Simply Put, Fuck You

(Cross-Posted to my lovely friend Manisha's mixtape blog With Love from Me to You, where she kindly let me guest post!)



There are some times in life when we just need to feel totally awesome.

Sometimes it's that you've had a really shitty day. Sometimes it's that someone made you feel small as a baby and boring as an out-of-date newspaper. Sometimes you feel like everybody else knows what's going on but you. Sometimes, as happened to me, all these things combine in one horrid avalanche: you get dumped.

So I've cycled through a few different stages: I did the sad music, I did the pretend-not-to-care music, but what I really needed was the music that reminded me that no matter what anyone else does, I'm pretty awesome. So simply put, fuck you. Fuck off. I'm damn cool.

The music in this little collection taps into that from lots of directions, and speaks for itself. It tells anyone who will listen that I've gone, done moved on, that I'm real, I haven't thought of you lately at all. It asks with swagger and attitude, just who do you think you are? So fuck all you hoes, cry me a river, don't look back in anger, cause this is why I'm hot and you sure as hell don't impress me much.

I've got ninety-nine problems and you, bitch? You ain't one.

Download it. Live it. Love it. http://www.megaupload.com/?d=3FJ5L2PY

99 Problems - Jay-Z
Who Do You Think You Are? - The Spice Girls
If I Never See Your Face Again - Rihanna
Dontcha Wish Your Girlfriend Was Hot Like Me - The Pussycat Dolls
Son of a Preacher Man - Diana Ross & the Supremes
Gone Gone Gone (Done Moved On) - Robert Plant and Alison Krauss
Jailhouse Tears - Lucinda Williams and Elvis Costello
Honey Now - Gillian Welch
We Used To Be Friends - The Dandy Warhols
Cry Me A River - Justin Timberlake
Don't Look Back in Anger - Oasis
Stealing Kisses - Lori McKenna
That Don't Impress Me Much - Shania Twain
I'm Real - Jennifer Lopez
This Is Why I'm Hot - MIMS
Can't Tell Me Nothing - Kanye West
Juicy - Notorious B.I.G.
Survivor - Destiny's Child

How Do You Feel About Naked Sundays?

So here I am at work on a Saturday.

I forced myself out of the Boy's warm bed, disgraced myself and feminism for eternity by falling back asleep literally AT HIS FEET on the bed, schlepped my butt on the subway, came into the lobby, took a look at the security log, and realize... I'm the only person in the entire building today.

It started small. I kicked off my shoes under my desk, and walked to the printer without them, because, what the hell? Why not? When I got back to my cubicle (hawt), I undid the top button of my jeans. Who wouldn't? The ideas began to grow. I was giving serious, but ultimately futile, consideration to taking off my pants.

Before long, I found myself wandering up and down the (carpeted) hallway with my hair down and messy, my feet bare, the button AND fly of my pants undone, ostensibly 'checking that everything was fine' but in reality squinting at other peoples' family photos. It was like Tom Hanks' Castaway, corporate version, and I was very happy.

Until the moment I rounded a corner and walked straight into the mail room guy.

Still, the whole experience was liberating enough that I'm giving even more serious consideration to adding an item to the next staff meeting, which will read: 'We have casual Fridays, Open-Pant Saturdays... How do you feel about Naked Sundays?'


Clothes-optionally yours,
Jordan

Hot Manz!

Oh mah god, what lady doesn't love them hot manz?

And before you say, "Um, duh, LESBIANS" I say, HA! Got you there! One of W. and B.'s moms once told me that she was pretty sure W. was going to grow up to look like [pre-homeless] Colin Farrell, and that that was 100% okay with her, because Colin Farrell was SO HOT! and then W. would grow up to be sexy and catch mad honeys.

Maybe she didn't say "Mad honeys" exactly, but you catch my driftwood.

So anyway, it has come to my attention that I occasionally have different taste in my Hot Manz than many out there. In fact, I could summon so little enthusiasm (despite all my efforts) for the ice-tipped boy-men of my elementary days that my best friend pulled me aside at the tender age of grade five to ask, "Jordan. Um. I notice you don't really have crushes on boys. Are you, like, um, a lesbian?" (verbatim)

To which I responded, "NO I AM NOT, not that there's anything wrong with that anyway, you hormonally-charged vehicle for adolescent humiliation!" (less verbatim)

Some might even say that my taste in men runs disturbingly daddy-complexed and hairline-deficient end of the spectrum. I say, "NO IT DOES NOT, not that there's anything wrong with that, and my daddy doesn't look anything like him in that light, so who cares anyway?"

Without further ado, my highly specific List of Hot Manz Who Make Me Think Dirty Thoughts (celebrity edition, duh. I still love you, The Boy.):

5) SPIKE from Buffy:

He was undead, he was British, he was hilarious, he was wildly and passionately in love. He made stalking, smoking, and rough (and occasionally invisible!) sex hot. He did this affectionate head-tilting thing that was beyond adorable (best video ever on that link!). He was brooding and drunk and wore tight (but not questionable tight [notthatthere'sanythingwrongwiththat, aka NTTAWWT]) shirts over an eye-popping body and raw sexuality that sent my 15 year-old self into a tailspin.

Plus, my unbridled love for him gave my family the best opportunities for mocking me since my plastic pony days (love you, Grand Champions!): "Honey, why are you sitting alone in the dark? Oooo, it's because it makes your boyfriend die, right?" "Why so sad, sweetie? Oh, did someone let slip that vampires aren't real? Darn it!"


4) CAPTAIN JEAN-LUC PICARD OF THE STARSHIP ENTERPRISE:

Nuff said. The man who INVENTED the Daddy-Complex (or even the grandpa one, which is way dirtier, NOT THAT I HAVE ONE, NTTAWWT).

3) PETER SARSGAARD:

There is just something about this man that is so, so sexy. Somewhere between the monotone, the sly, bedroom eyes, the slight drawl and the soft but sleek body, he just oozes sex. He just gives off pheromones that seem to say, "I love sex. I love having it, talking about it, and I want it with you."

And I'm all like, "Okay, Peter!" Plus he kissed Liam Neeson that one time. And is Jake Gyllenhal's brother-in-law. His hawtness pedigree is impeccable, his confidence infectious (he does a full-frontal gay scene right after the above shirtless shot), and his sexuality fun and relaxed, but passionate. DROOL.


2) DAVID DUCHOVNY/FOX MULDER:

Oh my god, what to say about Fox Mulder? LOVE OF MY LIFE, right here. As Rebecca Traister writes on Salon.com: "[Fox Mulder is] the brilliant, wounded, lonely man... And it didn't hurt that Duchovny was basically a walking pheromone, all languid eyes and long-necked eroticism... Mulder was hot, and made you want to heal and help him and go with him to the Andes in search of the yeti or whatever it was he planning to do with his three-day weekend."

He didn't look too shabby topless.

He was a joyous, ovary-twinging father.

And he was madly, passionately, soul-crushingly and body-meltingly in love with Agent Dana Scully (aka ME). Siiiigh. I still watch them onscreen together and feel myself light up at the sight of them, even on the shittiest day. That's love, baby.


1) CHRISTOPHER MELONI:

If Mulder was a walking pheromone, Christopher Meloni is a walking hard-youknowwhat-on. He gives me dirty thoughts I didn't know I had. He LOVES sex, and has said so on many occasions. I would like to give him an opportunity to display this love. I think it's the charitable thing to do. Seriously though, this man reaches into the darkest bits of my psyche and makes me want to write fanfiction involving dark alleys, handcuffs, his dirty, dirty grin, and biting his neck. I don't know why I want to bite his neck so badly, I just really, really need to bite his neck like NOW THANKS.

Plus, any man who can do MANY gay love scenes with his best friend and make it SO DAMN HOT, PRESENT YOUR NECK NOW, is a man I want to know better. In the dirty, dirty Biblical sense.

As well, any man who can look SO GOOD in THESE deserves our appreciation and our hurled panties:

Dear Chris Meloni: let me bite your neck now? Thanks, and see you soon. In my bed.


So there you have it. Here are my (celebrity) manz. Who are yours? Want to share mine? Let's get droolicious together.


Oh SO happily now,
Jordan

PS: This is my other Manz, looking blond and outdoors-y and yummy without a shirt on. My life is pretty good! And this one lets me bite his neck for sure, no questions asked.

Someone Call 911 On This Pity Party

Have you ever encountered something in you that you just can't overcome?

So, this isn't the heavy stuff I meant to post about, but here's some other sort of heavy stuff instead, prompted by recent events. So, here goes.

I get sick. A lot. Among myriad other unidentified health problems I have going on, I have a disease, that wandered into my life for the first time when I was twelve. It's not fatal, or even maiming. It is, however, stigmatized, incurable, recurrent, and limitedly treatable.

It's one of the fun ones that disappears for months at a time, and then rears its head at the most inopprtune moments (every family vacation for the last 8 years, during my first date, etc). *I* know that I didn't get it because I'm a slut or dirty or whatever. I know that it doesn't come on my lady bits (which, ohmyjonas thank you for that one thing). *I* know that. But the end result is that I can't tell anyone what's really wrong, because I know where their minds would go, and because of the real fun stigma around it.

YEAH, that's a fun one to grapple with when you're a chubby, furry adolescent who won't even be kissed for another four years.

When most people say that they're Capital S 'Sick', they mean puking like there's gonna be no more puke tomorrow. And while I do plenty of that (leading to about 5 pregnancy tests in the last 10 months, and a disproportionate number of BabyThoughts), I mean I've been struck by a bolt from hell with the above. So keep up, will ya?

And when I'm Sick, everyone around me has to distance themselves from me, for their own health. I'm left so tired that it feels like somebody opened my tap, left it running, and drained me out. I can't really talk to my friends about it. I can't tell the truth to my boss about it. So there we are, exhausted and in bad pain and full of self-loathing, and noboday can even lie down on the bed with you.

Even the Boy, who is kind and supportive and pretty damn sweet about all my little quirks (read: insanities), had a pretty major meltdown about it when I had a particularly bad bout just last month. See Horrifically Vague Post of DOOM for a Horrifically Vague Description of how this bascially just destroyed any dream I had of him being the one person in the world who would see the full extent of it and say, "Fuck it, I don't care, you're still the same, I still want to touch you and hold you no matter what." And that? Is a fairly fucking lonely situation.

Wow. Debbie Downer much? Consider this the cops arriving to break up the above mentioned pity party.

So, anyhoo, I got sick AGAIN on the weekend, only three weeks after the last bad run of it, and after taking a whole bunch of precautions. So, to explain why I didn't have much by way of blogging material, here's what I did for the last 48 hours (apart from the 24 of them that I was sleeping).

I stared at this:

Contents: my stuffed baby seal (toy, not actual seal, disappointingly); nerdy book that made me cringingly obsessed with Welsh names at the age of 13; bank statement; computer; purse.

And this:

Light fixture with cool shadows.

But finally help arrived in the form of this:
And now I'm back at work. Good thing? Not sure yet.

Anyhoo, I just wanted to put that out there for all of my 1.5 readers. It feels good to say though, in any medium. Consider this my sickly 'coming out', hope you can still say "I love my dead, diseased blogger!", and I'll be back with something more fun real soon.

Yours in sickness,

Jordan

Why Drink Coffee... When You Can Be Me!

Remember those old ads, that used to say "Why have coffeee... when you can have Coffee Crisp!" and the coffee would be shown to be hideously impractical and burning and basically the Devil's Liquid Indulgence, while the Coffee Crisp was handy and portable and crunchy and Beloved By the Lord?

Well, in your face, advertising moguls! Right at this very moment, in my cubicle, I am having BOTH!

I walk on the wild side.

I also got a thrill out of eavesdropping on co-workers as my coffee squirted from the machine (um, ew). They exclaimed on and on about Jon and Kate Plus 8, while I crunched on my candy bar and smirked to myself through the crumbs about how they knew nothing, NOTHING, about the show, while I have see every episode and BOTH hour-long specials. Fools!

... My life is fan-fucking-tastic these days, clearly.

Enthusiastically yours,
Jordan

P.S.: Oh, and I know I said meatier stuff today, and it is coming, after my therapy. Yes, that's right, I go to therapy.

Don't you just want to BE me?

The T.Dot

To avoid disappearing entirely while I wrestle over a few things in my over-thinking head, here are a handful of pictures of me trying to cope with the boring reality of a full-time job, and the sticky heat here in the city I love.

Sorry for the photo post. I always enjoy seeing other peoples', but I will be back with something a bit meatier as soon as I can.

Riding horses.

Navigating the transit system.

My younger cousin went to prom in a beautiful dress that made me feel like an old lady. Also, her justification for getting carded by the cashier at the liquor store: "Whatever, it was just cause I looked better than her anyway." And yet I rewarded her with glamour photography...

Hanging with peeps in the great outdoors. Above, in High Park...

Here, drunk on sangria in my backyard. Mmm, sangria...

Gorgeous after-the-rain sunsets.

A movie with my Main Man. (Holy crap, so good. Holy.)

Her Third Child

My mother is a fantastic gardener. She is also an obsessive one. Because of her tireless and occaisonally fanatical efforts, the backyard that I grew up in, a wide (for downtown Toronto), bumpy expanse of grass and bushes, is now a lush, dense garden that literally makes people walking by stop and stare. I can't count the number of mornings I've woken up, wandered around the house calling and calling for my mom, freaked out, dialed every number where I could conceiveably reach her, and then found her in the garden, bum in the air and hands in the dirt, happy as anything. I, on the other hand, complain bitterly about losing my childhood playground, where I used to "play baseball", "play tag" and "play croquet"

Er, for the above, read: "thwack at the t-ball stand and then cry," "run for two minutes, bang my knee, and then cry," and "sit on top of a pile of croquet balls and cluck like a chicken for 30 minutes, fall on my ass when they inevitabley roll away, spot a big bug, run inside, and then cry." I was an outdoorsy child, obviously.
But there are some summer evenings, where the garden and I can make peace, declare a truce, and give each other some happiness. And last night was one of those.

Maybe I'll learn to share *some* of my stuff with my leafy little sister. Eventually. One day. If she's good.

Bill Cosby Would Approve

So, the Boy did come and help out with the kids, and might even babysit them on his own next week (!), so my ovaries are bursting and his life is saved.

Other than his good behaviour, here are some gems from the night:

B.: (as I'm quickly changing into shorts) You know, my mummy wears big underwear. WAY BIG underwear.

---

W.: You remember that game we were playing before? Baseball?

Me: Yeah, I know it.

W.: (100% seriously, adorably earnest) I have this new idea for it, to make it more fun. When we throw the ball, let's hit it with a bat!

---
And some accidental (?) wisdom:

W.: (at breakfast this morning, discussing someone they know who grew up in Northern Ireland) But wait! Why were Irish people fighting Ireland? (smacks his forehead in disbelief) That's just stupid!

B.: It costs $10 an item to ship any American Girl stuff here. And I just wanted to buy the $7 special brush, but then Mummy and I decided that wasn't the best idea.


Added on to that is B.'s alarming but hilarious newly acquired pre-teen (!) reflex of rolling her eyes, blushing, and going "Yeah, okay, whatever, so anyway..." all at once. Ah, the joys ahead...

Ovarially yours,
Jordan

Today? Considering Life in an All-Female Commune

UPDATE on the Boy:

When I got home yesterday after The Lunch Incident, after the Boy had been alone in my all-female house, this is what I found:


When I called him to demand an explanation (or, er, calmly inquire about WHAT THE HELL HE THOUGHT HE WAS DOING) (or, er, --insert something fake and nice--), his response?

The Boy: Hey, at least I flushed.

He's coming with me to visit the Little Guys tonight. Hopefully it will melt my ovaries and save his soul.


Hardly Optimisticly,
Jordan

Miniature Men-In-Training

Two delightful Man Moments from the dudes in my life:


Little Brother W.: (in the backseat of my car, on the way back from his baseball game) Uh oh. Jordan, I farted.

Me: I can smell that. Is it bad- OH! OH MY GOD!

Little Sister B.: (shrieking and diving for window controls) EEEeeeeeeeeeewwwwwwwww!! W.!!

W.: Hey! You know what, it's not my fault I fart big.

----

(The Boy, woken up by my call, still sleeping in my bed at 11:30, after I got up and left for work at 7am)

Me: Hi, you. I'm sorry to wake you up, but I'm having the shittiest day and I forgot my pass card and my lunch at home, so I was thinking that maybe you could get up and bring them downtown to me, and then we could have a nice lunch together before you go out.

The Boy: Yee-ah... No. I think I'll just go to a friend's house instead.


Oh vey.

Patiently yours,
Jordan

Musical Interlude in a Workday

Excitement reigns over here in Jordan-land!

My lovely girl M-Cas, roommate and fellow Catwoman devotee, has created a blog! It's called With Love From Me to You, and I think she explains it best. But it'll have amazing music, cool-factor, and her fantastic sense of humour.

My peer pressure and humiliation of her has finally payed off, and she will now display her awesomeness for all the world. Her musical taste is better than mine, promise.

---

In unrelated news: Things Learned From Having a Full-Time Job (finally): I am singlehandedly responsible for the destruction of the rainforests and Canada's wild north. Yesterday, I printed out a 830 page photocopy job in about 30 minutes. In the last week, I threw out probably 75 sticky notes, printed another 150 pages, and doomed about another 250 pages to the shredder.

This makes me very sad.

Also? These?

Are the binders I had to put away at my work. Using my head. I literally stood in front of the filing cabinet, balanced them on my head, then did some sort of French soccer player-like headbutting manouever that launched them onto the cabinet.

Who says the workplace can't be creative and athletic?

That's all for now,

Jordan

A Love Letter, A Birthday Letter

The lovely monthly letters written by Catwoman and Dooce to their children are some of my favourite blog-fare to read. I (fortunately? unfortunately?) don't have my own children, but I would like to write something to a little boy I love with my whole heart, the closest thing in my life to my own baby; to my little brother.

He (and his sister) and I are definitely not a traditional sibling set. He is the son of two women; my father is his sperm donor, his "bio-dad". I helped raise him and take care of him and forged an incredible, unique bond. We weren't even raised in the same family, or even the same part of the city, but for the last eight years he has moved in and taken up a piece of my brain and a half of my heart, and a great deal of my laughter.

In honour of a birthday that still blows my mind...
----
My Dear (Not-So Baby) W.,

On the day you were born, my dad spend the whole day with the phone never more than a few inches from his hand. Up and down the hallway he went, painting with coiled nervous energy, and with every shuffle of his feet, there went the phone, inching down the hall. With every burst of ringing my stomach decided to basically make out with my tonsils, but every time it was someone else, someone boring, someone tying up the line while I waited for you. When we finally dragged ourselves to bed, the phone was still silent.

In the morning, my dad woke me up with the biggest smile, and told me your name. I almost fell out of bed with excitement.

Of course, he also told me what your mother had been through, but since this is your letter, not hers, that can come later, ok? Let's just say you weren't as excited by the possiblilty of coming out to meet me as I was to have you come out (Which would have been hard to beat... I all but crawled up there myself to get to see you sooner.)
Two weeks later, when the concept of car travel was slightly less daunting for your mom than advanced organic chemistry or miniature pig breeding, I met you, and I held you... and I was like the Grinch. I'm pretty sure my heart grew three sizes. Either that or gained weight like my stomach at a brunch buffet. In any case, the swelling, heavy, bursting joy that broke through my ribs and up my throat was as solid and real as your solid, slightly damp body in my arms.
My heart had already gotten a hefty bursting from your sister, and I still don't know how you did it so well, how you flooded me so completely. But you did.


I'm pretty sure they thought I was going to kidnap you, because once I had you next to me I didn't let you down for one second (well, I did let the others hold you for a minute. But just a minute. And the process of handing you over made me feel like I was sawing it off and passing it to them with you). You puckered up your little red face and cried if I sat down, so I walked you and walked you, singing and whispering and staring as you stared back, for two whole hours. I couldn't figure out whether it felt like minutes or hundreds of years. When you left to go home, my arms were rubbery and tingling from the new strain, but they were cold without your big sweaty head and 10-lb body.

I was so in love.

As you grew, you made your mom your whole world. No one else should hold you, or comfort you, or reach out for you. If we did, we got a patented disapproving stare and the threat of screaming. I began to be afraid that you wouldn't love me, or that you would forget me, and that I would forget what it had felt like when I held you. At the same time, you did so many cool things: you walked at 9 months (!), talked to yourself constantly, could accurately hum along to almost any song (especially ABBA), and had the most full-body-melting smile I had ever seen.


Then one day, the summer you turned one and I came to babysit for a week, everything changed. Suddenly you were reaching out for ME, whining when I went away, and glued to my hip like your butt was made for it. I carried you everywhere, and we talked and talked and pointed at everything that went 'vrrrOOM', especially public transit ("Bup! Bup!" was the favourite). You were so funny and messy, like the one time you pooed a trail down the carpet and thought it was the most hysterical thing you'd ever seen. But sometimes you were so serious, and thoughtful. The way you looked at me, with your nose pressed to mine and your hazel eyes the biggest thing I'd ever seen, and you'd just touch my cheek, or wrap your fingers in my hair... and I would feel like the most beautiful girl on the planet.

You'll never know how much I needed that feeling. The love and adoration you and your sister lavished on me, the way I could be only just me and you thought that was better than good... for those first years of your life, there was nowhere I could be that I liked myself at all, except for being with you two. Even just playing on the floor, looking out for tow trucks ("Do duck!"), eating your half-chewed chicken fingers, or pretending that I was sitting at the kids' table with you out of obligation rather than preference, I was at my absolute happiest.


When we walked down the street, just the two of us, M. and B. far ahead and running while we took our time and noticed and talked, strangers used to give me the dirtiest looks. I eventually realized that they thought I was your mom, and a ridiculously young teen mom at that. It didn't even occur to me to be offended; I couldn't think of a much better compliment.


So thank you, W., for being the funniest, sillest, handsomest and kindest boy I know. Thank you for letting me be in the club of people you loved. Thank you for always saying my name, even though it was hard for you (and I loved every version along the way). Thank you for thinking I was prettier in my glasses than my contacts; it was the one factor which almost made me change my mind. Thank you for playing "Bury Jordan" and inviting me to your birthday parties, even now that you're such a big man (comparatively).

And you are such a big guy! I can't even get my head around it. So do me a favour: stay kind, stay happy, stay thoughtful, and I know you'll keep on getting just smarter and smarter until you start correcting my thesis papers in the sixth grade. You're not that far off.

Happy 8th Birthday, W. I'm so very proud of you. I love you.

Your big sister, your babysitter, your friend,

Jordan

At Least It Ends on a High Note

Because I'm procrastinating at work but have limited photographic resources at the moment (see below), a weekend round-up:

- Epic, wrenching, sad sad sad conversation with the Boy. Turned out fine, but fuck, was I terrified out of my skull for a bit. Funny how having to let go of a fantasy about somebody hurts both of you in so many ways. Funny how even though they broke your dream of the thing you longed for, you realize you betrayed them, too, by longing for something that they shouldn't have to give, and couldn't know you wanted.

- Realized that I will go to hell for extreme Attack of the Vague and Ominous.

- Had a healing, silly, kind and happy weekend with him afterward, playing house while his family were away.

- Had a drunken conversation with my equally drunken father and stepmother, in which we all thought we were much funnier than we were.

- Had a highly necessary french toast brunch with my Girl at my favourite restaurant.

- Scored sweet vintage finds that make me feel hip and fun, clothing-wise (hint: I am not) (also hint: below is not one of them).

- Hung with my father, went to a movie. Then, not unexpectedly, he did his usual litle disappearing act and was nowhere to be found after dinner, until suddenly re-emerging from Hell? the basement? the bathroom? to announce he was going to bed.

- Still cannot find fucking camera charger! I am bereft without my camera. Succombed to ordering a new one off Amazon, and hoping there is no repeat of the Chinese Pirated X-Files DVD Set Incident of 2004.

- Lost faith in humanity. At least, in tenant humanity. Again.

... At least it ended well.

What Does the Boy Have in Common with Peru?

Day 29, b), originally uploaded by Jormania.

Reason # 97376.3 to love the rain, concerts, and the Boy.

He's wearing a poncho. For actuals. And giving a 'west side' sign through the neck hole.

And I love him for it.

---

Who I'm Judging Right Now: People who DON'T undo their pants whenever sitting at their desk, and who look at me funny when I forget to redo mine. My belly's just gotta be free, okay?

I Fear For Humanity... Grumble, Grumble

(Edited: Grrr, the site hosting this image went down. We'll have to make do with the thumbnail)

My brand new apartment in Montreal has already given me my first grey hair. And I'm just 20 years old. I'll spare the full gory details, but let's just say that our attempt to be nice people and let a few of the previous tenants stay for the month has backfired to the point of potential legal action.

(My roommate Margaret is a human manifestation of a fantastically adorable bulldog when it comes to protecting herself and the people she loves. This experience has taught me that she will doubtless grow up to be a far more attractive and wealthier version of the above lady.)

Anyway, after issuing a reminder that all the tenants had to be out by May 31st, forwarding a copy of the agreement they signed, and amid incredible tension that made me want them out of there more than an earwig in my drain, the following occurs.

One guy in particular caused my usually mild-mannered father to yell about suing and cost reclamation and "assholes with tiny pricks" (an atanomically inventive but satisfying insult) in the middle of a restaurant. And we're Canadians. We don't sue people.

Today, Margaret showed up, and guess who was sleeping in her bed? Surrounded by garbage and old food and broken furniture and abandoned shoes? Guess who, after being made to begin cleaning the filth, disappeared an hour ago without remotely finishing the job, taking only his backpack and coat, his keys hanging in the door?

I can almost hear the cackling and squealing tires now. And I think I just sprouted a whole new patch of those premature greys.

---

Who I'm Judging Now: Take a guess. I mean, really! Who are these people, even? Who does this to others? I feel like I'm channelling my embittered eldery neighbours, but kids these days!

HA, but Margaret is calling his mother tonight. Awesome.

Though if she raised a son like that... ? Maybe he's just an unrepentant sociopath, and she's a lovely lady. A girl can dream. And start seriously considering the services of April The Terminator...

Sorry For Being So Smooth, Clearly

Conversation with the Boy on the subway yesterday:

Boy: I can't believe you paid full price to get on here. Sucker.
Self-Righteous Self: Um, it's the law.
Boy: No it isn't.
S-RS: Yes it is. It's not just a freaking suggestion. Anyway, I feel sorry for the TTC... it's very poor and needs our help.
Boy: Anyway, who are they going to tell if I don't?
S-RS: The police. And they'll yell at you.
Boy: I'll yell back.
S-RS: No you won't.
Boy: Who will they tell if I do?
S-RS: ... The police. Again.
Boy: Stony silence.
S-RS: Riiiiiight. Anyway... so... Okay, sorry for being bossy?
Boy: You were being bossy.
S-RS: And you were being...?
Boy: Thank you for saying sorry for being bossy.
S-RS: Er. Right. You're welcome. So... you wanna make out?
Boy: No.

And that's when I took this picture.

-----

PS: Congratulations to the awesome and hilarious Catwoman, who I lost my blogging virginity to and is the standard against which I compare everything online (and who made my LIFE by posting here the other day). She just found out she's living my recurring fantasy and is having her second baby boy. If he looks and acts anything like her first one, she's going to be fighting off the girls and the readers with large sticks for many years. And I know for one I can't wait to see it.