Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Ah, February! That time of the year again when a majority of the human population gets all soppy and brain-dead, because their pituitary gland somehow detects which month it is and decides that it's time to release dangerous levels of oxytocin, which gives them an excuse to turn into complete and utter idiots. Having just emerged from the bomb shelter where I hide every 14th of February to escape the assault of pink and red heart-shaped candies, cakes, balloons, cards, gift-boxes, flowers, and a millions other what-nots, I just want to say-Pardon me, but I am really not in the mood for Chicken Soup for the Lover's Frickin' Soul. I do, however, want to share with you a lovely Valentine's Day story, verbatim, in the words of my dear friend, (let's just call her Sara)--
' So there was this guy I met a couple of times at the grocery store, right, who I used to chat with sometimes, just generally, you know? Can you take a look at the price of those strawberries? The brown bread's not too fresh today, that kind of thing. So anyway, he asks me out, and I say yeah, sure, why not? It's only when I go home and check the date that I realise that we would be going out on Valentine's Day, but then I think, what the hell, it's no biggie. It's definitely better than sitting at home and watching a re-run of Serendipity, isn't it? He asks me to meet him at this fancy-ish restaurant that's pretty expensive, and I'm thinking that he could have come pick me up, right? But I think, what the hell! It's not as if he's my boyfriend or anything. When I get there, I have to wait, because he's half an hour late, and you know how I hate waiting, don't you? I mean, it's okay if a guy has to wait there for a while, right? But a girl waiting for a guy tends to look a little desperate, know what I'm saying? So anyway, he shows up and says "Am I late?", knowing very well that he is, and not seeming the least bit aplogetic about it.
He's been to this place before and all, so he orders for both of us. Don't you hate when that happens? I mean, I appreciate the fact that he's been there before and all would like to order something tried and tested, but still...but it's probably best that he ordered, 'cause there was this time that I went to a Chinese restaurant once and ordered something called 'Jade-something-or-the-other' and it ended up looking like green snot with chicken in it, and probably tasted like it too. I wouldn't know, 'cause one look at it, and I wouldn't have eaten it if you'd paid me a million bucks, I swear!
So anyway, he ordered this stuff that looked like tiny little pieces of toast with some toppings on it, and the next thing that came to the table was this tiny little piece of chicken looking lost in a sea of orange sauce, and a few veggies on the side. I mean, give me a frickin' break! That stuff probably didn't even make it down to my stomach and got lost somewhere along the way. And all the while he kept talking about himself, like he was the best thing to have ever happened to mankind since Post-Its, or the bloody iPhone, you know? I ask him what w'ere ordering next, and he looks at me, all surprised and all, and asks, "Are you still hungry?" in an accusatory tone that you would employ with a greedy witch who has just devoured five plump children for breakfast, and still wants more, but not too accusatory, in case the witch was so hungry that she might decide to eat him next. But I can tell you this, that if I were a witch, I'd rather starve than eat his sorry ass.
"Er, yeah. Aren't you?' I say to him, and he says, "Well, I'm quite full, actually" and rubs his belly to emphasise the point. I'm telling you, seriously, D, that this guy's a really cheap SOB, or then he has the smallest appetite of any living creature. Smaller than a baby bird, which would be just about right, 'cause that would match his brain, wouldn't it? I'm wondering whether now would be a good time to have a PMS-induced bitch-fit right then and there, but I decide against it. So not worth it!
I've had more of him than I can take at this point, and so I excuse myself, saying that I need to go to the restroom, and while I slip out, I say to the captain "Today's a very special day," flashing a diamond ring that I bought myself last year "so why don't you serve everyone here your best wine, compliments of my fiance?" I also flash him a jaw-achingly sweet smile and make my exit, never to return again. Needless to say, the grocery-store guy never called me back.'
That story certainly warmed the cockles of my heart, and made me do a little dance on behalf of all the women who have had to endure jerks, cheap b******s or boors as dates. All I know is that the next time my date turns out to be a doozy, I'm doing a Sara on him.
Monday, February 08, 2010
Tuesday, February 02, 2010
When I step onto the crosstrainer at the gym, I notice that the guy who was on it before me has sweated all over the thing and left a little pool of his sweat for me to deal with. This is a very large man with hairy shoulders, wearing a singlet and shorts, and arm bands and a head band. Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against large hairy men. I also have nothing against sports gear that makes a person look like Richard Simmons gone off the deep end. I have a problem with sweat puddles and guys who consider using a towel an affront to their manly principles.