Dear Diary,
This is the tail end of a conversation I had the other day with a friend whom I just happen to bump into at the hardware store.
MY FRIEND: Oh yeah, and Bobby sends his well wishes.
Bobby is a mutual buddy of myself and this friend.
ME: When did he say that?
MY FRIEND (unsure): A week ago... two weeks ago...
ME (in disbelief): Two weeks ago?
MY FRIEND: Yeah.
ME: You know, there's e-mail nowadays, and cell phones. How hard is it to send your well wishes right away? I should be getting them as soon as someone sends them. I'm sorry, but in this day and age, sending your well wishes through someone else that I may not even happen to bump into in the next few weeks, or months, is really careless. You tell Bobby that I could have really used his well wishes two weeks ago, and as a matter of fact, my life right now is pretty depressing, and hopeless, probably because of his tardiness, so he can take his well wishes and pack them deep inside his caboose.
My mother mailed me a birthday card this year, and like magic, I got it right on my birthday. I called her up, enraged.
ME: Yeah, Dad, put Mom on the phone. I am going through the roof over here! No I don't want to count to ten first. 'Cause I swear, when I get to ten, I may just do something I'll regret if I think about it afterwards, especially if I just read the ten commandments or Dear Abby or something.
I paused for a brief moment. Then:
ME: Hey mom, what's the big idea anyway? Yeah, happy birthday to you too. I just received this birthday card here - through the mail...
I repeated this last phrase in disbelief, as though I was asking myself a question.
ME: Through the mail?
I then proceeded with my rant.
ME: And I get it on the day of my birthday. You took a big risk here, lady. You live hundreds of miles away. What were you thinking? Who knows when I could have gotten my card. And then what? That's my day, and you're being awfully cavalier with it. But if you e-mailed it, like an e-greeting which is free, and I know you love anything free when it comes to anyone's birthday, then I wouldn't run the risk of being birthday card-less on my special day. Dad, hang up. Dad... don't sing happy birthday... Mom, don't sing the harmonies. Because Mom, I don't want to celebrate a day that I wish never happened after what transpired here today. Right now, I wish I had never been born. At least not by you.
There was an awkward silence at the other end.
ME: And just because you're going to e-mail me next year for my birthday, don't think you're getting out of mailing me my usual birthday cheque. You better mail it to me, just like you do every year, and maybe with a birthday card if you're feeling like you have any manners that day.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Some Business in the Closet
Dear Diary,
I am a very independent man. This is why I am starting my own company. I already took a few days off from work (I called in sick again) to concentrate on Phase I of my master plan. It only took me one week to get it done, and that was coming up with a company name.
I have set up a home office which is actually a re-converted closet where I have a chair, a pad of paper with pen, and a flashlight for lighting. My wife’s hanging coats sometimes get in the way of me seeing my pad of paper on my lap, but it’s still nice to hang out in there. It makes me feel like we have this whole other room that we never knew about. I locked myself in my closet office for a full seven days, only emerging when I had completed Phase I. There were only 4 instances when I briefly left the closet, and these were:
1) to go to the washroom
2) to go to the corner store to restock on what I call my “business decision-making fuel” (which is just basically bags of marshmallows)
3) to watch the Sci-Fi Channel (mostly for inspiration) for fourteen straight hours a day
4) to take a much needed break every seven minutes
Last night, when my wife finally arrived from a long day at work, I burst out of my office, over-energized with excitement regarding Phase I.
ME: I came up with a name for my company.
MY WIFE: What is it?
ME: Okay, sit down.
My wife sat in the kitchen chair closest to her.
ME: All right… it’s called… Last… But Not Least.
My wife nodded, then frowned.
MY WIFE: What?
ME (smiling from ear to ear): Last… But Not Least.
My wife pondered for a brief moment. Then:
MY WIFE: I’m not sure about the thinking behind a business name with the words “Last” and “Least” in it. It doesn’t really inspire confidence, or anything good, really.
ME: It’s just that as a business, just because I’ll sometimes come in last among my competitors, it won’t necessarily mean that I’m the least, or any less than they are as a company.
MY WIFE: Yes it will.
ME: Plus, when I’m introduced at business award ceremonies, they’ll say, “And now, last but not least, it’s Last But Not Least.” How cool is that?
MY WIFE. Not very. It’s ridiculous actually. What’s your stupid company making anyway?
ME: That’s to be decided during Phase II…
My wife shook her head to herself.
ME: Which I’ve already started. So far, I’ll be making a reality show of what it’s like to be me during the day [see previous diary entry].
MY WIFE: I’ve seen the footage. It’s just you in the kitchen, sleeping. And then you’re gone for hours.
ME: It’s not like we won’t be making other stuff too.
MY WIFE: Like what?
ME: I’m thinking something like paper towel. It’s everywhere. I just have to go to the drugstore, buy a whole bunch on sale, and then roll it onto my own rolls, and sell it again.
MY WIFE: So you’ll be reselling paper towel?
ME: Yeah, but with my picture on the package.
MY WIFE: Who cares if your picture’s on the package? Nobody knows you from Adam.
ME: Yeah, but it’ll be a picture of me smiling, because I’m getting all my messes cleaned up. Everybody’s got messes.
MY WIFE: Some more than others.
ME: I have a surprise for you.
MY WIFE: I’m not that interested.
ME: I’m making you VP of Last But Not Least.
MY WIFE: VP of what?
ME: VP of Funding. I want you to call all the members of your family, and all the members of your friends’ families and I want you to ask them to invest in my company. And then I’d like you to report back to me in one hour with a progress PowerPoint presentation. We’ll meet in the closet. I’ve set up a boardroom.
MY WIFE: Stop going in the closet. All my clothes are sticky with these little bits of marshmallow everywhere.
ME: Well, I don’t know where you find the time for all this chitter-chatter. I’m just the CEO around here. I’m not the VP of Funding with all these extra hours for fun and games. Oh well, if you’ll just indulge me, I have a company to run.
And with that I stomped back into the closet, slammed the door and turned on my flashlight.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Real Me TV
Dear Diary,
The following is a conversation I had with my wife on Sunday night.
MY WIFE: You want to make a reality show out of our marriage?
ME: And our home life.
MY WIFE: Who’s going to watch that crap?
ME: I’m going to shop it around to all the big TV networks.
MY WIFE: Nobody knows who we are. We’re not the Osbournes.
ME: Nobody knew Jon & Kate Plus 8.
MY WIFE: They have 8 small children. All you have is a cat.
ME (adding to her last sentence): Who’s rambunctious.
MY WIFE: Nobody’s going to watch a show about a guy who keeps calling in sick at work just so he can play with his cat.
ME: They will if you and I keep having disagreements and throw furniture around.
MY WIFE: I’m not going to be in your stupid show.
ME: You just wait and see. This thing is going to be huge. I’m so happy.
That night, before going to bed, I set up my aunt’s video camera in the kitchen. This camera has a hard drive and can record for many hours on end. Yesterday morning, I turned it on as soon as I woke up. The following is a log of the crazy insane footage I have so far.
7:45am
I walk into the kitchen, rubbing my sleep-puffed eyelids, and wearing a ragged, frayed “wife beater” T-shirt and a very loose fitting pair of tighty-whities (which were my grandfather’s who passed away over twenty years ago. I only recently inherited a minuscule portion of his estate, after a lengthy court battle with friends and relatives. This portion basically consists of just socks and underwear. I don’t want everyone to think that I fought for almost twenty years just for underwear; I just wanted what was rightfully mine – he was my grandfather after all! I don’t really care about the underwear, really… but I digress). My eyes are still only half open as I boil water for tea and then feed the cat, and then steep the tea. All this hectic activity takes about an hour and a half. So far, I haven’t said anything. I start to worry that I might run out of stuff to do and whether my show, in future episodes, might have some lulls in it.
9:15am
I finally sit down at the kitchen table and sip my tea while silently reading the paper to myself. This takes about an hour.
10:11am
While reading the paper, I doze off. The camera keeps recording as I sleep for the next three hours.
12:20pm
I finally awaken with a start. I stand and walk to my cat’s litter box in the corner of the kitchen, and proceed to clean it out - something I haven’t done in almost four months. It smells terrible. I swear out loud (the only word spoken so far). After spilling kitty litter everywhere, I open the door for fresh air and my cat darts out. I scramble out after her. For the next five hours, the camera records the empty, silent kitchen.
5:45pm
Still recording the empty kitchen, the camera’s hard drive runs out of memory and shuts itself off.
I now find myself with all this provocative footage of what it’s like to be me, and what the inside of my head might look like. A sort of “a day in the life of”. The only thing left to do is edit this footage to make my “pilot’ episode, which I’ll show TV execs, just to tantalize them. I haven’t been this excited since I won underwear in court, shouting, “That’s the one thing I won’t let you take from me!” and then being smacked in the face with a (thrown-from-across-the-room) tied up bundle of tighty-whities.
The following is a conversation I had with my wife on Sunday night.
MY WIFE: You want to make a reality show out of our marriage?
ME: And our home life.
MY WIFE: Who’s going to watch that crap?
ME: I’m going to shop it around to all the big TV networks.
MY WIFE: Nobody knows who we are. We’re not the Osbournes.
ME: Nobody knew Jon & Kate Plus 8.
MY WIFE: They have 8 small children. All you have is a cat.
ME (adding to her last sentence): Who’s rambunctious.
MY WIFE: Nobody’s going to watch a show about a guy who keeps calling in sick at work just so he can play with his cat.
ME: They will if you and I keep having disagreements and throw furniture around.
MY WIFE: I’m not going to be in your stupid show.
ME: You just wait and see. This thing is going to be huge. I’m so happy.
That night, before going to bed, I set up my aunt’s video camera in the kitchen. This camera has a hard drive and can record for many hours on end. Yesterday morning, I turned it on as soon as I woke up. The following is a log of the crazy insane footage I have so far.
7:45am
I walk into the kitchen, rubbing my sleep-puffed eyelids, and wearing a ragged, frayed “wife beater” T-shirt and a very loose fitting pair of tighty-whities (which were my grandfather’s who passed away over twenty years ago. I only recently inherited a minuscule portion of his estate, after a lengthy court battle with friends and relatives. This portion basically consists of just socks and underwear. I don’t want everyone to think that I fought for almost twenty years just for underwear; I just wanted what was rightfully mine – he was my grandfather after all! I don’t really care about the underwear, really… but I digress). My eyes are still only half open as I boil water for tea and then feed the cat, and then steep the tea. All this hectic activity takes about an hour and a half. So far, I haven’t said anything. I start to worry that I might run out of stuff to do and whether my show, in future episodes, might have some lulls in it.
9:15am
I finally sit down at the kitchen table and sip my tea while silently reading the paper to myself. This takes about an hour.
10:11am
While reading the paper, I doze off. The camera keeps recording as I sleep for the next three hours.
12:20pm
I finally awaken with a start. I stand and walk to my cat’s litter box in the corner of the kitchen, and proceed to clean it out - something I haven’t done in almost four months. It smells terrible. I swear out loud (the only word spoken so far). After spilling kitty litter everywhere, I open the door for fresh air and my cat darts out. I scramble out after her. For the next five hours, the camera records the empty, silent kitchen.
5:45pm
Still recording the empty kitchen, the camera’s hard drive runs out of memory and shuts itself off.
I now find myself with all this provocative footage of what it’s like to be me, and what the inside of my head might look like. A sort of “a day in the life of”. The only thing left to do is edit this footage to make my “pilot’ episode, which I’ll show TV execs, just to tantalize them. I haven’t been this excited since I won underwear in court, shouting, “That’s the one thing I won’t let you take from me!” and then being smacked in the face with a (thrown-from-across-the-room) tied up bundle of tighty-whities.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Toxic Friends
Dear Diary,
I called in sick at the office yesterday and stayed on my couch at home with three large bags of dill pickle popcorn, a dozen powdered doughnuts and twelve cans of Tab and watched daytime TV all day until my wife came home from work whereupon I slipped out the living room window and then walked in through the front door pretending I was just returning from work.
MY BEAUTIFUL WIFE: Did you go to work in your pyjamas?
ME: The office called with a really important emergency this morning. They told me run right over, and not to even bother changing or going to the washroom or anything.
MY WIFE: All you do is make photocopies there? What kind of emergency could it have been?
ME: Well, the photocopier broke and there was no more paper and the door to the photocopier room was locked and no one has the key anymore and everybody needed copies and I had to make hand drawn facsimiles of everything, and because there was no paper, I had to draw and write on all the cubicle walls and furniture and the back of other people’s hands.
MY WIFE (annoyed): I keep stepping on popcorn.
ME: I must have left the popper on all day.
MY WIFE: Why is my make-up strewn everywhere? Were you playing with it again?
ME: You’re crazy!
MY WIFE: Do you have blush on?
ME: You're making me bashful!
Anyway, during my stay home for the day, I saw a captivating talk show which forced me to stop and think about the people in my life who might be holding me back. The show explained how many of us have individuals in our lives who do nothing but create more problems, like making you do all the work and pay the bills while they call in sick and stay at home, or leaving food lying on your floor, or using your stuff without putting it away and then lying about it.
The talk show host called these people Toxic Friends, and she showed everyone how to just dial them up by phone, in the middle of the day, and to tell them that you can’t be friends anymore. So this morning, from my desk cubicle telephone, I called my friend Randy.
ME: Hi Randy.
RANDY: Eric?
ME: You’re toxic and for a long time now, you’ve been holding me back.
RANDY (unsure of what I was talking about): Okay.
ME: The time you spent with me may have been the best you’ve ever had with a friend, full of laughter, snakes and ladders and ballet-jazz dancing but it’s lights out. You could have had all this for a lot longer but you blew it.
RANDY (still unsure): All right.
ME: I can’t be the Eric you want me to be, holding myself back just so you can feel good about yourself. I’m so much more than you’ll ever be, and I’m sorry if that makes you feel horrible about yourself. Lord knows, if I were you, I’d feel much worse, like a dirty piece of trash blowing around in some alleyway. You’re a brave man walking around as yourself, I’ll give you that. Not too many would do it. You might be the only one.
RANDY: Eric, if this is about the vacuum cleaner you borrowed last summer and never returned, it’s okay if you broke it. We already bought a new one.
ME: I don’t even know what vacuum cleaner you’re talking about, but if it’s the one I sold on e-Bay, I never broke it. We’re done, all right. Don’t try and make me change my mind. We’ll never be friends again so stop bringing up everything I’ve done in the past - to you, to your family or to your family’s friends. I can’t be friends with you, ever again. It won’t change anything if you bring up the fact that I once told you I’d remodel your house for free, knocked down all the walls, including the outer ones, and then stopped work for a month before finally admitting I didn’t know what I was doing but you still needed to pay me for all the time I put in, including all the hours I stressed around my house wondering how I was going to tell you that I completely ruined your home. I only said I’d work on your house because you’re so manly and I wanted you to think that I was really good with tools and bricks and wheelbarrows. I know you’ve never said anything about it, but I know you’re jealous of the Lexis I bought with the money you finally paid me. We’re done. Don’t ever call me here again, unless it’s for business and you want something fixed around your home. So let’s make this clear, I’m giving you up as a friend, not as a client. You pay much too well.
And with that I hung up. I looked down at my list. I had thirty more friends to go.
I called in sick at the office yesterday and stayed on my couch at home with three large bags of dill pickle popcorn, a dozen powdered doughnuts and twelve cans of Tab and watched daytime TV all day until my wife came home from work whereupon I slipped out the living room window and then walked in through the front door pretending I was just returning from work.
MY BEAUTIFUL WIFE: Did you go to work in your pyjamas?
ME: The office called with a really important emergency this morning. They told me run right over, and not to even bother changing or going to the washroom or anything.
MY WIFE: All you do is make photocopies there? What kind of emergency could it have been?
ME: Well, the photocopier broke and there was no more paper and the door to the photocopier room was locked and no one has the key anymore and everybody needed copies and I had to make hand drawn facsimiles of everything, and because there was no paper, I had to draw and write on all the cubicle walls and furniture and the back of other people’s hands.
MY WIFE (annoyed): I keep stepping on popcorn.
ME: I must have left the popper on all day.
MY WIFE: Why is my make-up strewn everywhere? Were you playing with it again?
ME: You’re crazy!
MY WIFE: Do you have blush on?
ME: You're making me bashful!
Anyway, during my stay home for the day, I saw a captivating talk show which forced me to stop and think about the people in my life who might be holding me back. The show explained how many of us have individuals in our lives who do nothing but create more problems, like making you do all the work and pay the bills while they call in sick and stay at home, or leaving food lying on your floor, or using your stuff without putting it away and then lying about it.
The talk show host called these people Toxic Friends, and she showed everyone how to just dial them up by phone, in the middle of the day, and to tell them that you can’t be friends anymore. So this morning, from my desk cubicle telephone, I called my friend Randy.
ME: Hi Randy.
RANDY: Eric?
ME: You’re toxic and for a long time now, you’ve been holding me back.
RANDY (unsure of what I was talking about): Okay.
ME: The time you spent with me may have been the best you’ve ever had with a friend, full of laughter, snakes and ladders and ballet-jazz dancing but it’s lights out. You could have had all this for a lot longer but you blew it.
RANDY (still unsure): All right.
ME: I can’t be the Eric you want me to be, holding myself back just so you can feel good about yourself. I’m so much more than you’ll ever be, and I’m sorry if that makes you feel horrible about yourself. Lord knows, if I were you, I’d feel much worse, like a dirty piece of trash blowing around in some alleyway. You’re a brave man walking around as yourself, I’ll give you that. Not too many would do it. You might be the only one.
RANDY: Eric, if this is about the vacuum cleaner you borrowed last summer and never returned, it’s okay if you broke it. We already bought a new one.
ME: I don’t even know what vacuum cleaner you’re talking about, but if it’s the one I sold on e-Bay, I never broke it. We’re done, all right. Don’t try and make me change my mind. We’ll never be friends again so stop bringing up everything I’ve done in the past - to you, to your family or to your family’s friends. I can’t be friends with you, ever again. It won’t change anything if you bring up the fact that I once told you I’d remodel your house for free, knocked down all the walls, including the outer ones, and then stopped work for a month before finally admitting I didn’t know what I was doing but you still needed to pay me for all the time I put in, including all the hours I stressed around my house wondering how I was going to tell you that I completely ruined your home. I only said I’d work on your house because you’re so manly and I wanted you to think that I was really good with tools and bricks and wheelbarrows. I know you’ve never said anything about it, but I know you’re jealous of the Lexis I bought with the money you finally paid me. We’re done. Don’t ever call me here again, unless it’s for business and you want something fixed around your home. So let’s make this clear, I’m giving you up as a friend, not as a client. You pay much too well.
And with that I hung up. I looked down at my list. I had thirty more friends to go.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
GUYS Night Out for the SEX AND THE CITY movie
Dear Diary,
Last Friday morning, I found out Charisse (from the accounting firm where I work at as a photocopy guy) was having a Girls Night Out party at her house for some of the women in our office where they would be drinking Cosmopolitan Martinis before going to see the movie version of Sex and the City. None of the men in the office were invited except for Don, who is the only openly gay male at our firm.
I was incensed. So what if I’m a straight man? I LOVE Sex and the City. It’s my fave show of ALL time. By 11am, I decided that I would have my own Sex and the City party, and this one would be a Guys Night Out. Heck yeah! Just a night with us guys, maybe barbecuing and having a few brews and some steaks and then going to Sex and the City.
I quickly handed out invitations to all the men in the office (except for Don who kept exclaiming how excited he was about Charisse’s do), but all the guys at the firm replied that they weren’t interested. So I ran out to my gym, where I know there is a lot of men who work out during lunch. I went from shower stall to shower stall (it’s the only place in the gym where the men actually stay put) and handed out my invitations.
My invitation was simple. It read: “You, sir, are cordially invited to A Night of SEX with a Bunch of Guys!” And because Charisse had free Cosmo drinks at her party, I included (on my invitation), “Before the show, I’ll booze you up nice and good. And then the real fun will begin…” I made sure to add in the “…” since it added a certain element of mystery to the soiree.
Back at work, Don immediately approached me.
DON: I just saw the invitation you gave Howard. Can I come to your party instead of Charisse’s?
ME: Don, nothing would make me happier.
DON: After seeing your invite, I just couldn’t turn it down. You know what I mean?
I smiled, nodding my head. I was beating Charisse at her own game.
ME: I know what you mean.
Howard, a sixty-ish, ex-drill army sergeant-turned-accountant eyed me with disdained, as he held my invitation.
HOWARD: Don’t ever come near me again.
ME: Howard, I know only women are supposed to like it but you’d really like it too if you just gave it a chance. I once made my father watch for half an hour and now he’s over at my place all the time, dying to see what Mr. Big will do next. He can’t wait to watch for two and a half hours tonight. Anyway, I’ve got to get online. I’m posting my invitation on Craig’s List to see if anyone else would like to join us.
That night, at 7pm, men who were complete strangers to me began showing up at my apartment. Of all the guys, I only knew Don and my dad. I told everyone to sit in a circle while I stood in the middle, preparing to make my speeches.
ME: Guys, let’s party.
Everyone cheered and hollered and hooted, interrupting my first speech, and some of the guys felt the need to rip off their shirts and fling them at me.
ME: First off, I’m happy to announce that my wife is out for the evening. And what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.
Everyone now jumped to their feet and really starting making noise, applauding, stomping their feet and shouting out. For some reason, Don was now only wearing tiny underwear which barely covered his privates.
ME: And since my wife isn’t home, this might be a real fun opportunity to rifle through her things.
More applause, but this time, not so enthusiastic.
SOME MUSCULAR GUY IN A MESH T-SHIRT: Excuse me.
Everyone simmered down.
MUSCULAR GUY: Does your wife know you’re having this party?
ME: Of course not. I told her my dad and I are singing karaoke duets all night so she left.
MY DAD: We’re actually doing the duets thing tomorrow night.
I smiled over at my dad.
ME: All night long, Daddy. All night long.
MY DAD (briefly swaying and singing): Havin' my baby…
MUSCULAR GUY: If your wife doesn’t know about any of this, you and your father are actually living on the “down low”. Are you aware of that?
ME: I don’t know what it is that you’re talking about, but if you’re asking how low we can go, I’d have to say pretty low.
MUSCULAR GUY: So you’re ashamed of who you really are.
ME: Well, both my dad and I are.
MUSCULAR GUY: Then I don’t want to be a part of this. I’m done with hiding.
The muscular guy moved toward the door.
ME: I love to hide. Half the time, no one knows where I am. I could be in a cupboard somewhere. Who knows? Come find me.
SOME OTHER GUY: I’m outta here. This party’s for poseurs.
ANOTHER GUY: I’m not a poseur.
AND YET ANOTHER GUY: See ya later haters.
And soon everyone was milling out, my party ruined. Don, in his man panties, shook his head as he moved past me.
ME: Get out! Everyone, just get out! See if I care! This will only give me more time with my dad. All night, just me and my dad! You guys are just jealous! Of me and my dad!
Last Friday morning, I found out Charisse (from the accounting firm where I work at as a photocopy guy) was having a Girls Night Out party at her house for some of the women in our office where they would be drinking Cosmopolitan Martinis before going to see the movie version of Sex and the City. None of the men in the office were invited except for Don, who is the only openly gay male at our firm.
I was incensed. So what if I’m a straight man? I LOVE Sex and the City. It’s my fave show of ALL time. By 11am, I decided that I would have my own Sex and the City party, and this one would be a Guys Night Out. Heck yeah! Just a night with us guys, maybe barbecuing and having a few brews and some steaks and then going to Sex and the City.
I quickly handed out invitations to all the men in the office (except for Don who kept exclaiming how excited he was about Charisse’s do), but all the guys at the firm replied that they weren’t interested. So I ran out to my gym, where I know there is a lot of men who work out during lunch. I went from shower stall to shower stall (it’s the only place in the gym where the men actually stay put) and handed out my invitations.
My invitation was simple. It read: “You, sir, are cordially invited to A Night of SEX with a Bunch of Guys!” And because Charisse had free Cosmo drinks at her party, I included (on my invitation), “Before the show, I’ll booze you up nice and good. And then the real fun will begin…” I made sure to add in the “…” since it added a certain element of mystery to the soiree.
Back at work, Don immediately approached me.
DON: I just saw the invitation you gave Howard. Can I come to your party instead of Charisse’s?
ME: Don, nothing would make me happier.
DON: After seeing your invite, I just couldn’t turn it down. You know what I mean?
I smiled, nodding my head. I was beating Charisse at her own game.
ME: I know what you mean.
Howard, a sixty-ish, ex-drill army sergeant-turned-accountant eyed me with disdained, as he held my invitation.
HOWARD: Don’t ever come near me again.
ME: Howard, I know only women are supposed to like it but you’d really like it too if you just gave it a chance. I once made my father watch for half an hour and now he’s over at my place all the time, dying to see what Mr. Big will do next. He can’t wait to watch for two and a half hours tonight. Anyway, I’ve got to get online. I’m posting my invitation on Craig’s List to see if anyone else would like to join us.
That night, at 7pm, men who were complete strangers to me began showing up at my apartment. Of all the guys, I only knew Don and my dad. I told everyone to sit in a circle while I stood in the middle, preparing to make my speeches.
ME: Guys, let’s party.
Everyone cheered and hollered and hooted, interrupting my first speech, and some of the guys felt the need to rip off their shirts and fling them at me.
ME: First off, I’m happy to announce that my wife is out for the evening. And what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.
Everyone now jumped to their feet and really starting making noise, applauding, stomping their feet and shouting out. For some reason, Don was now only wearing tiny underwear which barely covered his privates.
ME: And since my wife isn’t home, this might be a real fun opportunity to rifle through her things.
More applause, but this time, not so enthusiastic.
SOME MUSCULAR GUY IN A MESH T-SHIRT: Excuse me.
Everyone simmered down.
MUSCULAR GUY: Does your wife know you’re having this party?
ME: Of course not. I told her my dad and I are singing karaoke duets all night so she left.
MY DAD: We’re actually doing the duets thing tomorrow night.
I smiled over at my dad.
ME: All night long, Daddy. All night long.
MY DAD (briefly swaying and singing): Havin' my baby…
MUSCULAR GUY: If your wife doesn’t know about any of this, you and your father are actually living on the “down low”. Are you aware of that?
ME: I don’t know what it is that you’re talking about, but if you’re asking how low we can go, I’d have to say pretty low.
MUSCULAR GUY: So you’re ashamed of who you really are.
ME: Well, both my dad and I are.
MUSCULAR GUY: Then I don’t want to be a part of this. I’m done with hiding.
The muscular guy moved toward the door.
ME: I love to hide. Half the time, no one knows where I am. I could be in a cupboard somewhere. Who knows? Come find me.
SOME OTHER GUY: I’m outta here. This party’s for poseurs.
ANOTHER GUY: I’m not a poseur.
AND YET ANOTHER GUY: See ya later haters.
And soon everyone was milling out, my party ruined. Don, in his man panties, shook his head as he moved past me.
ME: Get out! Everyone, just get out! See if I care! This will only give me more time with my dad. All night, just me and my dad! You guys are just jealous! Of me and my dad!
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Office Pot Luck
Dear Diary,
I work for an accounting firm as their photocopy guy. They have a tradition here every late spring: The Office Potluck Lunch. Yesterday morning, we all had to meet in the conference room to discuss the potluck. Sheila, our boss, wanted this to be a quick meeting since we all had a long day of work ahead of us. She announced that Charisse, one of our accountants, would be the coordinator for the lunch, her job being to make certain no two people brought the same item to the potluck. We all had to say what we would be bringing. From my seat, I raised my hand to speak.
SHEILA: Yes, Eric.
ME: I think it’s pretty presumptuous that Charisse take it upon herself to be the coordinator of the potluck. This should be taken to a vote.
Sheila sighed, rolling her eyes.
SHEILA: We don’t have time.
ME: That’s outrageous.
SHEILA: Do you want to be the coordinator?
CHARISSE: I don’t know what the problem is. I’ve always been the coordinator of the potluck, year in and year out. And I’ve done a great job.
ME: Well, I’m new here so I wouldn’t know. You might be terrible for all I know.
SHEILA: Then you be the coordinator, Eric.
ME: I don’t want that stupid job.
SHEILA: All right then, let’s move on.
ME: But I don’t think Charisse is the right person to be potluck coordinator.
CHARISSE: What do you mean?
ME: I just don’t want people making decisions for me, and frankly, I wouldn’t have picked you for this stupid job. I think somebody else should get a chance to throw their hat into the race.
SHEILA: This isn’t a race.
ME: No, it’s a dictatorship.
Sheila looked up at everyone.
SHEILA: Does anyone else want to be the potluck coordinator?
Everyone remained silent, and dead-eyed. Charisse shook her head to herself.
ME: It’s a stupid job. Who the hell would want to be a potluck coordinator? The name even sounds stupid.
CHARISSE: If you don’t want to be part of this potluck, you don’t have to be.
ME: Now I’m getting kicked out of the whole thing? Just because I want to have a little say in your little autocratic luncheon? What are you, the potluck Gestapo?
Howard, a sixty-ish, gruff, ex-army drill sergeant-turned-accountant spoke next.
HOWARD: We’re just trying to figure out who’s bringing what, so shut up.
ME: I don’t care anymore. I wouldn’t want to eat anything any of you would make anyway. I’ll probably find all kinds of hair in it and stuff.
SHEILA: All right, now let’s decide what everyone’s bringing.
CHARISSE: Mary, I really hope you’re bringing zong zi. It’s everyone’s favourite.
Mary has been in our country for two years now. She’s originally from China.
ME (upset): Damnit! I was going to bring zong zi.
CHARISSE: It’s a traditional delicacy from China and Mary is from China.
ME (now really annoyed): It’s just that I make it all the time. When people come to my house, everybody wants zong zi. It’s zong zi this, zong zi that.
CHARISSE: Just bring something else.
ME: What are you bringing? It better not be zong zi.
CHARISSE: This year I’m bringing a traditional dish that my mother used to make when she was a little girl in Jamaica. It’s called steamed callaloo.
ME (annoyed and angry all over again): Ah damn it all! Steamed callaloo was my second choice. Let me bring it since you got to be potluck coordinator. Just let me get something for once.
CHARISSE: You said potluck coordinator was a stupid job.
ME: Well I’m not stupid so why would I want it.
SHEILA: Eric, surely there’s a traditional dish you can make from your own cultural background.
ME: Well… I’m half Irish and I do make a mean beer and whiskey and wine cooler stew but people have to drive back home after work and stuff. You know what, just forget it. I don’t want to be part of this dumb potluck. Nobody will let me bring anything.
CHARISSE: You must know how to make something else.
ME (almost shouting): I ONLY know how to make zong zi and steamed callaloo and everybody wants to copy me so whatever.
SHEILA: Eric, calm down.
I stood then.
ME: I just want to say something. There are people starving all over the world and you people are fighting about who brings what and what brings who. Who cares who makes the callaloo or the zong zi. Let’s not get petty here, folks. Not when there is so much at stake.
HOWARD: Shut your mouth already.
ME: I don’t want to rock the boat here so I’ll bring desert. I only make it for special occasions, usually for more civilized and cultured people than yourselves, mind you. It’s Crazy Sundae Float in a Wheelbarrow. It’s a big sundae float in a wheelbarrow and everybody digs in. So there you have it.
I sat back down then and crossed my arms.
CHARISSE: That’s disgusting. Everybody eats from the same wheelbarrow?
ME: Yeah, and with the same spoon and straw.
I work for an accounting firm as their photocopy guy. They have a tradition here every late spring: The Office Potluck Lunch. Yesterday morning, we all had to meet in the conference room to discuss the potluck. Sheila, our boss, wanted this to be a quick meeting since we all had a long day of work ahead of us. She announced that Charisse, one of our accountants, would be the coordinator for the lunch, her job being to make certain no two people brought the same item to the potluck. We all had to say what we would be bringing. From my seat, I raised my hand to speak.
SHEILA: Yes, Eric.
ME: I think it’s pretty presumptuous that Charisse take it upon herself to be the coordinator of the potluck. This should be taken to a vote.
Sheila sighed, rolling her eyes.
SHEILA: We don’t have time.
ME: That’s outrageous.
SHEILA: Do you want to be the coordinator?
CHARISSE: I don’t know what the problem is. I’ve always been the coordinator of the potluck, year in and year out. And I’ve done a great job.
ME: Well, I’m new here so I wouldn’t know. You might be terrible for all I know.
SHEILA: Then you be the coordinator, Eric.
ME: I don’t want that stupid job.
SHEILA: All right then, let’s move on.
ME: But I don’t think Charisse is the right person to be potluck coordinator.
CHARISSE: What do you mean?
ME: I just don’t want people making decisions for me, and frankly, I wouldn’t have picked you for this stupid job. I think somebody else should get a chance to throw their hat into the race.
SHEILA: This isn’t a race.
ME: No, it’s a dictatorship.
Sheila looked up at everyone.
SHEILA: Does anyone else want to be the potluck coordinator?
Everyone remained silent, and dead-eyed. Charisse shook her head to herself.
ME: It’s a stupid job. Who the hell would want to be a potluck coordinator? The name even sounds stupid.
CHARISSE: If you don’t want to be part of this potluck, you don’t have to be.
ME: Now I’m getting kicked out of the whole thing? Just because I want to have a little say in your little autocratic luncheon? What are you, the potluck Gestapo?
Howard, a sixty-ish, gruff, ex-army drill sergeant-turned-accountant spoke next.
HOWARD: We’re just trying to figure out who’s bringing what, so shut up.
ME: I don’t care anymore. I wouldn’t want to eat anything any of you would make anyway. I’ll probably find all kinds of hair in it and stuff.
SHEILA: All right, now let’s decide what everyone’s bringing.
CHARISSE: Mary, I really hope you’re bringing zong zi. It’s everyone’s favourite.
Mary has been in our country for two years now. She’s originally from China.
ME (upset): Damnit! I was going to bring zong zi.
CHARISSE: It’s a traditional delicacy from China and Mary is from China.
ME (now really annoyed): It’s just that I make it all the time. When people come to my house, everybody wants zong zi. It’s zong zi this, zong zi that.
CHARISSE: Just bring something else.
ME: What are you bringing? It better not be zong zi.
CHARISSE: This year I’m bringing a traditional dish that my mother used to make when she was a little girl in Jamaica. It’s called steamed callaloo.
ME (annoyed and angry all over again): Ah damn it all! Steamed callaloo was my second choice. Let me bring it since you got to be potluck coordinator. Just let me get something for once.
CHARISSE: You said potluck coordinator was a stupid job.
ME: Well I’m not stupid so why would I want it.
SHEILA: Eric, surely there’s a traditional dish you can make from your own cultural background.
ME: Well… I’m half Irish and I do make a mean beer and whiskey and wine cooler stew but people have to drive back home after work and stuff. You know what, just forget it. I don’t want to be part of this dumb potluck. Nobody will let me bring anything.
CHARISSE: You must know how to make something else.
ME (almost shouting): I ONLY know how to make zong zi and steamed callaloo and everybody wants to copy me so whatever.
SHEILA: Eric, calm down.
I stood then.
ME: I just want to say something. There are people starving all over the world and you people are fighting about who brings what and what brings who. Who cares who makes the callaloo or the zong zi. Let’s not get petty here, folks. Not when there is so much at stake.
HOWARD: Shut your mouth already.
ME: I don’t want to rock the boat here so I’ll bring desert. I only make it for special occasions, usually for more civilized and cultured people than yourselves, mind you. It’s Crazy Sundae Float in a Wheelbarrow. It’s a big sundae float in a wheelbarrow and everybody digs in. So there you have it.
I sat back down then and crossed my arms.
CHARISSE: That’s disgusting. Everybody eats from the same wheelbarrow?
ME: Yeah, and with the same spoon and straw.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
The Music Inside Me
Dear Diary,
When I hear a song for the first time and I really like it, I’ll scramble for my computer and buy it immediately. I will then proceed to listen to the song whenever possible, sometimes putting it on repeat for a good hour. I will also sing the song myself, constantly, in the shower, at my desk at work, during dinner, during long meetings, and when people are trying to tell me something important, like revealing something dreadful which occurred in their lives and they’re crying and needing a shoulder and I’m facing them, excitedly singing my new fave song.
I once listened to a song I liked for 9 hours straight, on repeat, before my wife told me to turn that “crap” off and “unlock the bathroom door” and “turn the lights back on” and “get to work, you haven’t been in days” and “is this what you call a marriage? I feel like I’m married to you and that crappy song”.
I will listen to a song I like so much that a day will eventually come when I’ll actually start to dread when it plays on the radio. As it plays, I’ll sometimes ask someone to turn off the radio as I cover my ears with my hands and then I’ll scream bloody murder and bawl my eyes out, screeching that someone “stop my pain!” I will then call every radio station in the city every twenty minutes to request that they NOT play the song as I continue crying into the phone, blathering on and on incoherently until I pass out.
If, when invited to another’s home for dinner or a party, I notice that they own a CD which contains the song, I'll snatch the CD, take it home and shred it in my shredder, then burn the shreddings and take the ashes aboard a chartered helicopter and dump them in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.
Simultaneously, I will launch an Internet smear campaign against the artist or band who perform the song, calling them names and announcing how they are really evil and trying to make our entire planet do their evil bidding through their song. I will also turn up at all the artist’s or band’s live performances, following them across the continent, carrying banners which display hateful messages, and my own video monitor which plays a PowerPoint presentation on how the sound of their song is actually depleting our ozone layer and melting ice in the Artic.
I will usually jump onstage and unplug all their instruments while pleading with the singer to never ever sing again, for the sake of all the other artists in the world who, unlike them, really do matter, really are talented or at least are bearable to listen to. I will do this, night after night, until the artist or band concede and make a decision to leave the music industry altogether while changing their names and physical appearances.
When I hear a song for the first time and I really like it, I’ll scramble for my computer and buy it immediately. I will then proceed to listen to the song whenever possible, sometimes putting it on repeat for a good hour. I will also sing the song myself, constantly, in the shower, at my desk at work, during dinner, during long meetings, and when people are trying to tell me something important, like revealing something dreadful which occurred in their lives and they’re crying and needing a shoulder and I’m facing them, excitedly singing my new fave song.
I once listened to a song I liked for 9 hours straight, on repeat, before my wife told me to turn that “crap” off and “unlock the bathroom door” and “turn the lights back on” and “get to work, you haven’t been in days” and “is this what you call a marriage? I feel like I’m married to you and that crappy song”.
I will listen to a song I like so much that a day will eventually come when I’ll actually start to dread when it plays on the radio. As it plays, I’ll sometimes ask someone to turn off the radio as I cover my ears with my hands and then I’ll scream bloody murder and bawl my eyes out, screeching that someone “stop my pain!” I will then call every radio station in the city every twenty minutes to request that they NOT play the song as I continue crying into the phone, blathering on and on incoherently until I pass out.
If, when invited to another’s home for dinner or a party, I notice that they own a CD which contains the song, I'll snatch the CD, take it home and shred it in my shredder, then burn the shreddings and take the ashes aboard a chartered helicopter and dump them in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.
Simultaneously, I will launch an Internet smear campaign against the artist or band who perform the song, calling them names and announcing how they are really evil and trying to make our entire planet do their evil bidding through their song. I will also turn up at all the artist’s or band’s live performances, following them across the continent, carrying banners which display hateful messages, and my own video monitor which plays a PowerPoint presentation on how the sound of their song is actually depleting our ozone layer and melting ice in the Artic.
I will usually jump onstage and unplug all their instruments while pleading with the singer to never ever sing again, for the sake of all the other artists in the world who, unlike them, really do matter, really are talented or at least are bearable to listen to. I will do this, night after night, until the artist or band concede and make a decision to leave the music industry altogether while changing their names and physical appearances.
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