To Love or to Hate, That is the Question

Before I start; a few things. Yes, I am officially unemployed. By choice. It’s both weird and absolutely lovely to not have to get up at the sound of an alarm clock. True, I could be like those morning types who regardless of plans/ no plans/ weekday/ weekend still set their alarms to get up at the crack of dawn. I gave up long ago trying to pretend I was one of those people, just like how I gave up sometime ago that I gave two hoots about hockey (I’m convinced that any sport where the men are too pansy-assed as to have wear padding is not a sport for me). I like to sleep in dammitt! I also tend to have my bestest and most deepest sleepest between 5am-8am so… if I don’t HAVE to get up, I won’t. Plain and simple.

That being said, I find it curiously easy to get up before the sun has risen in order to get in line at my local on a weekend morning. I, along with my insane friends, are mildy obsessed with getting our favourite booth. So much so that it’s no skin off our noses to be in line at 7:30am on a Sunday morning in -10 degree weather (pub didn’t open until 8:30am) in order to get said booth and watch a match that does not begin until later in the morning. Laugh if you will but there’s a whole little subculture that exists of us folk here in Toronto. Come and join us sometime if you don’t believe me.

I was with one of the above mentioned insane peeps last Sunday to watch my beloved Liverpool get soundly trounced by the evil Mancs. Boo… And something somewhat disconcerting has been going on with him of late.

Of course he was someone I met online… and there was a tiny possibility at first that something might happen. Any hope of that transpiring was resounding quashed when it was discovered that he actually IS one of those morning types who set their alarms at the crack of dawn no matter what day it is—you have not seen an irritated Beatrice until she is woken up to the sound of music blaring at 6:00am on a Saturday morning and not turned off despite repeated requests to do so. Anyway, friends we became and he met someone shortly thereafter. They dated until quite recently.

It ended very abruptly and quite without warning, only 3 days after it was decided they were to move in together in a few months time. Said friend was devastated and rightfully so. He had fallen in love you see. How very sad they whole thing was. I was sympathetic. I wished for him to heal soon so he could jump back onto the dating wagon and wook pa nub again.

Well, soon for him meant just two days later. Needless to say I was somewhat horrified. I told him as much a few weeks later when I discovered that he seemed hell bent on dating as many women as he could while seeming to have little to no respect for any of them. He admitted to me he still had feelings for the girl who had only just recently broken his heart. I asked him why the eff he was even going through the motions of dating… blah blah blah… told him about some of the experiences that I had… went in one ear and out the other apparently… because since that time, things have only gotten worse.

It now takes all the strength in my core to sit through a two hour soccer game, all the while listening to someone who I at once thought was quite a decent bloke, regale me with tales from the half a dozen or so girls he saw went out with that week… not to mention the same number from the week before… and the week before that. But it’s not the math that disturbs me. After all, there was once a time when I deemed it an unproductive and unsuccessful week if I was not out on a date 5 out of 7 nights… So I am careful to not be a hypocrite.

What does upset me is the way he talks about them… When pressed, he still professes love for the ex. His face then promptly clouds over with anger and bitterness, only to then move on to satisfaction as he talks about his bird, that bird and the other one, who liked him but who he can’t wait to throw in the ditch as the next one is on the docket in just a few hours time. He gets very defensive when questioned about his motives. I am very saddened at this turn of events…

He’s clearly trying to get back at his ex by hurting as many women as possible. What to do, what to say???

The "P" Word

Today, I feel weird. Besides the fact that I still feel like a “P” word (but the THE “P” word) from my uber cold that just does not seem to want to go away… I am also crampy and grumpy and bloated as per usual when another “P” word that is not the “P” word in question plays a visit… there is something else a foot that is causing me to feel odder than usual.

You may all be curious to know that I wear, what the French call, le thong. I have for a really long time. I wasn’t super quick to jump on this fashion miracle. After all, I grew up on a small island that had little use for such things. It’s possible that my friends wore them University but as we rarely discussed the “P” word and sure as hell did not “P”rance around in our knickers, I wouldn’t really have any idea. At any rate, no one extolled the virtues of le thong to me and, up until I started working for Club Med and had to dance around in a white unitard while playing the ever-so-sexy Jenny Annie Dots in our rendition of Cats, did the notion of wearing le thong so as to remove those unsightly visible “P” word lines even enter into my mind.

Welcome to 1999 Bea.

Now, of course, I wouldn’t condescend to wear anything else. Oh sure, les thongs definitely took some getting used to but at the end of the day, they are just “P”lain more comfortable than anything else. You’ll imagine my horror of going into my unmentionable drawer this morning to discover that I was in desperate need to do laundry!

Ugh… and so I was forced to do the unthinkable.

Why I even still have a pair of granny “P” word thingies is quite beyond me. In fact, I have several. I can’t remember the last time they were worn, if ever. My brain has a theory that my Mom bought them for me once upon a time and I never got around to throwing them out. I must say I am thankful for them today though… While I have no problem going commando when the occasion calls for it… A workday in the middle of winter is definitely not that occasion.

But it wasn’t as simple as just putting them on and beginning my day. I had to be very careful that the outfit I wore was such that any VPL would not be detectable to the unaided eye. I am shamelessly critical when I see VPLs on women (“tsk, tsk, in this day and age… UNACCEPTABLE”). On men? Well, really and truly there is no excuse… it causes me to go down a road that I really don’t want to go down. For when I see a man’s tighty whities visible under his trousers, I can’t help but visualize this person in all their unde-roo glory. Sadly, the type of fellow generally still wearing these types of undergarments is exactly the kind of guy who you really have no interest in imagining in their undies… It’s the most vicious of vicious circles.

Anyway, I carefully chose the outfit and am certain no one can see. But I feel weird. I feel icky. I feel unnatural. I feel the need…

To do laundry!

Like now!