is one band that I truly cannot stand in the world, it is Hootie and the Blowfish. They rank right up there with Richard Gere and raisins… But a free ticket is a free ticket I suppose. Between the two of us, it should be a fun outing: Me counting down the minutes until the concert is over, trying to do my best not to slap the person beside me just so I can take my mind off the fact that the song currently being played sounds exactly like all the other songs that were and will be played and my friend… who has never even heard of Hootie and the Blowfish.

7) Hugh has taken to peeing directly down the bathroom drain. I know, ew, but I have to hand it to the little bugger. It actually took a bit of brains to understand that liquids drain through the little hole through the tub. I think he has been studying this for a while now because for about a week he has been completely fascinated with watching the water in the shower. At first I thought he was just a little pervert, but it seems he was conducting a little bit of scientific observation. Am I ever glad he doesn’t have opposable thumbs because I think he might just have the smarts to take over the world. And a world run by cats is not one that I care to live in thank you very much.

Somebody please tell me that it's not just Wednesday...


Rest in Peace


Ninth orb from the Sun-
How they disrespected you.
A planet no more.


Have you ever seen a cross between Mr. Bean and Sylvestre Stallone?


Well I have... Ergo, I am better than you.


Free to a good home...

I’m still in Kitty Hell. The following are a sampling of the things that have happened thus far - week one of a month long stay:

1) Hugh has peed in places, some of which do not include his kitty litter. Luckily he has since stopped, but still, not a fan of kitty pee in the bathtub.

2) The kitties murdered my laptop. It somehow took a nose dive from its secure position on the coffee table to the parquet floor at some point while I was at work last Thursday. It needs a new hard drive. If I ever see the “Error 174” ever again during the rest of my life, it will be too soon.

3) Hugh has forgotten that he has no reproductive capabilities anymore. He is also apparently homosexual and I am pulling him off little Tartine ever 2.5 seconds. Gay Kitty Love is not as appealing as it sounds folks. Especially at 4am, when it is happening on my pillow.

4) Little Tartine is a puker, as most long-haired cats are. This would not be a problem so much if he were to choose to NOT puke on my natural wood coffee table. A table which pretty much serves as my everything table which, like, ew.

5) I hate emptying kitty litter 50 times a day. I may make the decision to stop feeding them.

6) Everything I own is coated in white Persian fur.

7) Best $4 I ever spent was on a red laser pointer. Hours and hours of laser pointer fun for all three kitties = a couple of hours of interrupted sleep for Bea.

8) I was walking past my “everything” table yesterday, upon which sat a full glass of raspberry crystal light… which is a delightful bright pink colour… when said glass literally exploded without being touched in any way. Ok, so may I can’t blame the kitties for this one… but I am SURE they must be somehow responsible, so blame them I will. My only consolation was that because the kitties had previously murdered the laptop, it was not on the table when the glass exploded and was thus spared from being doused with a glass full of bright pink liquid.

Is the summer over yet?


Yet Another Internet Discovery

I feel compelled to share this with anyone and everyone who like to have a good chuckle.

So long story short… I got a call at work yesterday on my cell. It was from Calgary so I figured it was from my friend KS. When I got home I checked my messages and here was this message from KS, doing what I thought was the bestest freaking impression of Samuel L. Jackson that you could ever hear. About 15 seconds into the message I realized that it was not my friend KS but was actually Samuel L. Jackson… telling me that if I did not go and see Snakes on a Plane he would hunt me down and kill me. I was scared.

If you would like to give your friends a good laugh, as I have done, check it out for yourself:

And yes, I will be going to see Snakes on a Plane when it opens in theatres everywhere on August 18th. If you value your life, so will you.


Internet Discoveries Are Fun

My confession du jour is that I am probably the last person on the planet to discover My Space.

Oh, I had heard of it... A great breeding ground for pedophiles. I was even on it a while back but never really appreciated it for what it was... A really cool place to discover new music.

Anyway, sticking close to home over the weekend to make sure that Hugh didn't kill our guests gave me a bit of time to play around with it.

Check it out:



The Arrival of D-Day...

As I start this posting it is just coming up to 9am on Sunday morning. I have been out of bed for about an hour.

But what time did you wake up? I can hear you all asking.

Why, I woke up at 9:30am...

... Yesterday morning.

Yesterday afternoon saw the arrival of Tartine and Couscous, two very adorable Persians who had come away from the groomers looking like little mini lions. Pretty adorable.

To make a long story short. Hugh loves them. I think eventually it will be to the death, but at the moment he can't seem to get enough of them - the little Tartine especially, who is about half the size of Hugh.

And so throughout the evening and as the night wore on, the "playing" got more intense. It went a little something like this:

1) Hugh meows, signaling his eminent pounce. Sometimes one meow, sometimes several, but always loud.

2) Now forewarned of the attack, Tartine turns and lets out a screech loud enough to wake the dead... which is comforting to know because another night of no sleep will surely cause such a calamity.

3) Hugh, quite nonplussed about this howl, goes in for the pounce anyway.

4) Tartine, with yet another screech, this time louder by ten-fold, hits back with a force that only a tiny little "fur shaved in the style of a lion" kitty can muster when faced with a very insistent foe.

5) Hugh jumps back, startled at the ferocity of the defence. He responds with a little chirp as if to say "Ok, you got me. Totally didn't see that coming."

6) Feeling that the little exchange is over, Tartine turns away to go about his business of survival.

7) Repeat steps 1 through 6 over and over and over again for 12 solid hours.

In the end (middle of the night) I broke down and put the two visitors in my hallway/closet/bathroom, along with all their necessities. I wanted them to be able to do their feline duties undisturbed by Hugh. They seemed OK, but not impressed with their tight quarters I am sure. But what of Hugh?

About the only thing putting the cats away so that he could not get to them solved was that I was able to skip through steps 2 through 6 and just had to contend with #1. Over and over and over and over and over.

Putting him outside seemed like a lovely idea, until I did that and in 2.5 seconds proceeded to peepee all over the one chair that I have out on the patio. Ew. So in he came and howled and howled and howled until I could no longer take laying in bed with earplugs in my ears that did crap all. 29 decibels is apparently about as loud as as octogenarian shuffling their slippers as they walk down the hall in the retirement home. And not two cats duking it out right under my bed and howling at the top of their lungs. Just an FYI...

If I don't post for a while, you can assume that one of three things has happened.

1) I have dropped dead from exhaustion,

2) I am on the run from the animal welfare authorities, who do not look kindly at people who agree to look after co-workers pets and then turn around and sell them to the Carnival,

3) These cats seemed destined to consume the better part of my life for the next month. I shall spare you the gory details of daily life in the crazy house.



The Creature from the Black Lag-womb

I spoke with my Mom last night… blah, blah, blah… she loves me and is proud of both my brother and I… how we never needed anti-depressants growing up. You know, the usual parental gushing stuff.

Somehow we got turned on to talking about when she was pregnant with me and how much I did not want to come out. I was two weeks overdue and apparently that was quite irritating to her. She just wanted me out. But I didn’t want to come. I was cozy. I was safe. She decided that the best way to make me pop out would be to engage in a rigorous house vacuuming session which she proceeded to do. I guess it worked because said vacuuming did induce labour and off to the hospital Ma and Pa went.

Sadly, there were also a lot of other babies who decided to make that appearance that fateful February 15th. My insistence on staying inside my nice cozy womb had meant that of those expectant Mothers to be, my Mommy arrived last and there was no room at the inn. So, not unlike the biblical story of old, Mr. and Mrs. Petty were put in the manger… or broom closet…

29 hours later and I still did not want to come out. I guess my Dad got bored of my Mom being in labour so he left the manger/broom closet to take a quick nap in the cafeteria. My mom wasn’t impressed. After all, my Dad was the one who had gotten her into this mess in the first place and god dammitt he was going to suffer the consequences along with her. So back my Dad came.

Shortly thereafter I arrived and was promptly whisked away to the nursery. A while later Mrs. Petty felt well enough after her ordeal to take a trip to the nursery to have a look at her new darling baby girl. When she gazed upon her new daughter, tears began to flow. Partly due to joy. Partly due to the hideousness of the creature that lay before her.

Skin peeling, scaly, blotchy, red and hairless…

Mrs. Petty had given birth to a Lizard Baby.

“All the other babies are so beautiful”, Ma Petty asked the nurse. “Why is my baby so repulsive to look at?”

The nurse proceeded to explain “Well Mrs. Petty, didn’t you know? When babies are two weeks over due, their skins start to react to the liquid in the womb, so your baby will be scaly and shed her skin for quite some time before it returns to normal”?

“Yes, but why is she as red as a tomato?” inquired the new mother. “All the other babies have a beautiful golden hue, as if the goddess herself had smiled down upon them and blessed them. Why, why does my baby look like such a freak of nature?”

The nurse laughed, “Hahahahaha Mrs. Petty, why, don’t you know? Most babies are born with jaundice which causes their skin to turn a yellowish hue. Your daughter, unsightly as she may be, is the healthiest of the lot. At least she would be,” paused the nurse, “if she was not molting.”

And that, my friends, is the story of how I came to be.

The End

Bea “LizI AM the Lizard Queen” Petty

PS. And I do peel. To this day, put me out in the sun for 5 minutes and I will burn. It’s probably due to the fact that I lost more skin within the first 2 hours of being born than most people do in their life time.


TTC Doing its Part


So further to my mini-rant yesterday about the hottest day EVER, which literally turned into the hottest night EVER… literally. I read that in the paper this morning… which makes total sense because my antique AC could scarcely keep up and I sweated all night long. But seeing as how I have been sweating pretty much solidly for the past two weeks, what’s an hour or two or eight here and there?

Anyway, on my way home yesterday I spotted a bus that was parked in front of the subway station. It was one of the new buses where you can program pretty much anything into the message thingy on the front. Here is what it said, in its fancy schmancy scrolling manner:



Not in Service



Not in Service



Not in Service



Not in Service

I giggled all the way home… tee hee.


Axes and Furnaces Suck

The past few months at work have been kinda sorta interesting. A while back I might have mentioned some of the following that:

a) I had been offered a full-time position here but then
b) That had been reneged upon and I was not been offered anything but then
c) Due to a lack/complete absence of communication it had been presumed that I would not be interested in the position, which was due to be changing slightly and then
d) The higher-ups decided to completely re-structure the entire organization and
e) Yes, they were happy to have me but that
f) I was only going to get a contract extension of 3 months because due to the above mentioned re-structuring that the position might change within that time and they wanted to make sure it was going to work before they committed to hiring me on full-time in that capacity but that
g) I was to be rest assured that I would have a job at the end of those 3 months, they were just not sure exactly in what capacity and finally
h) I signed my contract yesterday.

Well sadly, there is more to add to this alphabet story for on the very same day that ‘h)’ (please see above) occurred, ‘d)’ (please see above) completely kicked into high gear yesterday which resulted in:

i) A few people losing their jobs including a very good friend of yours truly and some others that I never though would be a result of ‘d)’ (please see above).

I felt sick to my stomach yesterday and only decidedly less so today. Coupled with the fact that it is about 50 degrees outside and you get the kind of ill-humour I am in today. Also contributing to my ill-humour is that I was fortunate enough on the weekend to be reminded about how great cuddling is and really how much I have missed it… Of course we all know my luck so this particular cuddling session is likely destined to be a one off, but it was nice nonetheless.

Actually, now that I think about it… the cuddling… not the weather… or the “restructuring” , I do kind a feel a bit warmer and fuzzier inside… the good kind of warmer… not the “I could step out to grab a bite to eat but I think I would rather starve than walk outside to grab food” warmer.


How the Mighty... and Mel Gibson, Have Fallen

Does anyone else remember when Mel Gibson was not the world’s biggest freak?

There once was a time that I actually loved the guy. Always enjoyed his work. Respected the fact that he loved and seemed faithful to his wife and had a large brood of children. Braveheart was a kick-ass movie and who doesn’t love the Lethal Weapon series? I even enjoyed the one where he put on pantyhose and wore lipstick, even though Helen Hunt has about the sex appeal of sloth.

When was it, then that he started to really turn my stomach? It’s not the raging alcoholism… that I can deal with. Can’t put my finger on it… Oh wait, it’s the raging Catholicism that turns me off to the point that I can barely stand to look at the guy any more. He sometimes redeems himself, speaking out against the war in Iraq comes to mind, but those instances seem to few and far between. He has been accused of homophobia and anti-Semitism as well, but as that has yet to officially be confirmed I am willing to not hold it against him at this point. Wait a minute… Hmmm, not an anti-Semite you say?

The newest fodder in my “Mel Gibson Sucks” fire is not even that he was arrested for driving completely sh*tfaced over the weekend. After all, what self- respecting actor has not dabbled with a little DUI now and again? Nope, it was the fact that among other completely ridiculously insulting things, MeGi supposedly uttered the following, just a part of a barrage of insults he hurled at the officers who arrested him:

"F*****g Jews... The Jews are responsible for all the wars in the world."

This is usually always the first thing out of my mouth when I am arrested for drunk driving. It’s so relevant to the task at hand. It’s about as relevant as being out on a date with someone when all of a sudden he shouts "F*****g gays... A gay man f*****g a monkey is the reason why all the STDs in the world exist.", because that, like, totally impresses a girl. And while MeGi did not utter those words in this instance (although it is probably only a matter of time) they were uttered by a guy that I DID go out on a date with, who then proceeded to stalk me…

"F*****g stalkers... A stalker is the reason why I won’t go out with guys I meet at bus stops anymore”

Yeah, I really don’t like bus stops. Or Mel Gibson. Or stalkers.


Aint' He Cute?

For lack of having anything more exciting to talk about, I thought I would share some pictures of my baby. He really is adorable. Except for say, at 3am when he decides that my body is his newest chew toy. Little bastard... I mean... Isn't he the cutest?

Hugh's favorite place to sleep

The Hugh Hotel


TV Guide

Thursdays are awesome... if you have BBC Canada, that is. Why? Well The Office and Little Britain back to back aside, these shows, which are like, two of my favorite shows ever... are immediately preceded by my new favorite show ever: Coupling.

I know I have gone over this before, but I really truly mean it when I say that my life had not been complete before I discovered this not so hidden gem. Case in point, I want nothing for Christmas except all the seasons I am missing. Hint Hint.

I spent a solid 30 minutes last night laughing so hysterically by myself in my l'il 'partment that I thought surely the neighbours would call someone to take me away. Below is an excerpt from the show I watched last night. Thanks to You Tube, which is fast becoming the greatest thing ever put on the internet... besides my blog that is... and maybe the former roommie's... and porn.

Anyway, it's out of context and you won't know the characters but just imagine it's your birthday and the woman of your dreams has approached you at work and tempted you with all of your heart's sexual desires...

Ok, it's still out of context... so watch/ rent/ buy the shows damnit! And when you do, I'll be here... waiting... for you to thank me for making your lives just a little bit better.

All hail Bea


More Things That Annoy Me

I know that in the past I have posted about inconsiderate public behaviour… putting make-up on in public, cracking gum, not holding doors or elevators etc… But I can’t remember if I wrote about the following. If I did I apologize but I had an experience this morning that I cannot keep to myself.


Public Enemy Number One

Granted, I am not a whistler… you know, one of those people who whistles for the fun of it. I CAN whistle if the occasion calls for it, but as luck would have it, it rarely does. I’m more of a hummer. I’ll hum along to myself, usually when I am along. If the mood does happen to strike me whilst out among civilized society, I do it under my breath so that only I can hear.

Cut to this morning. I get on the train that will take me two stops to my place of work. Yes, I could walk. And yes, I should walk. It’s only about a 25 minute walk but you try telling my “I could get up and walk or sleep an extra 25 minutes antithesis of a morning person” self to get out of the world’s most comfortable bed. Go ahead, I dare you. I guarantee that the outcome will not be pleasant. Anyway…

So on the train I get and before it has even left good old Eggy station the “annoyance hairs” on the back of my neck have begun to stand up.

Someone is whistling.

Bea is not alone in swiveling her head to see who the culprit is. Apparently I is not the only one with a dislike of the irksome sounds created by blowing air through puckered lips. Aha, there he is. And he is oblivious to the glares emanating in his direction from all those around him. Of course he is, because his back is turned and he is facing the door of the train so what the deuce does he care?

As if the whistling was not bad enough, the worst part was that he wasn’t even whistling any tune to speak of. It was more of a do-ra-mi-mi-ra-do-ra-mi-mi-ra-do-ra-mi-mi-ra-do-ra-mi-mi-do-ra-do-ra-mi-mi-ra-do-ra-mi-mi-ra-do-ra-mi-mi-ra-do-ra-mi-mi-do-ra- do-ra-mi-mi-ra-do-ra-mi-mi-ra-do-ra-mi-mi-ra-do-ra-mi-mi-do-ra-do-ra-mi-mi-ra-do-ra-mi-mi-ra-do-ra-mi-mi-ra-do-ra-mi-mi-do-ra…

And thus it continued for the duration of the ride which granted, was only about 4 minutes. But 4 minutes seems like an awfully long time when one is subjected to do-ra-mi-mi-ra-do-ra-mi-mi-ra-do-ra-mi-mi-ra-do-ra-mi-mi-do-ra-do-ra-mi-mi-ra-do-ra-mi-mi-ra-do-ra-mi-mi-ra-do-ra-mi-mi-do-ra- do-ra-mi-mi-ra-do-ra-mi-mi-ra-do-ra-mi-mi-ra-do-ra-mi-mi-do-ra-do-ra-mi-mi-ra-do-ra-mi-mi-ra-do-ra-mi-mi-ra-do-ra-mi-mi-do-ra…

Is it cocktail time yet?


Poetry for a Monday

Continuing in the vein of my “Ode to the Sty on my Eye” poem from the weekend, I was going to regale everyone with an “Ode to the Colossal Zit on My Nose,” but found that “zit” and “nose” just did not have the same rhyming capabilities as “sty” and “eye.”

So instead, I present to you my ZitKu.

Pus-filled and tender
To have grown this fat beasty
Pores need new hobby

Anyone else starting to get the impression that my face is conspiring against me?

On a different note altogether, but perhaps somehow related as it is entirely possible that my voodoo curse has returned…

So, I am back doing what I do best… dating and I was chatting to this fella for the better part of a week. He seemed nice. As I am not wookin pa nub, I was not even turned off by the fact that the ink on his divorce was not yet dry. Like I said, he seemed nice… and I’ve been bored.

And then it started. The double entendres over msn. Harmless little questions and conversations that somehow or other always ended up in the gutter.

Gutterball says: So are you a morning or night person

Bea says: Definitely not a morning person

Gutterball says: OK, well I won’t wake you too early

And about a bazillion other references like that. Which at first was not too bad, but after about the 5th one in a 5 minute conversation, it starts to become really annoying. Especially when you have already alluded to the fact that it annoys you. But whatever, I kind if just brushed it off and ignored it and we made plans to meet on Friday.

Thursday comes and I get the old “hey, I might have to cancel if some health issues come up the ex” (apparently she a few mental issues). This one phrase alone did what none of the gutter talk did… It made me want to flee to the high hills. Why?

Because not only did this guy spend a week warning me that when “he cuddles he has wandering hands” and that he’ll “make sure his fridge is fully stocked with my favorite breakfast foods” for our date… which is like, ew… but when it came down to it, the Gutterball was giving himself an out should something better come along. How do I know that it was a bullsh*t excuse? Well, I don’t. But let me tell you, the old girl has doled out some of the same in her heyday. Enough to know when I am hearing one in return at the very least. And if it was not some excuse? Actually the alternative was even worse because if this gutterball is still so involved with the mental issues of his wife that he would have to break off a social engagement then clearly he has no business wookin pa nub.

And so back to karma/voodoo curses.

What did I do? I blew him off. Just never logged on to msn on Friday. I did what would have driven me CRAZY had it been done to me… and has been done to me… and it did drive me crazy. And yet here I was, doing it. With no remorse… and still no remorse. Because here I am, in a position to be choosy and NOT go out with a guy who speaks to me in a manner that even my past bfs have never done, without even having met me AND giving me excuses as to why possibly he would maybe have to cancel on me at the last minute. Buh-Bye.

But I wonder…

My sty and my zit, on the same weekend. Coincidence? Is the Universe punishing me for throwing Gutterball down the gutter with nary a word? Oh well. Get used to it Universe because it’s only a gentleman for this girl. And gentlemanly is as gentlemanly does, or gentlewomanly as it were…

So there.

Just as I was posting, I got the saddest sad sack routine from Gutterball. I am not even buying it for a second. I am so going to hell. But not before I vomit.

*Update Part deux*
Gutterball is moving, into a bachelor pad... which is small, but I am not to worry, as there will be more than enough room for the two of us in his bed.

I totally just vomited in my mouth... Now where did I put that toothpaste?


Poetry Corner with Beatrice Petty


I have a sty

It is on my eye

Why oh why

Do I have this sty

On my eye

In this month of July


Why, I have had no sty

Since senior high

After eating Pumpkin Pie

By the by

In the starry night sky

And now, this July

I have a new sty

Located quite high

On my adorable right eye

I'm sure I'll get by

As long as someone comes by

And they bring Pumpkin pie

By the by

To eat under the starry night sky

Don't be shy

Or a wise guy

Or make fun of my eye

Which currently has a sty




This Week in TV News...

Just in case I forgot to mention this, I now have satellite TV. No, not good satellite... like the free satellite that you can pirate and get all the cool US channels, like the History and Biography Channels for free. Nope, I got the good old fashioned Canadian pay an arm and a leg the Biography Channel is some lazy hybrid version of the US version satellite. Like, whatever.

Anyway, all that aside, it's pretty cool. I still get to watch all my favs, such as SYTYCD (oh my god... how in lust am I with Dimitri and his heaving, hairless and totally cut chest), Canadian Idol not so much after that adorable red head guy got voted off, an essentially endless supply of The Simpsons, hardcore porn on the weekends at midnight (no, I cannot go out this Friday, I am BUSY... in fact, I am busy EVERY Friday and Saturday night... from now on until the end of time... bye). You know, the usual.

However, through some new channels I have recently been introduced to some shows that I was never able to see until now. Coupling is a show that I had heard of but only in so far as that I knew a crappy American version of the British had been made and cancelled almost as quickly. I happened to be home on Saturday night... wink wink... and stumbled across it. Two words:

Never laughed harder at anything in my entire life. If you ever get a chance to see it... DO IT. Oh, and it stars the dude who plays Norrington in the Pirates movies. He looks different sans powdered wig.

The second show, which I had been dying to see since I became completely addicted to the BBC version of The Office. I personally think that Ricky Gervais is a freaking genius. The new show he started after The Office ended is called Extras and the premise is that RG wants to be an actor but only seems to be able to get work as an extra. To date I have only seen a few episodes. The most recent one guest starred the ever so sexy Patrick Stewart as himself, as all the celebrity guest stars of which there are many, do. However, THIS Patrick Stewart was a slightly dirty Patrick Stewart obsessed with magically melting women's clothing off their body. Again, see the above mentioned two words re: Coupling.

I must, must, must get a hold of copies of these series... or I shall die. And what would become of my little Hughie? I repeat... must... get...copies.


What is Wrong With the Earth?

The last few days, Toronto has been experiencing temperatures, the likes of which I think can only been found on Mercury... Or maybe the Sun.

Except on the Sun, I imagine it to be a tad less humid. I also imagine that on the Sun, the subway would be air conditioned. And there would be moving walkways every where. And they would be air conditioned. And in the grocery stores, which even on Earth are air conditioned, on the Sun they would also be air conditioned, but on the Sun, everything that I wanted to purchase on that particular visit would be on sale. And all the cashiers would be pirates... But that is neither here nor there at this point.

Until I become the head of a grocery store chain that is... And I would name it 'Ayes'... and our slogan would be 'Aye's Buys are Always Fresh... Argh' and our TV commercials would be like the ones on TV that look like your Uncle Bob did, you know, with his camcorder, because, like, it was free... and I would come on the screen, with a fake sailing ship in the background and with a pirate voice say "Argh me Matey's... Cap'n Bea welcomes ye to Aye's, where our buys are always fresh and where we guarantee... Argh... the lowest prices or ye get ye money back ya Scallywags... And I'll walk the plank... that's the Aye's guarantee...Argh"... and I would be wearing a pirate hat... Oh, and a patch over my eye... Oh, and there would be a stuffed parrot on my shoulder...

Damn it's hot.


Bea's Big Fat Mouth and Kind Heart


Here is where I start to question my intelligence. I was asked a while back whether I would be willing to cat sit for a friend for the month of August. And by “cat”, I mean that in the plural sense. I said no, because I find even looking after one cat challenging enough. I knew too that I would be moving into a bachelor and thought that 3 cats might just be a bit much for a place only slightly larger than a breadbox.

Conveniently I used my little Destruct-O-Matic 5000 as the reason for my negative reply and proceeded to give many examples of his unruly behaviour, both towards his former BFF Spaz… which ultimately led to Spaz being removed from the premises over fear of his health and safety… and myself… which ultimately led to the horrible disfigurement that I now sport on both arms. Coincidentally, both happenstances occurred with the same accessories that the Destruct-O-Matic 5000 conveniently came with at no extra charge, namely the “Fighting Claws of Fury” and the “Jaws of Death.” I must have a word with the manufacturers. But never one to leave poor kitties out in the cold, I volunteered to be the last resort should no other suitable arrangements be found.

And now the time has come my friends, the “Last Resort” is officially open for business. After a bit of re-modelling, it is due to open its doors at the beginning of August and like any good business, the success of the new enterprise depends on many factors. Chief among them being that the owner will be tied to said business for the duration of its operation. Already down the drain is my one shot at heading out of the city for a lovely weekend of camping with like-minded individuals… Come to think of it, should any of those like-minded individuals need to book a room at the Last Resort, they had best hurry as space is running out. Of course, the high occupancy rate means that room rates are at a premium and I would insist on payment… Most likely in the form of a lots and lots of booze, a hefty supply of earplugs and possibly a reservation at one of Toronto’s excellent psychiatric facilities.


Bee Rides and Monkey Mahem

I am alive. Just busy at work these days and we all know that posting from la travail is my favorite place from which to do it for it looks like I am actually working but I am not-- I am writing to you, my people. So when I actually DO have to work at work, I find that it kind of mucks things up and not only am I not able to blog but I am unable to keep up with other people’s blogs, online gossip columns, the daily news etc… nor am I able to make any attempts at resurrecting my love life. Because goodness knows I cannot possibly do any of that on my own time.

No, no, no… That would be cutting into my ME time in the evenings and as it is I find that there is just not enough ME time in the day anyway, let alone if I used said ME time to work on the above mentioned computer related activities.

Anyway, I had a lovely weekend which included kayaking with my English Chemist, desperately craving a chicken burger and being told that definitely a place with an Italian sounding name did not serve Italian food, but pub food which would include, but not be limited to chicken burgers only to find out that it really was really only logical that a restaurant with an Italian sounding name would absolutely be an Italian restaurant and would not be caught dead serving anything remotely close to pub food which includes, but is not limited to chicken burgers… And then of course there was the Game on Sunday where I completely forgot my oath to support the team that I did not want to win in hopes that the team that I did want to win would win… I guess we all know who I was cheering for.

But it was an interesting game to say the least. Made even more interesting by Zizou’s head butt which, according to him, was caused by his Mother and Sister being thrice insulted by Marco Materazzi in the last few minutes of the game. Now, call me crazy. I don’t KNOW Zinedine Zidane, nor do I ever think I will ever be so fortunate as to be even remotely close to being in the presence of Zinedine Zindane… but if you were to ask my opinion on the matter, I would have to say that insulting the man's female relatives not once, but three times, would probably not get you onto his Christmas list. I would not even so much as insult the tiniest hair on his head. He has no hair and I would still not insult it. If asked, I would tell the man that he had the most magnificent mane in all the land.


Three words:


Look at this man** Note that I tried like a bazillion times to upload a picture... stupid blogger... here is the pic!!! Hottie though he may be, his stone-face did not even crack when he practically dislocated his shoulder. He walked it off, la-la-la…and was back in the game as if nothing had happened. In my girlish FIFA fantasies, of which I have many, I do not even imagine his face cracking a smile even whilst in the throngs of passionate of love-making. Much different than how I imagine my little Crouchie, who during our date, was all smiles and laughter… Ok, so we never went on a date, but I had a DREAM that we went out on a date. That’s how I know we are MFEO… because we got along so great in my dream. He was like SO into me… He even did The Crouch…

I digress.

What the heck was I talking about???

Damn you Peter Crouch!!!

Viva La France


I’ll admit it. I’ve been in a bit of a tizzy over my beloved England’s loss to a bunch of “Your pathetic acting is not even good enough for a soap opera, so why don’t you just suck it up and stop pretending that you are even remotely in pain and get up and play some gosh darned football you gosh darned pansies” babies. Strong words I know...

I was hopeful that Angleterre would win, but when I woke up and saw that my Crouchie was not on the starting lineup and that only one striker would be played, a loss was now more than just a slight possibility. Sigh… If only I had been the coach.

Pretty much I could care two hoots about the WC right now, except for the game today… France vs. Portugal. Who do I want to win? Well… I’m thinking that the Old Girl has been causing a bit of bad luck in the tournament recently. Why? Because every single team that I have rooted for has lost. It’s true. Australia, Switzerland, Germany, England, Spain, Netherlands, Ghana… All losers. Did I mention that I came dead last in my pool?

So, um, regarding today’s game…




Show and Tell

Day two without the WC… Am starting to lose all hope... Am seeing soccer balls around every corner… Peoples heads have now been replaced by curious round white sphere with black squares… out of their mouths the only words I hear nothing but FIFA FIFA FIFA FIFA… to which my only reply is CROUCH Crouch CROUCH Crouch CROUCH? And then I start doing the most bizarre robot dance… people at work are starting to look at me funny…

And in other news, just because I can, here are some pictures. I thought you would enjoy seeing the ghetto senior’s home that my balcony now looks on to…I miss the trains... and how every so often, when the smog dissipates ever so slightly, I can see the top of the city’s largest phallus that some people call the CN Tower. Also, a picture of my baby… My how he has grown.



So You Think You Can...

Lucky for all of you there is no WC for two whole days. I know... a tragedy of extraordinary magnitude... but what's a girl to do?

Anyway, so here I am right now. Watching my favorite 'Let's make some other useless person famous' show "So You Think You Can Dance"... when I see an ad for something even more ridiculous.

America's Got Talent.

Yeah, the girl who can shoot a bow and arrow with her feet while doing a handstand deserves to win a million dollars. Like fer sure dude.

And then it occurred to me.

ALL of these shows are this ridiculous. Every single one of them!

And yet I watch. Oh yes I watch. OK, so I won't watch America's Got Talent... or American Inventor... Yikes, that's about it. I'll admit I am a huge SYTYCD fan. I watch the Idol shows, but channel surf an awful lot, unless a cute boy is singing... The Apprentice, Amazing Race... head hung in shame cough Surreal Life if the occasion calls for it...

America's Next Top Model, Canadian version ONLY because it is filmed, like, where I grew up and in a "Hey, I think I was passed out there once with my friends throwing pennies at me one night" kind of way... God help us if they do any film shoots at UVic because the for sure I will be enjoying it in a "I WAS passed out there and tied to a bench thanks to Kopps/ Hey I stole a table from that place and carried it all the way back to residence only to get busted by campus security and claim that we just "happened" to "find" a table 1km away from where it actually lived/ got a stupid RED card and almost kicked out of rez because of my adorable albeit a bit precocious when she's drunk l'ilb friend Wee" kind of way... I digress.

Good Times.

Oh yeah... re: reality shows... Let's get back to the golden age of TV shall we? That's right, the 1970's...

The world needs more Love Boat.

That's my story and I am sticking to it.


PS. Go England!


Help Me


My name is Beatrice and I am a football-aholic.

Right now, I am about 5 minutes away from quitting my job and watching soccer full-time.

I love it.

I can't get enough of it.

Hockey, baseball, figure skating and... gulp... dare I say, even the Olympic Games can all kiss my arse... you name it, they all suck compared to the "Beautiful Game".

It's pretty bad.

It's really bad.


And by bad, I mean good...

Good in a "I'm completely obsessed, totally need to get a life and may just start dating again just to distract myself from Peter Crouch" way that is.

So, um... what was I saying?

Oh yeah...




Is for horses...

So, really and truly my life is the FIFA World Cup right now. Other than work being crazy busy, putting my new digs together and trying to re-activate my social life that is. Oh, don't get excited, there's nothing going on on the love front, thus ensuring that 2006 is decidedly neither the Summer, nor the Year of Love when it comes to the old girl. Like, whatever...

And so, like YAY ENGLAND. They keep pulling wins out of their arses, all the while saying that they have more to give... so, like WHEN will they show more? Seriously, this is a question I would like answered. How do you decide that you are going to "give more"... or that we "can do better"... or that "we have not shown our full potential", "still have not been our very best"... etc, etc, etc...

Anyway, YAY England... but suck it up boys... and... ahem... coach of the English team... Where the eff was Crouch today? That's all I have to say on this matter.

And just because I can... here are my current favorite commercials. The crab is kinda random, but you know, so is life.



Still got the Fever


Bea has finally moved. It’s been 2 days and already I am LOVING it. 10 minutes to work is a beautiful thing.

One thing I am not loving is having no TV until tomorrow… so off to a pub to watch the Hockey Game tonight… and thankfully England did not play this weekend.

Speaking of England, words cannot express how huge of a crush I now have on Peter Crouch. It was one thing when he was just a tall and awkward English footballer… But there are so many other attributes to go along with his talents on the field.

Allow me to introduce Peter Crouch, Robot Dance Master:

Is their nothing sexier than a guy doing the robot? I thought not.

Bea “never, ever let me go to England” Petty


Besides the fact that Blogger has been mildly cheesing me off, not a whole lot going on except organizing my move for Saturday, trying to figure out what is going on with a job that I got re-offered but is way beneath my potential and talents and watching the World Cup. Of those three, guess which has been my favorite?

The thing that I have been enjoying the most? Besides being in awe of watching some of nature's finest specimens dance the delicate ballet we call football. Um... yeah, you all know me too well. Why I've been enjoying simply watching the above mentioned specimens of course. They could be standing around the field chewing bubble gum and I would be enthralled.

Watching football/soccer is like watching the pages of a GQ magazine come to life. At this point, I have so many FIFA boyfriends that they cannot be counted on two hands plus a foot. It's a darn good thing that I don't work for FIFA or that the organization is not run by women... Did I say darn good thing? I'll take that back. I think a field full of shirt-less, totally ripped, hot and sweaty men running around for 90 minutes is just what the world needs. That's my story and I am sticking to it...

And just because I can, here are some of my FIFA favorites.

L'il Aussie Hero

Adorable Crouch... can Head like a master... the ball that is!!! Did I mention he is 6'7"?

Ah, Zidane... How could you not love a guy who wears golden shoes?

We all know how I feel about Michael Owen

This is Joe. Bea likes Joe.

And for some reason, despite his high voiced metrosexuality, I was still going to include a pic of Beckham... Because he is pretty freaking adorable... But Blogger wouldn't let me, I took that as a sign.

Go England!


I've Got a Fever

World Cup fever... and this time there is more than just a cowbell that can cure it.

Blogger's been down for me for a couple days... which is probably a good thing because that means that no one could make any comments... because if they had, I am sure someone would have pointed out that I am CLEARLY an idiot.

2 years ago, there was no World Cup. It was the Euro Cup of something like that. How the hell was I supposed to know the difference? But this latest development has me a wee bit frightened. For if Toronto went nuts when it was simply this tournament, a lesser tournament if you will... how will the next month unfold? I can tell you that there was not a seat in the pub we went to at lunch to watch the first match…

Ok, I am sorry but I have to get this off my chest. Feel free to go to a publican house by yourself and only order a water… but when you are taking up a table of 6 so you can watch the game and drink said water and there is a group of 6 who need a table and plan on ordering more than just free nourishment… at least have some consideration for the servers who would much prefer to serve people who will give them tips… and go sit with one of the other 5 guys sitting on their own drinking water and taking up entire tables. It’s an outrage, and OUTRAGE I tell you!

Anyway, I have nothing exciting to report in the least, but thought I would preemptively point out my error before someone else did... Who knew that I could actually be wrong about something? Weird.

Go England!



Thy name is Michael Owen. Who needs King Beckham of the Metrosexuals when you have MO…

World Cup Soccer is once again upon us and proving once again that betting on sports is the one things that unites the working folk… das office is doing another pool à la March Madness. I think we all know who the old girl will be rooting for in Group B… Merry Olde England of course. They have a pretty good chance of making it past the first round. Not that that would make any difference as to whether I would pick them to do so, but there you have it.

Now, people out West, and I should know because I was once one of them, really don’t follow World Cup Soccer all that much. I think we may have some vague inkling as to when it is on, but only in so far as that pubs tend to be a bit more crowded on a Tuesday than they usually are. But other than that, soccer fever is pretty much non-existent. Imagine my shock when I moved to Toronto in 2004 just as that year’s tournie was kicking off (OMG, I’ve been here 2 years… my how time flies… Happy Anniversary to me). I also just so happened to have moved into a predominantly Portuguese neighbourhood, and for those people living in cities where not a large population of ex-pat Portuguese exists, there are no people who love their ‘football’ more…

Let me take you back to 2004 if I may. T’wasn’t into the whole tournament so much. I was mostly jumping from couch to couch until the loft was ready and looking for a job. You know, fun things of that nature, but when I did finally move into da’ hood I noticed the jubilant nature of the folks living therein. “What a happy bunch” I remembered thinking. Happy indeed for Portugal was kicking in the tournament and one could scarcely come or go in the evening without seeing everyone and their dog sitting outside on their front porches waving flags or hugging their neighbours. Also impossible to miss was the honking of flag-adorned cars around our little block after a victorious Portugal vs. whatever losing team. This was my first introduction into the world of the Portuguese football fans… Needless to say when away I went for the Canada Day long weekend with no access to a TV or radio to hear the outcome of the Portugal vs. Greece final, I was anxious to get home to see whether or not I would be able to sleep that night. I did not need to wait until I returned home to find out what the outcome had been.

For just as the triumphant Portuguese fans would stream out into the streets when their team was victorious, so too would they react when not. I am hear to tell you folks that I still have yet to recover from the complete and utter display of sadness and melancholy… the disappointment people, that had befallen my hitherto jubilant friends. People were sitting on their porches, heads hanging down, shaking in disbelief…Neighbours were comforting other neighbours, some crying, some not…There was no need to rush back home to hear the outcome, it was there in plain site. Oh, the humanity. Needless to say over on the Greek side of town, known as The Danforth, where I discovered that my life had been incomplete until I tasted Saganaki… oh, the wonder of fried cheese… the mood was decidedly more euphoric.

Cut to this year and while I am in the midst of a move, and possibly looking for new employment… meaning that sadly not much has changed in two years… that still does not mean that I don’t give a care… and of course, when there is money involved, I can give a care about just about anything… And give a care I do.

Want to know a few other things I give a care about?

1) England

2) Rooting for England the World Cup as they may have a chance to make it past the second round

3) Not having to root for England in the aforementioned predominantly Portuguese neighbourhood where a) there is nowhere to actually watch any games except those little speak easies that most crack-whores will not even enter and b) if there were any respectable establishments in which to watch the matches the fact that I am NOT rooting for Portugal would most decidedly cause me no small degree of bodily harm

4) I work next door to what is the place to go for English football… at any time if the year. I never knew that a place like this existed, but it’s the sort of establishment that opens itself up to hard-core ex-pat British football fans up 6am on a Saturday morning so that those fans, who, being British after all, have more than likely been out drinking until the wee hours of the morning but STILL will wake up at 5am in order to get there early to make sure that get a seat… and a beer… for 6am… on a Saturday. Anyway, so I work right next door… It’s perfect.

5) Soccer Hotties. Second only to… hmmm… actually, soccer players are second to no one. Soccer Hotties.

Bea “Hooligan in disguise” Petty


A Funny Thing Happened...

On the way to posting today... I'll post what I wrote today tomorrow... but sadly, just as I was getting ready to go online... I was unexpectedly and more than mildly sickened by the news that I was totally screwed over by work today...

In a nutshell, I was so screwed over that IF by such fortunate happenstance I actually get offered the position that I was already offered but which has now been demoted and being posted externally so that I now have to apply and interview for like any random idiot who has not been in a higher level position with said organization for the past few years... that truly there is no chance that I could possibly work for an organization who would treat a valued employee in this manner.

I take comfort in the fact that once I leave no one will have an iota of a clue as to how things work there. I know that sounds odd and really conceited... but note to employers... try not to only have a contract employee be the only one who actually knows how to make your organization function... I'm just sayin'.

Stay tuned for today's tomorrow post: a hilarious commentary on the FIFA World Cup championship... whose work pool I am in... but will likely not even be around to reap the rewards of victorious participation therein.

Bea "Back to BC with my tail between my legs? Perhaps" Petty