God Bless the Welsh

Where to start?

I honestly just do not know. I guess the beginning would be best no? And the beginning began last Saturday. Actually it began on Friday night while out with the former roommie, Girl and our new English friend whose name is the same is a denomination of our currency and who will forever more be referred to as Pie which, I recently found out, is what her initials spell. We got together to watch a muchly anticipated movie that had Pirates in it. I think my feelings on this movie would be best expressed with this MovieKu:

Three hours, wasted
Please, give me my money back.
Pirates. Dead to me.

The plus side of the evening was that Pie mentioned she was heading to my favorite footie pub Scallys the following morning to watch some rugby. Now, I’ve never really known rugby… not had much interest in it save for drunken nights at the Velox Rubgy Club in University, which some of my university peeps can attest to. But Saturday morning footie is over for the time being and I’ve been feeling empty and hollow these past few weeks because of it. So I says, sure why not…

I arrive 11-ish the following morning to watch the Wales Australia match. And my week has not been the same since. For also in attendance were no fewer than 40 Welshman, ranging from ages 19 to 75, who happenstanced upon Scallys while in Toronto on a rugby tour. I felt like I had landed in the middle of “The Englishman Who Went Up A Hill And Came Down A Mountain”… It was hilarious. It was brilliant.

Now, had I blogged about this earlier, say Sunday… you would have had much detail on the Kangaroo court we were asked to juror, the shin raping that Pie received from a half naked Welshman who was displeased with the guilty verdict we imposed upon him for losing Moosey… or was it Lucy? I forget… or the random non-rugby Welshman in attendance who kissed me at 3:30 on a Saturday afternoon… or the sudden departure of Pie’s friend with a ’27 year-old engineer’ who was less of a ’27 year-old engineer’ than he was a ’22 year-old railway track layer’, or Pie’s equally sudden departure to test out how the stripper pole in her apartment would hold up against a naked Welshman… I’ll skip all that and simply say that I never really knew that having two naked Welsh rugby players on my balcony could be so hysterically funny. (By way of background, as I was explained later, rugby players have no issues with being naked around complete strangers, even if said strangers are fully clothed and laughing hysterically while taking pictures of them). So that was Saturday.

Sunday? Well Sunday was mostly about heading to Ikea to get a replacement beam for my Ikea bed. Which reminds me, I must have a word with the Ikea folks about how their products are tested. They should really be testing for EVERY contingency. Sufficed to say, they neglected to test what would happen if two 300lb naked Welsh rugby players were to climb onto the bed to pose for pictured being taken by a fully clothed girl laughing hysterically. Sadly I think Ikea really dropped the ball on this one. Sigh.

Monday was about stupid work which I am shortly going to have to do something about before I have a nervous breakdown.

Tuesday, also work but with the happy task of heading to watch the Welsh boys play the one and only rugby match they came on the week-long tour to play. They trounced the Toronto Scottish, which I was happy to witness, for a while back I had gone out with one of them and he had behaved very badly afterwards. So, happy to see their arses kicked I was indeed. We were then invited back to partake in the libations afterwards. As the establishment of choice was not but a 2 minute walk from my place we, and by ‘we’, I mean ‘I’ was happy to oblige. I am not entirely sure why we thought getting on their charter bus later to head downtown for more bevvies was a good idea, but I am sure our logic was sound as a pound at the time.

I sat at the front of the bus, with Bernard. Quite possibly the most adorable elderly gent ever. The young players on the tour be damned… We were more excited to listen to more of the silly, dirty jokes these fellows had regaled us with on Saturday than to talk to the ones closer to our age, who were mostly just bundles of testosterone with skin. And of course the singing. I’ve heard that every time a Welshman sings an angel gets its wings. Or is that a bell ringing? I’m confused. At any rate, we were very well taken care of by adorable men old to enough to be our grandfathers. That is not to say that they were not horny buggers too… That part of the story is perhaps better left for another time.

And of course my favorite of the two naked Welshmen from Saturday was there. In fact, my favorite of the two naked Welshmen was very adorable, thus making it kind of sad that he is, in fact a Welshman who lives in Wales. Oh, and married. But I am sure you knew that… because of course Bea could never meet someone proper. And now they are all gone, and somewhat thankfully I might add. From what I understand they were close to being run out of town with pitchforks anyway, most likely by the fathers of all the daughters they had sucked into their vortex of debauchery. Niagara Falls has no idea what is in store for them…

So in case you are currently keeping tabs, my current pecking order is as follows:

1) Irish… wall-eyed or otherwise (oh, an update on the Irishman from the subway last week… turns out he’s married… told you I am incapable of meeting someone proper).
2) Welsh… for no other reason other than the fact that I am sleeping again.
3) Scottish… I miss my Scotsman.
4) English… yes, for all of my blustering, the English are my least preferred of the British islanders right now. Although when it comes down to it, I’m not fussy t’all.

In case you are wondering where I will be every Saturday morning from now until the end of time... Yep, Scallywags.

I Feel Like I'm Taking Crazy Pills!!!

Who Knew Wednesdays Could Be So Much Fun?

I am sure I didn’t although generally Wednesdays are not as fabulously footie filled as yesterday was.

I’ll skip over work in the morning because I myself would like to forget it. As I would I would today’s fun-filled day of getting more work piled on my plate that I don’t have time for. I will also skip over the Liverpool AC Milan (boo, AC Milan) Champion’s League Final at Scallys because BOOOOOO AC Milan. However, Scallys is where our adventure begins so begin there we must.

A curious thing happens when all of your friends bail on you. You sort of kind of have to make your own friends. And so Bea did and it all was fine, except if we are counting (BOOOOO) AC Milan undeservedly beating my boys… and then things are decidedly not fine. However, the match ended and I was on my way to jaunt home quickly before heading to my second game of the day… Toronto FC vs. Benfica at BMO Field… when a colleague called and desperately wanted to have a drink before she had to go back to work (Scallys is about 1/2 a block from work). OK, twist my rubber arm. I did not NEED to head home necessarily; it was more to kill time before heading to meet my tall friend at BMO.

It was at this point that things took a turn for the weird. I am convinced that while I was not looking someone slipped an “uninhibitor” into my beer. Somehow, out of no where were all these men. Liverpudlian men to be more exact. And then Bea went INSANE.

To bring you back about a month ago, I happened to be at the same pub to watch the Liverpool Chelsea semi-finals with the above mentioned tall friend (Let’s call him TF), when this distinguished elderly gentleman who could not have been under the age of 95, and dressed impeccably in a suit the way that men of his generation are apt to do, hobbled his way across the pub and sat down in the last remaining seat in the place. It must have taken him at least 10 minutes to do what someone at the spry young age of 30-something could do in less than 5 seconds.

The fact that I had been saving the seat for someone seemed completely irrelevant at that point. Both TF and I were happy to be joined by this fella, whose name is Jeff. You so don’t need to know that… I just wanted to impress you all with the fact that sometimes my short-term memory actually works. It was quite precious to see how the entire staff doted on this gentleman… Jeff, is the lighting OK over here, is it too cold… I swear I have never had such good table service at that place than when this man was sitting with us. In addition to the wait staff, Jeff also knew all the footie regulars, for what we found out was that he came every Saturday and Sunday during Premier League season, at 7:30am, when the first games would start (stupid GMT) and stay until all the games had been played, which is somewhere in the area of 3ish. Sufficed to say that anyone who regularly attends any of the weekend games knows Jeff.

Including Alby. I’m sure my spelling is off which is probably for the best, but Alby is an Englishman…of course… kind of hard to judge his age. He is definitely over 40, and I would say closer to late 40’s… possibly early 50’s. He was hot, in that pervy Englishman kind of way, in that Hugh Grant pervy way. These AMAZING blue eyes that were utterly full of kindness and sincerity… and, I might add, much mischief. I noticed that the first time we met and we talked, though he was old enough to be my Dad, I was truly attracted to this gentleman. It weirded me out to be honest, but as I figured I would likely not see him again anytime soon, I just kind of left with the thought that if I was ever looking for a sugar daddy, Alby would have been at the top of my list.

I saw Alby yesterday and again, it was the weirdest feeling, in that I know it’s wrong, but damn he was hot. He also dresses hipper than most of the guys I know half his age… What can I say, when you’ve got it, you’ve got it at any age. Alby has it. Alby is hot.

But Alby was not the only man there. There were swarms of them… sufficed to say this is where I feel that something MUST have been slipped into my Carlsberg… possibly crazy pills, I am not sure… because when we were leaving, because I had to head down to BMO, I gave not one but TWO men my number… Alby being one of them of course. I have personally never done something as bold… I am a prude and I am lame… and I am a chickensh*t. But the crazy pills were working and so I felt no hesitation that this was the right thing to do. The curious thing to me, was that Alby was so taken aback, and not in the “yikes, run away” taken aback, but really genuinely happy and excited that I had told him to look me up whenever he happens to be in the city next (he lives in Oakville, which would be like living in Abbotsford if you lived in Van, but for rich people and not Mennonites). He gave me a little kiss on the mouth… it was really sweet. The other guy? No idea. I remember he had really small hands though…

Cut to not 30 seconds later at the street meat vendor on the corner. We came upon another Liverpool supporter who, as luck would have it, was also on his way down to BMO for the TFC match. Well obviously I could do nothing else but travel across town with a complete stranger so I left my coworker to her own devices and started the trek to Exhibition Place with my new friend who I met at the hot dog stand.

Oh, did I mention that he is Irish?

And once again the crazy pills kicked in. He had the most amazing blue eyes, as only the Irish are capable of having. Irish blue eyes on men are VERY subtle. You have to look deeply in them to notice, but they are intense… crazy intense… Even the wall-eyed Irishman had them. It was just hard to see them through 3 inches of opticular glass. But Dek had no glasses and was in fact so completely adorable it was all I could do to not steal some kisses in the subway… Why it is that I always come across Irish folk at Yonge and St. Clair and then proceed to get onto public transportation with them escapes me, but hey, the old girl ain’t complaining. At any rate, we totally hit it off and my mind kept wandering to my Irishman-boobies-orgasm theory which was greatly encouraged when he wanted my number. He came to visit me in my seat during the game which I thought was sweet. I’ll keep you folks posted if/when anything ever/ were to happen.

The End.


Also in the stands that night was this dude who I have been talking to recently, who texted and called me almost non-stop throughout the game. I ignored them for the most part, because I was there to watch footie dammit! But he insisted in waiting for me outside my gate if you can believe it. Well, as a million other people were also loitering outside I did not see him at first… “I’m wearing green shoes” means squat to me if it is very dark and I cannot see shoes. Luckily I had the foresight to tell him that I would shortly be exiting with the tallest man at the stadium so I pretty much stood out like a sore thumb. I said goodbye to TF and must have been walking for about 2 minutes when this person caught up to me. It was the most unexpected. But a nice surpise. He was quite cute… and seemed very nice. I talked to him today. He saw me but did not come and talk to me when I was saying bye to TF… he thought I had a boyfriend and that it was TF.

“But Bea, you always talk about your bf…”, he said today. I really must start being more careful when I joke about Peter Crouch being my boyfriend…

And what of my date from last week? Well, I have heard from him… a few quick back and forths but nothing along the lines of suggesting getting together again anytime soon. I’m quite not fussed now really… for who can think of other men when Alby is around… or the guy with small hands… or Dek, the non-walled-eyed Irishman… or Man with Green Shoes…


Dating for Dummies

So my date on Thursday night confirmed much of what I have learned-- as well as what has frustrated me-- over the past couples of years throughout these dating misadventures o’ mine. Certain truths are universal in dating and here, in no particular order, are a few of them:

1) If you feel like crap and desperately want to cancel your date because a night on the couch is so much more appealing than potentially finding your soul mate… you WILL end up having an extremely fun evening and feel like you have potentially found your soul mate… or at least someone that you would like to see again. Believe it or not, sometimes the latter is almost as difficult as the former.

2) Hearing things such as “The next time we get together”, “I’ll show you the next time I see you”, “I’ll email it to you tomorrow” and other such statements do not, in any way, mean that there will be a next time or that you will be shown something or receive an email about anything.

3) “I’m free Sunday” does not actually mean that he wants to do something with you on Sunday… or ever again for that matter.

4) Kissing on the first date means jack squat.

5) “We’ll have to do this again”, “I cannot wait to see you again”, “I’ll call you” and “talk to you soon” mean pretty much the exact opposite. Of course, that does not put an end to the kissing on that particular occasion. I’ve never understood the “I like you well enough right now to kiss you and tell you I really like you, but that doesn’t mean I want to ever lay eyes on you after tonight” logic. But I realize that I am as dense as a piece of wood.

6) “You are so funny”, “You are so much fun”, “You are so cool” and “I am having such a great time” are really very hollow statements. Personally I don’t say them unless I truly mean them but then again, I am a very lazy person.

7) Not hearing “Let’s do something on the day that I just now professed that I have free” when the date ends, instead hearing #5 (see #5) might seem perfectly lovely at the time… until the next day when one digests the fact that if he follows true to form with every other man you have ever gone out with, you will not hear from him again.

8) Thinking positive thoughts as per the former roommie’s suggestion is too much work (see #6, last line).

9) Not receiving a response to an email sent the morning after is never a good sign… He’s just not into you if… But…

10) Sending an email and have him not even open it and read it in the first place is even worse (and yes, he has been online… don’t ask me how I know this, I just do. I’m crafty like that). Funnily enough it’s #10 that is the worst of all the above. I should know, for I display the same behaviour when I no longer want to communicate with someone. If you think of it along the lines of “If I don’t open it then it appears as though I am not ignoring that person on purpose, just that I haven’t had a chance to check my email” logic, it makes sense. And yes, it is a total chickensh*t way to deal with things.

Anyway, so in short, the date went really well. It had been a long time since I went out on a date with anyone (think 2006) and even longer since I was actually interested in seeing them again afterwards. And kissing… Jesus lord, I can’t remember the last time I kissed someone. But, sigh, it was all for not. So sad.



Where's a dictionary when you need one?

So I have a date of sorts tonight. Some red flags up because he seems like a super busy guy which is the last thing I need. I swear that if it takes you a month just to find a spare bit of time to meet someone, you should re-examine your choice to date. I also kind of got the feeling that when he suggested meeting tonight at 8:30, which is FAAAAR later than my usual dating threshold for a weeknight, I got the impression that it was sort of an “if it’s not tonight then it ain’t gonna happen” kind of a deal. Under normal circumstances this would have caused me to come back with a “nobody buts baby in a corner” response. The only saving grace is that he was willing to come up to me, which almost never happens, and as I figured I could make the effort to walk the minute it will take from the door to my apartment to the door of the pub, I made to decision to go ahead with it. Of course all of this was before I got ickly sickles this week because of the metarded Toronto weather, which is murder on my sinuses at the best of times. I still might cancel… I haven’t decided.

Something on the boy front did happen this morning, and it kind of made me laugh. I’ve sort of been chatting on and off with this guy for a few weeks now. Not with any interest in it progressing any further than maybe possibly meeting at some point if it ever was convenient, as he lives far, far away in the not so magical land of Pickering. I refuse to think romance about anyone who lives in the burbs. If I had a car it would be one thing, but I’m just not in a suburbia frame of mind so it just makes little sense to bother. He’s also a full-time single dad. The fact that I will even talk to someone with a child is quite a new phenomenon for me. If I am not in the surburbia frame of mind then I am most certainly not in the under-age dependants one either. However, since my whole dating life has gone from shooting for the moon to sifting through the recycling bin, I can only chalk this development up to trying to not be so picky when it comes to who I will consent to date. I’ve gone from dating only tall and handsome men, to agreeing to go out with short and balding but yet still never married or mit babies ones… to being ok with divorcees… and now not fleeing to the high hills if they are so unlucky to be saddled with little mouths to feed that are not covered in fur. Harsh but there you have it.

So this guy lived no where near me and was a full-time dad to a 4 year old daughter. But our correspondence was sporadic at best and I could really have cared to increase it. Until this week. This week he has been oh so communicative. Always quick to say hi the moment I come online with Hi Cutie, Hi Sexy, I missed you… and other thoroughly genuine and not necessarily appropriate greetings. Cut to yesterday. I was at home feeling ick in the afternoon when he came online while he was at wok. We talked, about nothing in particular and he alluded to wanting to get together this weekend. I was like whatever. As I’m not up to a whole lot so it could have worked. Until we began a discussion about the United Nations.

Yep, the UN. Now, I will be the first to argue that there are problems with the UN. Although a great idea in theory at the time it was created, it is somewhat outdated. And it really only works if all of your members are on the same page. But when your most powerful member country… ahem, the US… decides to do whatever the hell it wants, the rest of the world be damned… that’s when the UN becomes a bit of a joke on the worldwide stage. That being said I think the UN is a great forum for discussing world issues, such as poverty, children and helping out in natural disasters… but you could easily come up with a more streamlined and efficient way of doing the same things… Anyway this is neither the time nor the place to debate to usefulness of such a body as the UN…

So the UN discussion eventually led to a comment along the lines of… “I can’t wait to sit down and debate this issue with you over a few beers.” Sure, why not… which then led to the comment from him of “Of course you know that will mean we’ll end up in bed together.”

Well, actually, I did not know that.

There are many things that could happen on a date that would maybe lead to one thing or another. Discussing the UN is not usually one that comes to mind. At any rate, I got his meaning, shrugged it off with a laugh, even though he kept bringing it up. Luckily it was 5 and he has to leave work and I needed to give Hugh tuna so it ended with an “I’ll talk to you later tonight”. Ok.

Cut to this morning… ‘Hey Bea, did you get my e-mail?” Nope, I’m on ghetto messenger and I haven’t checked this morning. So I check, and sure enough there is this email sitting happily in my inbox:

“Hey Bea. I wanted to talk with you about this tonight but you were off to bed. I want to tell you, up front, that things have changed in my life recently. For reasons that are my own, I've decided to reconcile with my former wife as it's in the best interest of myself and my daughter. I wanted to be honest with you.

I wish you all the luck and i enjoyed chatting with you.”

And the he spent the next 10 minutes apologizing for hurting me. It was all I could do to not laugh hysterically.

But here’s my quandary. When someone says ‘recently’, what does that entail exactly? Isn’t there some sort of cut off when using that word to refer to something that has happened? When I refer to something that has happened to me recently, my frame of reference usually leans towards the “last week/ over the last month” kind of time frame. A few days at the very least. As in “I recently went to my first soccer match”, I recently went to a housewarming party or “I recently saw Spiderman 3 and it was the worst movie EVER!” There was not more than 4 hours between wanting to shag me in front of the entire UN Security Council and writing the email telling me he was reconciling with his wife. To me that is not so much “recent’ as it is “right this second.”

To illustrate my point… if I had blogged about the footie game as soon as I had come home, it would have sounded like “OMG, I just got home from seeing my first big soccer game”, or “This party I just went to” or “I just the Spiderman 3 matinee and was so horribly offended by the whole thing that I want wash my eyes out with acid”… I think you get the picture.

Or maybe it’s just me…


It’s official.

I’m crazy.

Crazy for football that is! I attended my first big footie match on Friday at the new BMO field in T-dot. It was Canada vs. Argentina Under 20’s and I am not sure what I was expecting but it surely was not a close game that could have gone either way. Canada’s senior men’s team is sitting in a comfortable 84th place in the world behind such powerhouses as Qatar, Congo DR, Iraq and assholes Uzbekistan. Conversely, Argentina is 2nd. So I was expecting nothing less than an absolute trouncing and apologized in advance to my lovely new friend who happens to hail from the glorious football nation of England and whose name is the same as a denomination of our currency. Canada lost 2-1 but come on, that’s pretty effing good in my opinion. Up next on the docket is Toronto FC vs. Benfica next week on the 23rd… can’t WAIT!

More importantly I am happy to announce publicly for the first time that I have a new boyfriend.

Not a real one of course. For every day that passes that I am left twiddling my thumbs at home alone at night, I am convinced that being single for the rest of my life is where my fate lies. I must mention that this new boyfriend in no way replaces Crouchy, who will remain my one and only true soccer love forever and all time. But PC is in England. And I have grown wearisome of getting up at dawn’s early light on a weekend morning to support him and his un-requited love.

Everyone, meet Danny.

He’s my Toronto FC bf. To be honest, I struggled with this one. My first inclination was to TFC’s Baby Beckham, Jim Brennan. But Jim Brennan is not a striker. After careful consideration, weighing the pros and cons, Bea came to the conclusion that only a forward would be good enough for her. And of course he must be tall. Brennan comes in at a paltry six foot. I could not possibly drool over someone from afar who is, let’s face it, practically a dwarf. My second thought then gravitated towards the keeper, Greg Sutton who is 6’6”. I was first drawn to his hands which, when he is wearing his gloves during games, are about the size of those giant foam ‘We’re #1” monstrosities… what can I say, I see big hands and my mind immediately starts to imagine those hands on my boobies… But alas being a keeper is the opposite of being a forward so back onto the pile he went. From thereon I went through the roster… too young, too old, too ugo, too short, too inexperienced, too second string and so forth.

And that’s when I saw Danny. He’s still a relative midget at 6’3” but as he is also English and a forward, I felt I could make an exception for this shortcoming (no pun intended). He’s also that “English balding” type which I absolutely LOVE. I know it sounds weird but there is something oddly correlative between the size of British male genitalia versus the amount (or lack) of hair they have on their head. I’m still trying to work out the correlation between Irish male blindness and the female orgasm but as of yet have not been fortunate enough to test that theory out on multiple subjects. Too bad, so sad.

Anyway, turns out that in addition to being tall (ish), bald and English, Danny can also play the game. He will go down in history as being the first Toronto FC player to score a goal in competition ever. Do I know how to pick ‘em or do I know how to pick ‘em?


L'il Psycho

I’ve been learning some lessons recently about how looks can be deceiving and how some people can turn out to be completely different than what they at first appeared to be. Apparently this is not just a human quality.

I love my cat. He is really one of the most adorable things I have ever had the pleasure of coming into contact with. I would say that 97.25% of the time he’s the sweetest most loveable creature there is. I’m convinced that the reason I haven’t really been all that fussed about dating over the past year is because I get so much love from the little guy… more cuddles than anyone I’ve been with since I’ve moved to Toronto for sure… that I don’t miss regular male contact. Hugh is attached to my hip when I am home and when I leave my apartment I can hear him lamenting over my departure while I am waiting for the elevator. It breaks my heart.

However… the other 2.75% of the time? PSYCHOTIC. And not in a “aw, what a quirky little cat you have there Bea” way. No, it’s more along the lines of “call Father Bullock and tell him to break open the exorcism kit” kind of way. (For reference purposes, Father Bullock, or Father B as we called him, was our family priest. I think about him when I smell whisky because it brings me back to the age of 3 when he used to sit me on his lap and babble incoherently about this and that, his bulbous and veined nose featuring prominently along with the smell of booze on the breath. Gotta love the Catholic clergy).

Sadly, the psychotic 2.75% of him manifests itself in such a concentrated form so as to make the adorable 97.25% part of him easy to forget a lot of the time. Smashed vases (x3), ripped curtains (he likes to climb them), destroyed Chinese screen (by both claws it and pushed it over to it breaks… I’m running out of replacement screws), destroyed toilet paper rolls, plants eaten (even poisonous ones with no effect. If keeping track, the current favorites are white pansies and onions), closet doors opened and clothes shredded (he swings on my skirts), chairs peed on, garbage eaten, electrical cords chewed through, hands gnawed on in the middle of the night, semi-hourly under the cover foot attacks, anything not glued down to table tops knocked off, holes in the shower curtain, countless hours of missed sleep and other miscellaneous property damage.

I got a water bottle to squirt the little bugger when he misbehaves. Besides the fact that his demon hide seems impermeable to water, while I was not looking the little monster chewed the nozzle so that the most that comes out is a weak little dribble. Next on the shopping list is the Super Soaker 5000. After that? Power washer.

Finally the question that has been on my mind since I first laid eyes on him has been answered…

Why would ANYONE have given this little adorable guy to the Humane Society? Touché original owner… Touché.



Here’s the deal.

Summer in T-dot is closing in around us. Or rather closing in on me, I should say. I’m kind of a low to mid 20’s kind of gal, a coastal BC girl through and through. It’s not even the middle of May and we have a smog alert, as well as a chance of thunderstorms this evening. With both of these come VERY humid conditions, of which I have yet to warm up to, no pun intended…

I left home this morning with beautifully silken and straightened hair. Yes, I use a straightener, almost daily. For the most part because I am too lazy to make it look all purdy while blowdrying. I’ve never gotten the hang of using the brush to style as per the salon way of doing things. Oh sure, I can manage it one side of my head, but I usually try to not leave the house with a lopsided head. So the straightener has become my default beauty tool.

A much bigger improvement from when I was in my early teens when I thought that the way to a beautiful head of hair was to perm the sh*t out of it. But my hair did not want to be curly. So it often times needed two or three perms in succession just to get some body. Of courser this fried my hair so I really and truly ended up with Annie/ Carrot Top hair. And this was not helped by the fact that at the time I had a whole mouthful of braces and used to sun-in my hair like a fiend. The end result that I was perhaps the ugliest little tween on the block. Such was the case from about grade 7 to 9. And yes, believe it or not, I did have friends.

Long gone are those days, thankfully but now enters the evil humidity demon that plaques me to no end in this city. I spent the formative years of my youth trying to have curly hair only to be thwarted at every attempt. Now nothing, not even the most potent of styling products can prevent me from looking like this by the time I get to work:

Sucks to be me eh?

Je Suis Sorry

T’is a rare day when the old girl will apologize to someone about something she wrote on le blog. But here she is.

Former-PNB. It was a couple of years ago. I was such a b*tch. I’m sorry. I wrote many hurtful things. I myself was hurt. I liked him and he hurt my feelings. Such is life. I thought I was being creative and witty and self-empowering. What I actually was? Passive aggressive.

You see, he had hurt me. I did not realize it at the time but I wanted to do the same. So I posted about him. I posted things that while maybe were true for me at the time, were really not fair. We blogued. He hated me for a while. I hated him for a while. We made up during beers on patios. We’ve had our ups and downs. I wish we were less “let’s hang out when he feels like it friends” friends, but sort-of friends we kind of are. I’ll always have a soft spot for the guy.

I have a new friend. Or, at least I thought I did. Sadly I was wrong. To make a long story short, he was untruthful to me from the very beginning. Circumstances changed for him and me being the type of person apt to give people second chances (I am SO lame), I gave him a second chance. I know it sounds weird and under normal circumstances I would not have… but my stupid subconscious sort of convinced me otherwise. Things were really great for a while… then of course I had to get stoopid “pre” spring fever… wink wink. He suggested perhaps he could help me out with my little conundrum. I was like, hells yes, why not.

Nothing ever happened. It just never felt right. For either of us. I think it was more fun just fantasizing about it. But hey, I’m an adult. If it wasn’t meant to be, it wasn’t meant to be. I believe in threes… if after three times something does not happen, that is the Universe’s way of saying NO DEAL. Besides, he had hid MANY important facts from me and was all in all quite duplicitous so it was all for the best. But based on the way the whole acquaintanceship happened, I should hardly have been surprised.

And then very recently things got weird. Couldn’t put my finger on it. I knew something was going on and did question it, but was assured all was well blah blah blah.

And then, Bea got Bea’d. Zing.

It’s been several weeks now. And consistently things Bea does have been getting the “You know what I hate about Canadians… Everything Bea does…” treatment. I’ve tried not to play into it because that’s what us who are apt to be passive aggressive folk want. We want to make very general observations about very specific people. And we want a reaction. I did it with the PNB so I know. So I tried to hash things out in person. Only to be “You know what I hate about Bea? Bea?” ‘d. Actually, I think I was “quote un quote” called “presumptuously egotistical”. Which is really quite funny when you know me, for I am quite the opposite I think. But then again, my presumptual egotisticalness could be preventing me from realizing this in the first place. I need to find a way to channel this for I have often felt that I lacked in the ego department… to my detriment of course.

The end result? Well besides surmising that this individual read me wanting to have a little fun with him in the bedroom with me being interested in a relationship… There are so many things wrong with this that I cannot even… He just plain made me feel like a giant sack of rotten turtle shells (ew, beach smelly). I could not control what he had written for all to see, and even when I had tried to discuss how he had made me feel not for the world to read, and I thought it was over and done with, he continued to humiliate me, even when I as much as asked him not to.

And so now I know how I made the Former-PNB feel. Or not, for he may not have cared at all… But I was childish and immature. And I wanted a reaction. And I was too much of a chicken sh*t to let it go. Granted he is not a girl and never pms’d like the old girl has been doing for the last week. But still, in the future I will endeavor to always tell someone to their face when I take issue with something they have done. In this case I tried and it blew back up in my face so I must wash my hands of the matter.

PNB, I’m sorry for all the grammar school drama I threw all up in your face. Oh no you di’int… Oh yes I did. And I deserved everything you threw back at me.

T’is a pity because I really did enjoy sleeping… sigh.

Humbly Yours,
Bea "That Karma B*tch Slap Got me Good" Petty


Calling Dr. Frood

Clearly my subconscious is trying to tell me something(s) right now. The last two nights have been riddled with some of the most vivid and bizarre dreams that I may possible have ever had… Some of the images contains wherein include:

- Being urinated on by cutoff jean short wearing trailer trash biker types (In fact one was quite reminiscent of my meth-head, Hell’s Angel’s associating trailer park living Uncle… I’m sure I’ve mentioned him. A few Christmases ago, my gift from him was a 4L jug of summer wiper fluid that he had stolen from a construction site. He was SHOCKED to learn that I both lived in Toronto and thus would not really be able to carry the 30lb jug back east and that I no longer had a car).

- My Dad dying and me not being remotely sad about it. My biggest concern was that both my brother and I forgot to tell my Mom and we debated at length as to whether we should call her at work to tell her that her husband had died, or wait a few hours until she got home.

- Living in a kind of cottage farm where the animals roaming the field were monkeys. Scores of monkeys.

- My English Chemist proclaiming that he was gay (This KIND of makes sense because last weekend he sort of developed a man-crush on CBS’ boyfriend)

- Buying a Peter Crouch t-shirt for $5.99.

- Being able to see the Horse Nebula with my own eyes (even in my dreams I’m a nerd).

- Being severely annoyed at not being able to eat at Meze’s, a wonderful Greek restaurant on the Danforth. It was shortly after this that I blew a hissy fit at my parents who were visiting, who wanted to eat at this ghetto mall… I took off in a huff and proceeded to shop in said ghetto mall, which is where I scooped up my Peter Crouch t-shirt. Shortly after my Dad died. Did I kill him? I may have… I can’t remember this detail… I was most put out about not being able to eat at Meze’s though. Also, I’ve been uber craving souvlaki lately… If it was socially acceptable I could have eaten it for a week straight!

- Watching TV in front of work colleagues with no pants on. Where were my pants? No freaking idea. But I wasn’t fooling anyone with that blanket wrapped around my bottom.

There is more… oh yes, there is more, but the rest makes even less sense than the above. Do I hate my Dad? Monkeys? Am I gay? Was I Greek in a previous life? Do I have deep down desire to parade nude around the office? Do I secretly wish to participate in water sports? And where does Peter Crouch fit in???