The Joys of Being Me

You wanna know something weird? That I just notice about myself?

I apologize A LOT.

It must be the Canadian in me; we are after all apologetic by nature… but still.

I’ve noticed that I’ll say sorry in response to pretty much anything. I don’t actually mean it… not in the way that you do when you are truly sorry about something heartfelt such as “my dog just died” or “I broke my ankle and now it has to be amputated.”

To me, apologizing unnecessarily is like breathing. Normal people react to everyday dilemmas and occurrences with responses such as ‘yeah’, ‘darn’, ‘that sucks’, ‘really?’, ‘uh-huh’ etc... I, on the other hand, respond with ‘I’m sorry’.

If something happens to someone that is not totally 100% positive, I’ll say that I’m sorry… You were late for work? I’m sorry.

If something happens to someone that has nothing whatsoever to do with me, I’ll say that I’m sorry… Your favorite show was not on TV last night? I’m sorry.

If I do something that requires no apology, I’ll say that I’m sorry… It took 0.002 seconds longer to get out of my apartment because I have to jimmy the latch with a steak knife… Lord knows I am SO sorry.

My elevator smells. I’m sorry.

It’s raining out. I’m sorry.

I’m tired. I’m sorry.

I didn’t win the lottery. I’m sorry.

My cat ate my homework. I’m sorry.

I missed the Ikea sale. I’m sorry.

The batteries are dead on my flashlight. I’m sorry.

I need to get batteries for my flashlight. I’m sorry.

I went to get batteries for my flashlight but the store was closed. I’m sorry.

I accidentally threw my flashlight out the window and it hit that circus clown. I’m sorry.

I need a new flashlight. I’m sorry.

I think you get the picture. But like any bad habit, it can be kicked. I just need to replace my automated “sorry” response with something else right? Any ideas? Oh, you don’t have time to help me out with my little problem? I’m sorry.



To Buy or Not to Buy

Here’s my dilemma.

I love living in the “western world” (please do not get me started on the chick who was on “Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader” the other week who could not answer the “What hemisphere is North America in?” Um? The Eastern Hemisphere? Um? Retarded? I swear I almost threw the TV off the patio… Also, it would also be nice if no one questioned just WHY I was watching “Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader.” Please and thanks).

Living in the western world definitely has its perks. Especially being a woman. I can walk down the street as I please-- wearing nothing that would denote the lower status that I am lucky enough to not have, telling the government to go to hell, worshipping who I choose (or not) and making out with wall-eyed Irishman in the subway station, etc... Perk after perk after perk. And while I will likely never go so far as to join the armed forces to try and bring such perks to countries who may not have them (and who we feel should)… I like to think that deep down, some nations could stand to be brought into the 21st century, at least insofar as they treat their womenfolk.

But every so often, something occurs where I really question why we fight to maintain and justify the lifestyle we have grown accustomed to. It happens frequently actually. Designing and manufacturing gas guzzlers when there are already too many on the road and which we don’t have the fuel to make them run as it is springs to mind… movies with Billy Bob Thornton… Paris Hilton… Crocs… Sanjaya… etc... you get the picture.

So the question at hand…

Can I really defend a society that has spent countless years and millions of dollars on developing and marketing a spray-on salad dressing?

The answer my friends? Not very well and certainly not with any conviction.

Please do your part and resist purchasing what may be the laziest form of consumerism since disposable toilet brushes…

It’s not rocket science… It’s a salad.

Thank you for you attention in this matter. Please do not hesitate to contact me should you have any questions.

Kind Regards,

Beatrice Petty

What Happened to Beatrice?

Hello Beatrice-blog readers!

Beatrice sends her apologies that she doesn't have time to blog lately. She's busy, you see. Too busy to even tell you what a fabulous weekend she had. I (her former roommie) know this because she has yet to tell me how her weekend was. My simple MSN'd question "how was Blades of Glory?" was met with silence - and then she went away. I'm left only with my suspicions - and speculations. And we all know speculating makes an ass out of you and me... But here goes.

Last week was uneventful, except for Friday night - when she attended her weekly Philately Group followed by her Anglophiles Anonymous meeting (which it should be known she only attends to find out where to meet British men).

As the meeting drew to a close, a fellow Anglophile revealed that she had recently gotten to know a British man with bad teeth, crazy hair and long, lanky legs which he consistently tripped over. Beatrice immediately inquired into his current whereabouts. This was simply too good to be true. And, it was possible, if he was also a 'football' player (or even a fanatic), Beatrice was pretty sure she'd explode like the Chicken Lady from Kids in the Hall.

It turned out he was a fellow hooligan (is that even what they call themselves?) and a British ex-pat. And he lived in her building. Bawk, bawk, bawk-AHOHAHOH!! says the Chicken Lady.

Beatrice then spent Saturday following him not-so covertly, "accidently" knocking on his door (pretending she was looking for a friends' apartment), bumping into him on the elevator (which she rode up and down for three hours waiting for him) and picking his pocket in the parking lot (a man's wallet can provide valuable insight into his inner workings).

This climaxed Saturday night, when, at the local English pub - after Beatrice's 5th Guiness - she finally uttered "hello" to the Hot British Guy (HBG) she had followed there.

He took one look at Beatrice and said...

"Don't I know you from somewhere?"

This was followed by a painfully long silence during which HBG searched his memory banks and Beatrice prayed he wouldn't remember any of the day's stalking 'incidents'.

He didn't.

The two then proceeded back to his apartment - where they shagged happily ever after.

The end.

While Visions of Sugar Daddies Dance in My Head

The dating? Hmmm. Not going great. Truth be told though that online dating was as much of a pastime for me as was hanging out with my friends which were few and far between in this city a couple of years ago. Was I seeking friendship via that route more than a relationship? Possibly. At any rate, if I had the really great circle of friends that I seem to have stumbled across over the last couple of months back in the pre-Lava days, I would hedge my bets that I would never have gone on. Shocking, I know.

But meet then just now I did (and yes, there are tall men in the picture… and tall British men in the picture… and somewhat tall British women… and the usual suspects that have been a part of the Bea scene for ages… there are just more… and they all seem to get along splendidly) and online I remain, but not for any other reason besides the fact that I get bored at home alone at night during the week.

Enter “Sugar Daddy.” The other day I received an email from a fellow asking if I would be interested in a sugar daddy type of arrangement. It was interesting. I mean, who hasn’t joked about wanting a sugar daddy or mamma? I know I have. And frequently. Would I ever go through with it? I actually never imagined that I would ever be faced with that decision.

I had always thought that “sugar children” belonged to the world of the beautiful people. You know, those women… they are tall and blond. They have big boobs and high pitched voices. They wear high heels and short skirts. They don’t drink beer. Besides the boobs, which are only big right now because of the beer (I will not get into the other thongs that are big right now due to beer because that would take too long), I kind of don't fit that mould. Besides those folk, who would ever think that would be a possibility? More importantly, who would make that decision to sell their soul… or body… for money?

Well I’ll tell you… It’s temping. For the truth of the matter is that while I work at an organization that invokes the response of “Ooh… that must be amazing. You are so lucky. How’d you score that?”, it kind of is not all it is cracked up to be. To start with, it pays shite, so I always find myself having to choose between either doing fun things like ski trips, concerts and the like or, say… paying rent. Stupid rent.

Blah, blah, blah… looking for a new job… blah, blah, blah…

“Also if you would be interested in a sugar daddy style situation please let me know, and no it doesnt have to be just about sex! :) (Really hope that doesnt offend you)”

Yes, the lack of apostrophes offended my sensibilities, but I did laugh quite heartily when I read it.

But could I?

The answer?


It is not as if I have never dated men with disposable income, though they seemed to be few and far between. The Former-PNB despite working about 20 minutes a week, goddess bless him, is quite well to do. Did I ever reap the benefits of that? Well, besides the fact that the boy keeps a healthily stocked liquor cabinet… No. Sadly, he is a proud card carrying member of the “Will avoid spending money whenever I can” Club (PNB… LOVE YOUUUUUU, Bea says in a Peter Griffin voice). It never bothered me one iota… and I never felt like I was trading fancy dinners out etc… for sex. Other than the fact that I felt somewhat silly when he wasn’t interested in me in any serious fashion, I left the whatever it was we had with my dignity in tact… although I did become a mega bitch afterwards for a few months… and I drunk dialed him one night while going home one night in a cab. I’m not sure what I was thinking other than that he lived right down the street from where I was at the time and in my drunken state it just seemed logical that I could crash there. But about a block later I had completely forgotten… what can I say… I’m fickle (and was really drunk)…

Anyway… back to the point…

I may be lonely… I may be horny… but I definitely deserve better than to be someone’s kept woman…

God damn morals… I really wanted those Toronto FC season’s tickets!!!