The Battle of the Sexes (or something like it)

I've always wondered if the battle of the sexes was in fact a battle. It seems rather hysterical to equate human interaction to something as dramatic as a battle. Battles are violent, brutal and just generally horrid. Is that what the male-female interaction can be reduced to? It certainly doesn't feel like that when you're 16 years old and new to the dating game or if you've successfully been indoctrinated by the wondrous rom-coms of Hollywood. In both those cases, you're hopeful, optimistic, and believe more in the beauty of the match-up than the destruction of the twosome. Because at the end of the day the beginning is wonderful, but it's about as wonderful as the end is horrific. It's easy to define the feelings that one has at the start and at the end, but I guess it's the middle that constitutes the battle. Or maybe it's the build up to the start that's the battle, or perhaps even surviving the end. The truth is the more I think about it, the more the entire thing seems like one long, arduous battle. Hmm, it hardly seems worth it.

Take my current situation. It's more of a non-situation situation, but it feels like a battle of wills. My will to survive the emotional onslaught of being in this non-sit., and his will to have me fail in my mission. Sidenote: if I could have any super power it would be the ability to read minds. This is so I can make some sense of the seeming jibberish that comes out of the mouth of males. That would be my weapon of choice in my war against Jay. He, on the other hand, needs no other weapon that his big, fat mouth. He uses words against my sanity like well aimed missiles. I'm assuming his Greek background makes for well designed, highly calculated strategic battle maneuvers. My own background makes for easy domination (I'm from a post-colonial country) and so I feel as if I should surrender. And I believe I finally have. Let Jay say what he wants, insinuate what he wants and fuck with my head however he wants, but I am beyond all that. I have liberated myself from the battle by totally ignoring everything he says. I am beyond. I am so far ahead in this battle that I'm at the end of it, while he wanders around doing stupid battle things completely ignorant of the fact that I am no longer participating. I am so over it (hmmm, is that a song? cause it should be). Makes me want to sing a pop ballad about having overcome. So, the next time he says something designed to make me wonder, question, worry and say things like, "I wonder what he meant by that?" I will instead say, "I am beyond."

(middle of a conversation about what we think when we first meet people)

Jay: "When I first meet people I think about whether I'm going to end up loving them of hating them."

Me: "You've thought about hating me!?"

Jay: "Well, I've also thought about loving you."
Me: [on the inside: What the fuck does he mean by that????]

[on the outside: I make very strange facial expressions to convey my confusion]

NEXT TIME: "Hmm, interesting." [on the inside: I am beyond!]

Yeah, that's right, I am beyond. There may be a battle of the sexes, but I'm no longer involved.

(Sidenote: Did that rhyme? Because that makes for one awesome ending!]

I Wikky-Wookie with pinecones while Asian Wrecking on the cold patios of Irish Pubs (wording/spelling intended)

Words are very special things. They can be used to make sense of a senseless world or they can be used to make a senseless world more senseless(?) See what I did there, I used a bunch of words to explain what words are and probably confused the entire concept of wording (is that a word?)

Alright, the whole point of that was to explain my philosophy in life.....to be alive is to have fun with words. Yeah, ok, so that may not be my entire philosophy in life, but it's up there with "if you eat McDonald's you will feel guilty immediately afterwards (it's the worst moment-after feeling)" and "lying to liars is a necessary means of balancing the universe (think about it...it'll digest very well, definitely better than the McDonalds)". Anyway, what I meant to say was that having fun with words is, well...fun-tastic. It's the most liberated a person can feel outside of marching in the rain burning a bra that won't actually burn (rain+fire=unsatisfying results). So mix your words up, do a word mixer, mixy-maxy your wording, make up sayings as if you're running a marathon in loafers, add a few spelling errors a la "wikky-wookie" (later defined) for words that don't even have a legitimate spelling (revolutionary...I think so).

Hmmm, what is that I hear? You want examples? I would be delighted.

1) Want to break up with your significant other? Feeling like the words already out there are dated and overused? Here, try this:

You: [Douchebag Boyfriend's Name] we need to talk.
Douchebag Boyfriend: Yes.
You: You're gone.....gone like a pinecone on the grass.
Douchebag Boyfriend: Huh? [Confused as always, what an idiot...what did you see in him???]
You: I'm the tree, and you're the pinecone....Bitch, you're done, get on the grass!
[Knee him in the groin, but if not feeling really bitchy simply walk away while contemplating kneeing him in the groin.]

2) Your friend has a pair of shoes on, boots perhaps, but without any socks. You would like to explain what that feeling is when your sockless feet rub inside your shoes. Unfortunately, there is no current word out there to describe such a feeling....except for, maybe, perhaps.... "wikky-wookie".

You: Hey, you're not wearing socks with those shoes?
Friend: No, my boots are lined with fur.
You: But doesn't that give you that....you know, that "wikky-wookie" feeling. [accompanied with wiggling finger movements because visuals are always good aids]

As you can see, life is just one big opportunity to flex your intellectual muscles. Use your intelligence to make crap up and use words as the means in which to make it all happen. It is the one great freedom in life, being able to be a word maker-upper (checkmate!)

The WORLD is shit and I'm not surprised

The WORLD is shit and I'm not surprised. Specifically, George Bush is shit. On the other hand, Stephen Harper is also shit. Okay, generally politicians, politics aka "bullshit", the total democratic, non-democratic (well, except Communism cause I'm re-evaluating) process is shit. TV is shit, especially MTV, BET and VH1. I will watch all these channels, but only so that I can express my hatred more clearly. You can't hate what you don't know, right? Celebrities are shit. Specifically, any celebrity currently in rehab, just out of rehab or that should be in rehab (Winehouse, Lohan, Spears...need I say more?). I would also like to add that anybody making more than $1,000,000 for doing absolute shit is also shit. This includes actors/actresses (untalented as well as talented), musicians (this is why I freely download...liberation people!), sports figures (this means you LeBron James/David Beckham...ugh!), and anybody that somehow, someway managed to sucker the world into giving them a salary they don't deserve (Nicole Ritchie...what do you do?!). Skinny people are shit, and perhaps I don't mean naturally skinny people, but I do mean people who are abnormally skinny. You know those girls who should be a size 8, but somehow exercised/starved to be a size 2....yeah, you, you're absolute shit because a size 8 isn't the end of the world (have a pizza for shits sake...personal recommendation, extra cheese deep dish). Men are shit. Need I say more? I didn't think so. The music you hear when you're put on hold is shit, being elbowed on the subway is shit, listening to rich people bitch is shit, listening to rich people period is shit, and the shittiest thing in the world is that the world is shit and I'm not surprised.

So quirky, so alone, so QuirkyAlone

I am back in my native Canadia (as one very drunk British man put it). Canada is home, it is the land of friendly and open people, the land of good times and especially "aha!" moments. It was on my 3rd night back that I was backhanded by a lightbulb moment courtesy of a good friend.

I was having dinner with A, as I will call her, who is very single, about as much as I am (which is saying something). Over a plate of chicken fingers and fries, A tells me she is now referring to herself as a "QuirkyAlone". Having never heard the term I asked her what it meant to be quirkyalone and she defined it as: "A person who enjoys being single (but is not opposed to being in a relationship) and generally prefers to be alone rather than dating for the sake of being in a couple." She didn't say this verbatim to me, but it was a very English Major explanation (she knows words). Afterwards, as the definition sank in, I looked at her and said, "A, I think I may be a quirkyalone." She nodded her head sagely and said, "Yes, I think you might be one of us." Oh my God, I was a "one of us" now and not in the way I always thought I would be. My hope had always been that I would find the perfect guy and finally be a "one of us" in the couple realm. Finally I would be part of the couple scene, the twosome world, the relationship universe, the land of coupledom. Now that dream was shattered by the knowledge that I very well could be a quirkyalone (ummm, emphasis on the "alone" part).

Needless to say, I wasn't very comfortable with my status being anything with the word "alone" in it. It seemed rather depressing, far more so than being labeled "single" and I thought nothing could be worse than that. So, using the beauty that is technology (aka the Internet) I decided to go on quirkyalone.net and figure out if I really was a quirkyalone. How would I find this out? Well, according to A she took "the"quiz and scored 99 which meant she was very much a quirkyalone. I thought there was no way I would score that high and yet, somehow, someway, I scored 101. Do you know what they (as in the website people) told me? That a score of 101 meant I was VERY quirkyalone. Consolation prize? I may not be romancing a single person, but I am romancing the world. Sounds beautiful right? Not! You can't make me feel better about this with pretty words! 101?! Good God, I beat A!

I scan the website to find out if there was some way to make a score of 101 something of a triumph. Perhaps, being VERY quirkyalone meant something good, maybe it meant that I was going to win a million dollars. However, that was not to be the case (ah, it was a long shot anyway). With continued reading and increased enlightenment, I realized that the quiz was right. I am very quirkyalone. There was no way around it. I was "deeply single", and as the website states, I have "no patience for dating just for the sake of not being alone. I want a miracle. Out of millions, I have to find the one who will understand". I thought to myself, this is me! I want my miracle! I deserve that miracle! It also said that as a quirkyalone I believed it was "better to be untethered and open to possibility: living for the exhilaration of meeting someone new, of not knowing what the night will bring," and that I "seek momentous meetings." It's true, I do seek those moments, I live for those moments. I rarely get them, but boy do I ever look forward to them! Ah, I think for all my fighting I have found out who and what I am. I am part of the small 5% of the world that is single because we hold relationships to a higher standard. I believe that being single is not a death sentence, but being in a relationship for the sake of being in one just might be. I am a quirkyalone, a "one of us" along with Cher, Joan of Arc, Katharine Hepburn, George Clooney and Cleopatra. We are the prolific 5% quirkyalones and I'm okay with that. As it happens, being quirkyalone may not be a death sentence, but it may be a life sentence for a person is a quirkyalone forever. The upside, though, is that "when one quirkyalone finds another, oooh la la. The earth quakes." I'm hoping that earthquaking will be coming from me and one George Clooney. Now that deserves an OOOH LA LA!



QuirkyAlones....UNITE!

Subway Meets, Drunken Greets

The beauty of being drunk is that you're never quite lucid enough to notice how much of a complete douchebag you're being. It's inadvertent ignorance to pretend the night was a success in your mind. Except the truth is that your mind is actually drowning in a pool of bad red wine and beer and is not able to string together more than 2 coherent sentences before it starts going under. Basically, you're a fuckhead and you don't know it. Lucky for me, I'm atrociously sober at all times so I don't worry about being a fuckhead, unless of course I want to be which happens on occasion. However, the problem with being sober is that even though you're in complete control of your own, shall we say retardedness, you're the victim or bystander of other peoples retardedness.

Let's put this into perspective. It's a Friday night, and I'm dressed to get noticed. It's 10 degrees outside and raining (of course, it is London). I'm wearing my leopard print peep-toe wedges because they're hot, not because I'm being practical and trying to actually keep my toes from being frost bitten. The leggings I'm sporting aren't keeping me warm, but make my legs look firm, long, and super sexy in that "she must work out" kind of way. I've put more work into my hair and make-up for this one night than I have every day of the last 3 weeks. I sacrificed comfort for attractiveness and I'm sure we all get the point.....I'm trying to get a pair of hot lips on my lips tonight.

The tube ride to the South London club where we're going to party (me, G, and M) is crowded with Friday night partiers all dressed with the same irrational disregard for the weather. We're all going to get some action, and we're doing our damnedest to look like we deserve it. I stand, looking very cute if I do say so myself, gripping a rail in the train as it makes its way from station to station. It is here where I am confronted with the worst drunken moment ever.

G, who had been steadily drowning her boyfriend sorrows in red wine since 4 pm, decides that talking to complete strangers in a ridiculously crowded train is the best way to express her liberated state as a woman. In enters Spanish tourist with confusion in his eyes. "I like your cap," she says loudly in the kind of slurred tone that is very common on London tubes. Trapped between Poor Spanish Boy and G, I decide, at that very moment, shit is going to hit the fan and I'm fucked. "What? I don't understand," Spanish Boy responds in an accent. Oh shit, he's foreign and can't speak English. Double fucked. Drunk laughing (because it's louder and more shrill than regular laughing) G responds, "You are insanely gorgeous!" Oh and how quickly that went downhill. Poor Spanish Boy laughs, M grimaces, the very crowded train breaks into simultaneous snickering, and I shudder with utter embarrassment. The worst part was that Poor Spanish Boy was not even that attractive. The guys behind me , who were very good looking, looked shocked and turned off by G. Because G was traveling with me, I was painted with the same crazy brush and could do nothing, but fake laugh through the situation. Sadly, we had 4 more stations to go and we had turned into the train debacle of the night. I'm used to drunken idiocy on the night trains in London, but never have I been a part of it. But this night, I was unwittingly co-drunk, co-idiot, and co-unattractive.

The rest of the night consisted of G making golden comments like,

"I really like your duck," flirtatiously to unassuming guy on the train with a duck drawing on his binder.

"Hey, that guy just offered me a pill. Ummm, do I want one?"
"No, G, you don't want one."
"Okay, in that case I'll go tell him I don't want one."

"Hey, so I'm going to go out with those guys over there, on the street...yeah, them, they're kinda hot."
"Ummm, G, they're so not hot."
"Hmmmm, really? Okay....hey guys, yeah you over there, can't go out, you're not hot!"

I was smart enough not to get drunk, but had to deal with the consequences of drunkenness anyway. I was dressed to kill, but my outfit was being overshadowed by G's drunken stumbles and bumbles. My feet were freezing, my hair bobby-pinned within an inch of my life, and my sexy legs quivering under the strain of my high heels. And no, I did not find a pair of lips to do all sorts of fun things with because all the lips in my vicinity, at any given time, were too busy laughing at the antics of my drunk friend.

Here's a lesson, people, do not ruin my night by making me your co-drunk. Limits are your friend, see the limit, love the limit, learn the limit.

Cyberesque Rape

There are rules to internet interactions. Most of them are to protect us from the dangers of cybersex. It is simple, really. You cannot engage in cybersex unless both people in the conversation explicitly consent to the act. Otherwise it's cyberrape. That's right, I said it, and I'm not taking it back. You cannot have me inadvertently helping you get off, because I have a say in the matter. Where is my say, I ask you?

Rules of engagement, people, are not to be messed with because they exist to protect you (and especially me!) from the wily, sneak attack tactics of cybersex frequenters. As a victim I am slightly traumatized, kind of grossed out, and totally indignant at the graphic words spewed at me on MSN by somebody I trusted. I feel dirty, dirty like a poor hair extension hanging perilously from the unwashed scalp of one Britney Spears. Where is my protection, where is the justice, where is the BLOCK command? As I watched like the proverbial deer in the headlights with shock, dismay and, I'll admit, vague fascination (there were words...very bad words used) I could not help wanting to scream "Stop, I have not consented, computer pervert, get that hand where I can see it (or not)!" With my jaw dropping, eyes bugging out, and fingers unmoving (he didn't seem to actually need me to respond) I decided that cyberrape is not cool. I was violated intra-computerly and I did not like it. My response? Get up from my desk, go to my bed, face the wall and fall asleep in the fetal position. I asked myself, before I shuddered to sleep, "My God, does this guy not know there are rules?"

Rule #1: Cybersex was only cool circa 1996 when the Internet exploded and it basically became a haven for dirty, little chat rooms full of pervs waiting to victimize their keyboards with their "sacred seed" fluidy goodness.

Rule #2: If, for you, cybersex is still in (which is sad cause you now have Lavalife which almost guarantees you real life sex) then you have to have written consent from the other person involved to engage in such activity.

Rule #3: You must never, ever, ever underhandedly, slyly, sneakily guide the conversation into cybersex territory only to ambush the poor innocent on the other side of the computer. It is simply not done.

Rule #4: As a cyberrapist, you must never, ever, ever contact the victim of your grossly miscalculated cybersex attack (Don't try it, because I will find your facebook password and make your status _____ is A DIRTY, DIRTY CYBERRAPIST MAN! And don't think I won't, because I will. Don't test me, cybersex boy.)

I am done. I will now return to my therapy session of mint chocolate chip ice cream, trashy gossip magazines, and the sweet, sweet tunes of Michael Jackson.....he assures me I am not alone.

The tiny penis that could

The magical powers of the penis only lead to moments when he can or he can't. This tiny penis could. This is the story of the penis that faced all the odds, with all bets against him and yet managed to get up (in every sense), and come through (this part is murky). The story ends with one of those fabulous "Oh my, did you see that? DID you see that?" moments that are sort of happy, yet dazed because of the surprise ending. Go, little penis go.

The owner is one Chubby Asian Dude. The name itself is one that pretty much describes CAD to a tee. He's Asian, chubby and a dude with a tiny penis that seemed like it couldn't until it was obvious that it could.

M, on a very regular London night meets Chubby Asian Dude at a party. Blah, blah, drinks and dancing, blah, blah, let's skip over to the good part. After quite the night of freakishly long foreplay (in which she discovers he is the best kisser in the world, prelude to the magic? I think so) he pulls out the big guns to move on to the good stuff, but the big guns turn out to be much smaller than expected. The small, short, tiny little pistol he pulls out almost scares her into stopping, but being the trooper that M is she is determined to finish what she started. She's got far more sexual integrity than most women and the alcohol capacity of a 250 pound man (intoxication....always a good thing in these matters).

As it happens, Chubby Asian Dude with tiny penis = Great Sex. The infamy of the tiny penis that could is a story heard almost daily (like a slow moving, yet tantalizing soap opera....Susan Lucci style). It seems that even the unassuming, not very attractive, chubby Asian dude is given the unbelievable chance to prove genetics wrong. He can, and did, get the sex he didn't deserve amidst choruses of "oh my God, how did he do it?". Chubby Asian dude with the tiny penis now gets to shag on a frequent basis (on a she-calls-him basis which is far more impressive than a he-calls-her basis). His tiny penis that could has not only deemed him blog worthy, but has given hope to all small penis-ed men and the women who have to be highly intoxicated to shag them. It's pretty beautiful, isn't it? Makes me want to shed tears (not clothes....okay, maybe clothes), hug chubby Asian dude, and thank him....for hope. Here, here.