Yikes

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???

HELP!

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.

Yikes

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?

No.

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!!!

10 Fun Facts About Red Wine

1) A mostly full corked bottle of wine on the kitchen countertop is (apparently) very tempting to a kitty who is apt to get up to mischief when left alone all day )and when not alone but that’s not for here)

2) When a mostly full and not very tightly corked bottle of red wine is knocked over by a mischievous cat, it’s contents may spill all over the kitchen

3) When red wine has been spilled all over a white kitchen countertop and left to sit for several hours, the red wine will stain the white countertop (but not the white refrigerator or the microwave if you can believe THAT)

4) When red wine that has been spilled all over a white kitchen countertop has had it’s fill of staining said countertop, it will move on to bothering the cream coloured ceramic tile floor

5) When red wine that has been spilled all over a white kitchen countertop and then further spilled onto the cream coloured ceramic tile floor, it will stain said floor if left for hours

6) The grout between ceramic tile is VERY porous and absorbs liquids quickly and with great enthusiasm (not really a red wine fact, but now you know a little more about grout than you did this morning)

7) When red wine that has been spilled all over a white kitchen countertop and then further spilled onto the cream coloured ceramic tile floor and left for hours, the grout between those tiles will for ever and all time be the same colour as the red wine that had been spilled all over the white kitchen countertop by a mischievous cat

8) A mischievous cat who spills red wine may take great pleasure in watching his owner try and clean it off of white countertops, cream coloured ceramic tiled floors and previously neutral coloured grout, but he will not help you do it

9) After cleaning red wine that has been spilled all over a white kitchen countertop and then further spilled onto the cream coloured ceramic tile floor and left for hours, with the grout between those tiles for ever and all time the same colour as the red wine that had been spilled all over a white kitchen countertop by a mischievous cat, all you really want to do is have a glass of red wine

10) Wanting a glass of red wine after cleaning red wine that has been spilled all over a white kitchen countertop and then further spilled onto the cream coloured ceramic tile floor and left for hours, with the grout between those tiles for ever and all time the same colour as the red wine that had been spilled all over a white kitchen countertop by a mischievous cat but then NOT being able to have one because all your red wine has been spilled all over a white kitchen countertop and then further spilled onto the cream coloured ceramic tile floor and left for hours, with the grout between those tiles for ever and all time the same colour as the red wine that had been spilled all over a white kitchen countertop by a mischievous cat is SURPRISINGLY annoying

Question...

How is it possible for any sane and half intelligent person to forget to buy toilet paper for close to a week?

How about if said person has been completely out of toilet paper since then?

Seriously, I need to know this… because everyday for the last week I have come home from work, football matches, movies, Wine and Cheese Shows, foot rubs etc… only to use the facilities and go “G*D D*MN M*TH*R F*CK*R F**************************************CK no toilet paper… again.” Thank F*CK*NG goodness for Kleenex.

Anyway, so just wondering when I should start to be worried about the state of my brain. Or is it too late?

Bea's To Do List:

Get toilet paper
Return 3 week late copy of Borat
Get toilet paper
Buy new umbrella
Get toilet paper
Find someone to give me back rub
Toilet paper
Do laundry
Toilet paper
Find new job
Toilet paper
Back rub. Me. Someone
Get toilet paper
Get sinuses fixed
Get toilet paper
Replace DVD player
TP
Get cat food, preferably not tainted with poison
GET TOILET PAPER

Daily Rant

Here’s my little beef du jour…

Why is it that people insist in putting butter on sandwiches and/or wraps? It makes no sense. You can’t taste it to speak of, but you can always feel the layer of mushy pastiness amidst the other foodstuff contained within the sandwich and/or wrap. So I am trying to figure out the rationale behind adding this extra ingredient when it serves no purpose whatsoever except to mess up a perfectly good sammy.

Don’t get me wrong, I am a lover of all things butter… no Becel on my popcorn for me thanks… and there is nothing better than smothering a freshly baked piece of bread with the creamy goodness that is butter… salted of course, because there is nothing more useless than unsalted butter. You might was well just smother your food in lard, which, while very important in the pie crust baking process, is kind of icky when you think of it.

I had an experience recently with duck fat. Was over at a friends place… who I see frequently so perhaps he needs a BP moniker… TBD as required. Anyway, went over for dinner… loverly dinner it was and on the menu was Yorkshire pudding… which I love to death. Well apparently the proper English way of making it is with globs of duck fat which, to a person who likes neither duck or heaps of animal fat, I was slightly disconcerted over. But as I was the guest and he was so generously cooking this fabulous meal, I kept my mouth shut. While waiting for the YPs to bake, the thought did occur to me to flee the scene so I wouldn’t have to deal with the duck fat however, I decided that would probably be rude. After all, it was I who pretty much insisted that he cook the darn things in the first place so I decided to suck it up and just deal with it… fully aware that I am the pickiest and worst guest since the earliest cavemen began inviting friends over to their caves for some roasted wooly mammoth. I’d be the cave wench asking if there was anything else to eat besides the mammoth… or if there was gravy. Because I have to imagine that mammoth is really gamey and someone like me, cavewoman or no, would absolutely need a nice rich gravy to tone down the mammothy goodness. Anyway, my point was that in the end I ate it, but part of me questioned why I was eating a pool of duck fat with every bite. To end this bit of my rant…

To the person who cooked that dinner and who may possibly read this at some point… The dinner was amazingly DELISH and it is my problem, not yours that I am such a freak when it comes to food. I could go into the deets of how I used the former-PNB as a lab monkey when tasting food at the Wine and Cheese Show yesterday, but I won’t.

In conclusion, butter on sandwiches and/or wraps suck!

Thank you for your time.

Life's Little Reassurances are Fun!

I don’t think it’s any secret to the people who see me on a regular basis to know that I have had some thoughts about moving back to BC. If you didn’t well now you know. I have had thoughts and I have had many of them. They are the same thoughts that I have always when I start getting antsy and being thinking that my life would be better if I lived somewhere else. However, I am fully aware that this is a terrible pattern in my life… thinking that they grass is always greener on the other side of the street, or in my case, the other side of the country… or if I am being truly honest, a completely different country altogether. But if Toronto has taught me anything it is not the place that makes your life, it is you that needs to make your place your life. What does this mean? It means that thoughts of wanting to flee in the middle of the night with my cat and the clothes on my back aside, I am determined to make Toronto work.

Of course, that doesn’t mean that things are always great for me here. They are mostly but I have a lot of frustrations too. My social life leaves something to be desired much of the time. Some weeks are fabulous, others are just so-so. A person only needs to read snippets of BP over the last couple of years to know that I am completely incapable of meeting, communicating, dating and/or keeping a boy around long enough to learn his last name. I have come to terms with that but it’s still rather annoying from time to time.

So, whatever, I have these thoughts of leaving that I try not to think about because, much like not being able to hold down a relationship for any length of time, I find them annoying. But apparently my subconscious has other ideas…

Last night’s sleep was not a very restful one. I fell asleep OK but was awoken at various times throughout the night by whatever disruptive activity my cat was engaged in at the time. I am here to tell you that you have not been rudely awakened until you have been rudely awakened by a small domesticated animal attacking the sh*t out of your hand and arm… But when I did sleep, man did I ever dream…

I can’t remember where, when or in what context I heard this in but apparently hearing about other people’s dreams is one of the most boring things you can be subjected to. I guess I could agree where it not for the fact that my friends have some pretty interesting dreams and I always enjoy hearing about them. I have been known to have some doozies myself… How could I ever forget my Charlie Sheen tampon dream? Clearly I cannot…

In a nutshell, in the dream my Mom was coming over to pick me up to take me home for the weekend. In the dream I was horrified; sick with anxiety because I just wanted to stay home and live my life. In my dream I thought to myself “don’t do it, don’t go back the BC, even for the weekend, you’ll regret it”… And in the dream(s) I was writing… doing lots of writing. But the moment that I started to think about going back to BC, I could no longer put pen to paper. When I made up my mind to call and cancel my BC weekend with the folks, I felt free… And thus was essentially the way the rest of the dream played out over and over.

So, a few things spring to my mind when I began the analysis this morning… The first and most glaring point being that it’s possible that I hate my parents. But I don’t… the thought of spending two solid weeks with them so soon after Christmas may leave me with heart palpitations, but I know that come November I will be itching to get back to see them. So I am pretty sure this wasn’t about the folks. What I’ve decided to take away from the dream is that good times or bad, Toronto is exactly where I need to be right now.

Inhale… Exhale… Smile…

This is great news!

Fun on Random Tuesday

Further to a posting from the other week regarding the great friends I have in Toronto… Additional proof in that my friend RC scored us a couple of sweet arse front row centre tickets to see We Will Rock You last night. It was really good and highly recommended… but being a Queen fan is a must.

Which I think would be pretty obvious. If not I imagine it would be like me going to see a show inspired by the music of Hootie and the Blowfish. There are many reason why this would never happen, starting with the fact that I actually attended a Hootie and the Blowfish concert (for free… again, friends are great) for real a short while ago and it was without a doubt the worst waste of any evening to date in my life.

So I could not even IMAGINE what a musical would be like and who would actually have that much disposable income to waste on purchasing tickets for the show in the first place. Anyway, clearly the two groups are not even in the same category and I truly am sorry for comparing one of the worst bands ever with one of the best… Freddy Mercury is probably rolling in his grave right about now…

Who’s excited about the England vs. Israel game on the weekend? Anybody??? Why do I hear crickets???

Another week...

Another St. Patrick’s Day has come and gone. I would be lying if I said it was all I had hoped it would be. To begin with, Girl and I didn’t get to go to our usual place which had always provided us with much entertainment and we ended up at a place with little St. Paddy’s Day to-do with people who were set to leave before the night had even begun. The end result was that by the time I had hooked up with people who wanted to do SPD right, I had mostly lost the taste for it. Also not helping was the fact that the new face cream that I had bought that same morning was doing it’s best to eat through my skin. I looked like a cross between a leper from biblical times and a three-degree burn victim. Hardly the ideal conditions under which to put ones best face forward. Truth be told I was more pished that my facial disfigurement (which has since mostly healed) made it impossible for me to, um, what’s the word I am looking for? Oh yeah… meet anyone who might possibly have been up for a night of fun… But I am over it so let’s move on shall we?

Wait a minute, I am just now remembering that despite the flesh eating disease that was my face some bloke did come up and talk to me. He reminded me of Scott Savol from American Idol a while back. Except this bloke was wearing one of those teeny tiny little leprechaun hats… which only served to make his giant bald head even more giant and bald (don’t get me wrong balding men do it for me… I have a theory about the less hair you have and the larger the size of the penile unit… but that’s not for here). Anyway, I conveniently found a boyfriend so that ended that chapter of the night. What? I might be in my sexual prime but I’m not desperate dammitt!!!

And speaking of not being desperate… fantasizing about my giant friend putting his giant hands on my boobs aside, I’ve been kinda hush hush on my love life of late… Of course there hasn’t been one really to speak of so that could have contributed a wee bit. Also contributing perhaps was a seemingly complex relationship with a friend that had me kinda holding off on meeting some of the other peeps who I’ve been in contact with lately just to see where it might have gone. I am not completely sure why I am such a retard when it comes to understanding the law of the land vis-a-vis interpersonal relationships but sufficed to say that I am retarded and I really need to stop taking things that people say to me at face value… or at the very least get some clarification before I run with something. It’s all good, but I did have one of those “Oh, OK… that’s the way things are” moments earlier today. It could never have been anyway so praise the goddess for the way it turned out.

So what that means is that I’m Back Baby… I’m kinda due for a relationship and thus the dating process begins anew… Not like before because I think I would die of exhaustion. Because sometimes when I am bored and I want a little reassurance that I can actually amuse and entertain people with my writing when given the chance, I look back on the past couple of years in Toronto and what I’ve written… and I sometimes think to myself:

“Dude, what the eff was I thinking?”

Bea

PS... Re: the pic... put it up for no reason in particular, except that GB is almost naked (he is in my fantasies)... and he's reading (not usually part of my fantasies but I think I can work with it)... because Gerry is so much more than just a pretty face... Am I right girls?

Dear Iran,

Hi.

How are you?

I am not sure if you know who I am or not. I’m Beatrice. I write this blog. It’s mostly about the happenings in my life here in Toronto. My loves, my laughs, my friends, my heartbreaks, you know, the usual.

I’m an Aquarius and my favorite colour is green… grass or hunter as opposed to lime (in case you ever wanted to buy me a gift). I have a cat. He’s pretty cute except he keeps me up an awful lot at night. I’m single, but not really looking. I mean if Mr. Right fell from the sky then of course I’d be all over that. Anyway, enough about me…

I hear you have an issue with my boyfriend’s new movie. Something about it portraying Iranian culture as barbaric and war mongering? Hmmm, well yes it may have done that, but just in case you missed that class in Ancient History (or that part was simply omitted from your text books completely), Persia was quite the little Conqueror Nellie in its heyday. I am not saying that’s a bad thing. Goodness knows that Canada could stand to be a little more aggressive from time to time. It does tend to get a little boring being the nicest country on the planet. I am led to believe that we would monger except that our military doesn’t have enough gas to really travel anywhere. Maybe you could help us out with that? But this isn’t about Canada and our evil ways, this is about you Iran.

So you think that 300, which has never claimed to be the most historically accurate film ever, is a plot by us westerners to further drag your name through the mud? T’is true, the Persians were the baddies in the film, but they were not the only baddies. The Spartans had their fair share as well. They also had to deal with the strong homoerotic undertones that were oh so prevalent throughout the film. I have yet to hear Greece express outrage at being portrayed as bi-sexual leather undies wearing blood-lusting men with funny helmets…

Further to my point yesterday about people being particularly sensitive about an issue when one comes uncomfortably close to being caught in a duplicitous act…

Iran, are you planning on taking over the world? The reason I ask is that you seem particularly sensitive to the fact that a movie set thousands of years ago, during a time when you were hell bent on taking over the world (or what you knew existed of it anyway), may or may not have caused people to think bad things about your modern-day culture which, for all intents and purposes is really nothing like the Persian civilization from so many millennia ago. Because honestly Iran, until you made your stink, I really never put two and two together. When I think Iran, I think oil. I think fundamentalist Islamic regime. I think Holocaust denial. I think potentially dangerous nuclear program. But I can honestly say that I have never thought highly sophisticated, albeit ruthless ancient civilization.

But now you’ve got me thinking. I’m thinking that is isn’t so much that you are pissed that the world will discover things about your past that have been readily available in history text books since Allah knows when, but that you are pissed that the world will discover something about your present that you were hoping to keep secret just a little longer… say until you were ready to, like, you know… try and take over the world again?

Just a theory.

No Means No…

So why can’t I say it? I have some ideas, so let’s explore shall we?

Maybe some of you remember a fellow from a way while back. Actually, come to think about it, I am not sure if I even mentioned the sitch on BP. At any rate, a while back I went out with this dude. For lack of anything better to call him, I will call him DVD-Stealing-Fake-Ankle-Breaking-Inconsiderate-Poopy-Face Man… DVD Stealer for short. Anyway, we went out. Had a great time. Got the usual “we’ll have to do this again blah blah blah” line, which was somewhat unnecessary because we had mutually exchanged some Digital Video Disks that would obviously need to be returned at some point. 4 weeks and about a million very inconsiderate and likely bullsh*te excuses later, we still hadn’t met up. I guess you could say that any future possibilities for the relationship ended when he conveniently broke his ankle in 13 places. It wasn’t so much the ankle breaking that did it… No, I think it was more the fact that he may have had some issues with me calling him a liar liar pants on fire. Who knew someone could be so sensitive about that?

I’m sure I’ve already spouted my theory on catching people in lies. T’is my experience when you call someone on something that is not true and they get super angry and defensive and turn their anger and defensiveness back onto you, that they are simply reacting to the nail being hit on the head… Do I believe for a second that this guy as much as stubbed his toe? Um, no. Anyway, since then… and I would say it has been a good nine months or so, he pops back into my life every so often… we must get together for drinks, I still have your DVD etc… like so many other men that I have known in this city: Former PNB and the Disappearing/ Reappearing Train Conductor are just a couple that spring to mind.

The truth is that I don’t want to meet up with this guy again. There seems to be little point. I don’t want House Season One back now. In fact, I have been quite happy with Ali G. And what, we meet up again once? I don’t trust this guy as far as I can throw him so I couldn’t date him. I guess I could have my way with him to get it out of my system, but assuming that he isn’t the liariest liar that ever lied, I’d be too worried I’d break his ankle… so that’s out.

But I cannot say it. Do you want to meet up for drinks this week, he asked. I couldn’t say no. And I am angry at myself because of it. I owe him nothing. He certainly made no attempt to spare my feelings and in fact, was quite capable of dissing me and then making me feel bad because it wasn’t his fault he was so busy. Anyway, I imagine that I’ll continue doing the same thing that I have been, which is coming up with excuses as to why I am not free on such and such a day but that next week looks pretty open… but darn, I wish you had written me yesterday because now I am COMPLETELY booked again… but next week looks pretty open… but darn, I wish you had written me yesterday because now I am COMPLETELY booked again… but next week looks pretty open… You get the picture. I am such a scaredy cat.

Darn it Bea, just say no!

Bea “Where’s my broken ankle?” Petty

Last Weekend I Dined in Hell... Beers at the Firkin

OK,

So in continuation of the Gerrypalooza that last week seemed to become… who knew that a picture of Gerard Butler’s crotch would have garnered so much interest amongst the ladies on the internet? Certainly not I, but thanks to all the horny women (and men… come on… I know there were a few) who visited last week!

Anyway, 300. Saw it this weekend. Enjoyed it muchly more than I expected. Muchly more. It’s always hard, when a movie gets so hyped up, to try and be realistic about what that movie will actually be like. Snakes on a Plane springs to mind. In fairness I never saw it and except for the brief obsession I had with the Samuel L. Jackson prank phone call thing, I really didn’t give the film that much thought. It also occurred to me that being a Frank Miller affair, that it could be very similar to Sin City which I would have enjoyed a heck of a lot more were it not for the psychotic kidnapping cannibal character. Dudes, I had nightmares about that guy for weeks. As such, I was really nervous about 300. I really, really wanted it to be good. I really, really wanted to like it. If for any other reason than GB seems like a normal and level headed guy who just likes to make movies.

I wanted this for Gerry.

Do it for Gerry.

As luck would have it, my anxiety was all for nothing. For, IMAX debacle aside (did it occur to me that I might have needed to get the tickets before an hour prior to the showing? Yes. Did I get tickets before an hour prior to the showing? No), the movie was great. It was filmed beautifully. The story was what it was. The acting? Meh, likely no one will win an Oscar. But the battle scenes? Fabulous. They somehow managed to make dying a violent and horrible death on the battlefield beautiful and poetic. I was also impressed with the way the portrayed the ancient Greek battle phalanx but that is only because I am the hugest and dorkiest history nerd ever. It also explains why people laugh at me for such nonsense frequently. But a history nerd I will remain and laugh at me you will continue to do. Oh, and crazily buff men in little leather undies… lots of ‘em. Oh, and the hotty from Love Actually… Oh, and an apple.

And while I have you all here, would the person who called me at 6am this morning only to hang up when I answered PLEASE not do that ever again? There is no greater annoyance on the planet than being awoken by the phone when the only calls one gets at that time of the day are harbingers of bad news…

That is all.
Bea

Gerry Gerry Bo Berry

Hmmm,

Ok, so what can be said about Gerard Butler in the flesh? I think Holy Mother of God sums it up rather nicely.

Sadly, no chance to interact with the man because he was in a bit of a hurry to head to the Much Music studios so we had to be satisfied to be front-row seated just 20 feet or so away. CBS was quick enough with the digital to snap this pic as he walked past us. Colour me crazy but I think the picture looks great… Very editorial, as they would say on America’s Next Top Model… which I missed last night… but who can pass up a night filled with GB and $3.50 martinis? Not this celebrity stalker and/or boozer!

But who needs editorial when you’ve got Gerry’s skivvies? Obviously you don’t. Editorial can go to hell in a hand basket for all I care. In fact, almost anything can go to hell in any sort of basket next to the thought of naked Gerry Butler… preferably naked Gerry Butler in my apartment. To prove my point, here’s a close up. And yes, you can chalk this up being celibate since the last ice age. So now the question begging to be answered… Appropriate use to the colour printer at work? You tell me…

Quiveration Nation

Ok Folks,

Here's the dealio. I am lame. I always have been. And soon to publish the greatest book EVER aside... I probably always will be. However, that has not stopped me from having the coolest friends ever.

Case in point? Celebrity Boyfriend Stealer.

Celebrity Boyfriend Stealer (CBS) steals celebrity boyfriends. And not in the "So-and-So is number one on my top 10 list of favorite celebrity boyfriends so you can't have him" kind of way. No my friends, CBS plays the "Oh yeah, well I've been invited to a premier party with So-and-So and I am going to party with him until the wee hours of the morning and here are the pics to prove it" game. Yeah, it's a dirty game, but one she chooses to play nonetheless.

The celebrity in question that fateful September 2005 was everyone's favorite blue-eyed Scottish man-god Gerard Butler. The celebrity still in question is everyone's favorite dreamy blue-eyed kilt wearing, haggis loving, sexiest accent ever Scotsman Gerard Butler.

Yep, it's true, Now happily coupled, it would seem that CBS is on the path to redemption. For after having so ceremoniously trumped me years ago, CBS is healing the hurt vis-a-vis the whole stealing the one celebrity bf who meant so much to me. How so, you may be asking yourselves? Try THIS little ditty on for size:

The Hour with George Stroumboulopoulos. Tomorrow. Tickets (courtesy of CBS). Gerard Butler is the guest. Me and CBS. CBS wearing a boob top. Boob top = getting to chatter with GB. Getting to chatter with GB = OMG might DIE.

I hope I don't die.

A Journey Fit for a Hero?

Further to yesterday’s posting… clearly I am on a quest of sorts. Is it on par with, say, the quest for the Holy Grail? Or the Crusades?

In a word?

Hells yes!

It’s like The Lord of the Rings, Star Wars and Indiana Jones and Harry Potter COMBINED x 4. And if a hobbit, Luke Skywalker, Harrison Ford, Monty Python and naked Daniel Radcliffe can do it then so can I right?

So where to start? Any and all suggestions are welcome. And preferably before St. Paddys Day. The last thing I want to do is come home with another wall-eyed Irishman. No wait. Actually I do… I really, really do.

Life's Little Annoyances

You know when you go out on a date and you get along really great but there’s no chemistry so you both mutually decide that you’re not into each other? So you decide to just be friends, and so you do. Quite good ones actually. And then you invite this person to come out with you at New Years because his plans fell through and you kind of feel bad. But you question your decision because you apparently have no faith in your friends and you start to worry whether or not they will think he’s way to nerdy to hang out with only to find out that not only do your friends think he’s pretty cool but that one of them thinks he’s kinda cute and would definitely be interested in seeing him again. So numbers are exchanged but the guy doesn’t act on it because unfortunately he has up and fallen for a girl he met online like the day before, only to have his heart broken within the first week due to a lack of chemistry. So now your friend is single and isn’t interested in putting himself out there until his wounds have healed so you guys end up hanging out a lot only for you to start thinking that maybe he isn’t as nerdy as you had once thought and you sure enjoy hanging out. At the same time you also come to the realization that you have been celibate coming up on a year and you realize that the pissy mood you’ve been in for a good month or two is possibly/ 100% due to the fact that you haven’t “gotten any” in waaaaay too long. And so you start looking at your friend… who may or may not be as tall as your favorite 6’7” soccer player and you start to wonder what it would be like to get squelchy with someone that tall. And your mind starts to wander to whether other parts of his body might be bigger than the average and what the hands of a giant might possibly be able to do with ones boobies and because your mind pretty much ONLY lives in the gutter these days (cough... naked Harry Potter) it becomes pretty much all you can think of. Not a relationship mind you, not even dating… just a night of naughtiness to get it out of your system and then back to being friends. And so your birthday rolls around and despite being worried about any awkwardness that might ensue because one friend never called the other one after New Years, you invite both and hope for the best. But instead of awkwardness, your two friends spend all night talking to each other which is great because you are far too hammered to pay attention to such trivial matters. And besides nothing, NOTHING can compete with the Harry potter Gryffindor scarf knitted specially for you by one’s former roommate. And so a week goes by and no one says anything re: calling or not calling or being interested or not so you still kind of think that this whole “sex with a giant” is still something that might possibly happen under the right circumstances (i.e. lots of booze). But then you find out that not only did he call but that they actually went out on a date and had a great time and have been talking everyday since and he invites her to a lunch the two of your are having for his birthday and to say goodbye because he is leaving the next day to go to Europe for a month. Which is totally fine because you’re not interested in him more than a friend, except to shag him, and if he has found romance with another friend of yours and you made that happened, then that is awesome, we should all be so lucky… And it does make one feel happy to know that they had a hand in introducing two people… But it also REALLY sucks because now you are back to square one—still just as bitchy and frustrated as ever but now even more so because it’s been that much longer… and who knows when you’ll ever get a chance to do the nasty with a Peter Crouch sized man ever again???

Don’t you hate it when that happens?