St Fatrick’s Day

I think we can all relate to having someone try to make us feel back about ourselves, whether it be a backhanded comment or a blatant in-your-face insult. I was not a popular kid growing up. I had a couple close friends and I got along pretty well with most people, but I was definitely not part of the “in” crowd. It’s unbelievable to me that even in a school of only 120 kids, kindergarten to grade 12, cliques still managed to exist. What’s even more unbelievable is that when I make a trip home and run into the so-called popular kids as adults, most of them still think they’re a part of this socially constructed group with made-up prerequisites established between a bunch of mutually self-loathing individuals. As kids, these people deliberately said things to me and about me to make me feel bad about how I looked. It wasn’t constant, but even so, as soon as I was able to pick the classes I could take, I chose not to participate in gym class. Because it didn’t matter how hard I tried, it was never good enough. I was never good enough. I was too slow, too uncoordinated, too nerdy, too unpopular, too whatever. So I chose to remove myself from those 40 minute reminders of all that. I kept a lot of my feelings bottled up, never talking about them, telling myself it didn’t matter, that what they thought and said didn’t matter, while secretly, desperately, wanting to be friends with them. And not even because I thought they were cool or good-looking or funny (because they weren’t), but because I wouldn’t have to feel I didn’t belong and the boys wouldn’t make jokes about never wanting to date me.

I recall the time I wore a pink dress to school. I think it was about grade 2. It was recess and it was by the monkey bars and one of the boys in my class told me I looked pretty. It still makes me smile when I think about it. But moments like that were few and far between. So when I was 13 and visiting some family at the lake and a cute boy from the next town asked me if I would go to a movie with him, I was skeptical and I thought he was setting me up for something. I said no.

God, writing this out, I wish I could travel back in time and tell myself that I was right. That these people and the things they said really don’t matter. That these experiences would be short-lived and in the future, I would have an amazing circle of friends who love me unconditionally and I would find out that men DO want to date me. And they want tosleep with me. Like, A LOT of men want these things. And I get to choose which ones I let into my life and my bed. And on the couch and over the kitchen table and against the truck and in the pool and so on and so forth.

This got a little deeper than I had intended. (Thatswhatshesaid!) But I wanted to set up some background for my thoughts on the events that took place this past St Patrick’s Day. And I feel a little nervous that I just bared a piece of my soul to you.

So, it’s St Patrick’s Day. And I look good. I mean, really good. Both men and women were hitting on me. And I feel good. I head out to my favourite pub, O’hanlon’s, with a couple of my best friends and the beer starts flowing. We are laughing and joking around and dancing and having a great time when a cute young man comes over and starts talking to us. I couldn’t really hear most of the conversation that was happening with him, but I caught snippets of something at the end before he walked away and can see the disgusted looks on the faces of my friends. I asked what he said and it was something like, “Yeah, well I only came over here because my friends dared me to find out how much your combined weight is.” I laaaauuuughed! Because, how ridiculous! Who says shit like that? But I could see that both of my friends were affected by it, and offended, for themselves and for me. I tried to joke it off, but it didn’t work. A short time later, one of my friends and I were upstairs and saw him again. Well, my friend saw him. I didn’t even register that it was the same guy. He wanted to go over and lose it on him, but I said no, I would go.

So I go over to where this guy, kid really, is talking to his friend and our conversation goes something like this:

Me: Hey

D-bag Jones: Hi

Me: What makes you think it’s ok for you to insult me and my friends like you did?

D-bag Jones: Your girfriend made fun of me.

Me: So? You couldn’t handle it like the joke that it was and needed to make a fat joke to insult everyone? What the fuck is wrong with you?

Asshat Martin (friend of D-bag Jones): Hey, you can’t just come over here and start talking to him like that!

Me: *turns to Asshat* Shut up, no one is talking to you, your friend was an asshole and needs to hear why it’s ok not to behave that way. *turns to D-bag* You’re a douche. My friends are beautiful and amazing. You can make any joke you want about me, but fuck you. I am 350 pounds and confident and sexy as fuck and *gets cut off by D-bag*

D-bag Jones: I know! You are! You’re so sexy! You’re hot. You’re the reason I came over, because I wanted to talk to you.

Me: Uh. Well then what the fuck is wrong with you?! Why would you say something that immediately eliminated any chance with me?

D-bag Jones: Because I’m insecure. Your friend made fun of me and my instinct was to be a dick. I’m really sorry. (I studied him for a moment. He seemed sincere.)

Me: You should be sorry. And you should be apologizing to my friends. Be a better person.

I turned around and walked away, never noticing him again.

This incident did not make me feel bad about myself, but it did make me think the next day about how no one should have to put up with shit like that. Why should I have had to spend the last 34 years working so hard at loving and accepting myself and giving zero fucks because cunts like that exist in both child and adulthood? Why should my friends? Why should you?

Maybe a month or so after that, I was out and made some new friends at a club and we ended up at O’hans again. Again, I looked good. Really good. And I didn’t notice some girls noticing me when we walked in. But my new friends did. And after we got a drink, the one told me he told these girls to shut up because of some comment they made about me. I don’t know what it was, but it was in regards to the dress I was wearing, which hugs every soft, delicious curve on my body, and they obviously didn’t think I should be wearing it. At this point in my life, I choose to let it go. It’s not always easy, but I try to remember one thing: It must be hard to look at me and be filled with the very real fear that I could steal your boyfriend with just a wink and a smile.

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Dumbass Roommate: Part 3

Ok, so I give him notice and I tell him that if he wants to keep any of the stuff I’m using, he’s welcome to it. I am moving into a small apartment and need to get of so much stuff, so he’d be doing me a favour by taking it anyways. I do this in a text. No response. The only time he responds to me is when I ask him a direct question. I tell him that he needs to clean his room because the landlord will want to show it to prospective tenants. And I make a point to tell him he should air his bedroom out and make sure it smells ok. Even with the door closed, it had a rather…pungent odour. If I were to tell you it smelled like teenage boy, would you know what I meant? If not, read this:

This fresh, woody fragrance is effervescent with dark, musky notes of body odour, feet, stale beer, and semen. A fragrance of contrasts, it is a unique, aromatic combination.

Imagine testing that out in Sephora. Or getting in a 3-wick at Bath and Body Works. Maybe it could be the latest fragrance from Viktor & Rolph. Spicebomb Junior.

Try not smelling that now. You can’t. Once smelled, it cannot be unsmelled. Even in your imagination.

He did tidy up. The smell was less pronounced once he aired the room out and covered it with some air freshener.

I purge a lot of my stuff, sell a lot, and still I haven’t heard from him about the things I let him use. So I have to ask again. He says no, he won’t be needing to take anything with him. Ok. This kid who moved in with almost nothing besides his clothes a tv doesn’t need any furniture. Sure. I tell him to clean everything up then and take it out of his room so I can try and sell it. He moves the shelves out, but is still using the bed. Which is fine. Until the day comes when I have someone coming to take a couple loads of garbage to the dump. He hasn’t moved the bed out yet so I go into his room to pull the mattress out and put it in the yard. I lift it up off the floor (remember, he put the box spring back in the garage shortly after moving in and had the mattress directly on the floor) and there’s a wet spot. I should have taken a picture of this, but I was so perplexed, i didn’t even think about it. Where did this wet spot come from? It had obviously been there awhile because the sheet on the mattress wasn’t wet. But underneath the mattress was. And when I looked at the bottom of the mattress, there were a bunch of holes in it. 15-20 small holes that I assume had been eaten through by mould. WTF happened? Did he spill a glass of water? Did he spill beer? Did he piss the bed? I don’t know. But it was weird. He obvious spilled something and then didn’t clean it up and just kept sleeping on it. Probably for weeks. The worst part was that the guy I had hauling the garbage away probably wondered wtf was wrong with me after seeing that mattress with the holes. Oh, and I had lent him some bedding when he moved in because he didn’t even come with a blanket. I don’t know what happened to the blankets, but I saw them in the garbage. I guess if they were anything like the mattress, the garbage is exactly where they belong instead of turning me into Regina’s very own Outbreak monkey. 

On the day that I was cleaning the house, he was a big help. Seriously. I wasn’t expecting him to do much more than clean his bedroom, but he spent the whole day cleaning with me. I had talked to the landlord and we were going to wait until the next week to do the walk through because they were really busy and I didn’t mind waiting. So I go to leave and my roommate asks me about the damage deposit. The entire year and a half we lived together, he had zero common sense, knew nothing about living on his own or with other people, but he knew that he had a damage deposit coming back to him. I told him it would probably be the next week. I felt a little bad because it was the long weekend coming up and he could probably use the money since he had no job. But that wasn’t my problem. All the times this kid made me wait for rent money, he could wait an extra week.

When I got my damage deposit back, I texted him and said I would e-transfer it to him. He asked if I could meet him somewhere and give him cash. He was overdrawn on his account and he was trying to move to Winnipeg and could use all the money he could get. Fair enough, we’ve all been there. So I tell him to meet me at the Cornwall downtown at 2pm the next day. That works for him. I get there early, do a bit of shopping and at 155 I text him to tell him I’m by the escalators. 10 minutes later, I text him to ask if he’s in the mall and will be there soon because I have to leave in 10 minutes for work. No response. I hang out for another 15 minutes and then I leave to go to work. At 240, he texts me saying he was helping his grandma with something and waiting out the rain and was on his way. I shouldn’t be surprised that he thought I’d still be waiting around around for him. I told him I’d already left, so he said ok, just transfer the money then. So I did. The next day he texts me and gives me his email address to transfer the deposit to. I say I sent it yesterday to his phone number and ask if he got the text notification about it. He informs me that his phone was cut off so he can only use iChat when he’s on wifi. So I have to cancel the transfer and resend it. And that’s the last contact I’ve had with him. Hopefully he made it to Winnipeg. Obviously all the stories are the funny/weird/gross/dumbass ones, but he is also a nice guy. He was always good about pet sitting when I was away and doing the things I asked him to do, like shovel snow, or clean something up, and he didn’t smoke crack or steal my stufd. So I wish him the best. And now I am living in a small apartment with zero human roommates, life is good, and I am naked all of the time!

Jamaica, 2014

I can’t believe this never got published! My apologies. It’s actually good that I discovered it now because my current sex life is not that exciting. Well, there are some juicy bits about it, but I can’t share them yet. So here’s Jamaica instead! Oh, and if you’d like to read about the pilot I met in Jamaica, that one was written awhile and you can read it here.

I recently went to Jamaica for a wedding. I was a sexual force of nature! Seriously, I don’t know what it was this time, but I was on fire! My confidence grows with every passing year, and the older I get, the more comfortable I get with my sexuality, my body, and giving zero fucks about what other people think. I do what I want. I own the things I do. I do not regret them because I do not use sex to feel loved. During my week in Jamaica, I had various forms of sex in a men’s bathroom stall, an employee hallway, a regular hallway, a suite, and the disco. All of it was hot and primal.

Everytime I stepped outside our suite, my musk was calling to them. After a couple of days, my friend declared, “I might as well be invisible when I’m walking around with you!” At earlier points in my life, I probably would have been uncomfortable with all the attention, but it was certainly not uncomfortable for me to be eye-fucked every time I passed a man last week. Instead, it was a real ego boost.

Some examples of things that were said to me:

“Are you having a good time? Would you like to have a better time?”
“I want to have your lips tattooed on my body” (I asked if I could put them anywhere. The answer was yes)
“I’ll put a baby in you ;)”
After Lindsey told one bartender I was a virgin (stop laughing), he said “I will eat the virgin right out of you!”

My friend also stated, “When a Jamaican man finds you attractive, you know it right away.” I thought about this for a second and replied, “True, but thinking back on how some of the conversations with these men have started, it might not always be them. We definitely instigate some of it. And by “we”, I mean me.” Examples:
We get into a resort “cab” (Our resort was huge so they would drive you around on carts). The driver (Peach) starts going, but doesn’t ask where we’re going.
Me: Where are you taking us?
Peach: Where do you want to go?
Me: Where do you live?
Peach: *Looks back at us, gives me the up and down, smiles* Sure, I’ll take you back to my house!

We’re out for our last supper in Jamaica. I order the fried snapper. It’s a whole fish fried, and it has a face. I ate up to the head. Our server comes to clear our plates.
Server: You know, in Jamaica, the head is the best part.
Me: Well, I do love some good head.
Server: What did you say?!
Me: I’m full.
Server: You girls are trouble!

It’s the wedding reception and our bartender, Nathan, makes a non-alcoholic beverage for the kids and the pregnant woman. It’s pretty good and we all order one. He’s being pretty quiet and respectful. It is a wedding after all.
Other guests: What’s this drink called?
Nathan: It doesn’t have a name.
Me: I’m going to call it the “Juicy Nate”!
Me: I want one with alcohol!
Nathan: Oh, you mean you want the “Bad Boy Nathan!”
Me: hahahaha Yes.
Nathan later made me a paper flower and a new drink which he informed me through a whisper was his “Pimp Juice”. If that was his pimp juice, I don’t know what you’d call what I had in my mouth a few days later!

Speaking of pimp juice, Jamaica taught me that the rumour about pineapple juice is true.

The men in Jamaica are very territorial and get jealous easily. I’ve watched them literally chase each other away from the woman they desire. One of my “boyfriends” worked in the Sportsbar. He was the one who wanted to eat the virgin right out of me. He also invited me to meet his mother and go to church with them and wondered what my parents would think if I brought a black man home to meet them. I said I imagined they’d be ecstatic if I brought anyone home if he promised to get me pregnant. His name was Gregory and he had zero idea about personal space. I was very hot in the sportsbar when you weren’t in front of a fan, but luckily I had Gregory to come around the bar to where I was sitting on my stool and dab at my forehead with a napkin. One of the nights I was in the disco, I was talking to a guy I had never seen before. We chatted for quite awhile at the end of the night, but that was all that happened. The next day, Gregory was super cold to me so I asked him what was up. He was upset because the bartenders talk and he thought I had hooked up with this other guy. I told him it wasn’t any of his business what I did or with who, but that fyi, I did not hook up with this other guy. I kept the other two bartenders from previous nights to myself though. I’m not an idiot. I still wanted a drink waiting for me whenever I walked into the bar. Sadly for Gregory, our love was not meant to be. Maybe in another time, in another life, in another reality where I didn’t nail all his coworkers.

Dumbass Roommate: Part 2

Shortly after my roommate had first moved in, he asked me if I had a pair of nail clippers he could borrow. I gave him a spare pair I had, not the pair I use all the time. He takes it into his room and returns a minute later apologizing because he broke my nail clippers. He was trying to cut his toenails and they broke my nail clippers. They broke them. Right in half. Speaking of toenails, the one day, I woke up and went to have a bath and sink down into the bathtub and something catches my eye. I turn and look and sitting on the shelf by the tub at eye level are the thickest, yellowest pieces of toenail that I’ve ever seen in my life. I started gagging and had to cover them up. When my bath was finished, I used some tissue to gather them up and then sprinkled them in his bed.

There was a night, early on when we lived together when I went out. It was a Friday night and a friend and I had gone for drinks and dancing and I arrived home in the wee hours of Saturday morning and went to bed. The house was quiet. I’m snuggled in my bed, sleeping off the booze when I wake up to my blankets being ripped off my naked body and a female voice telling me she’s cold and to move over. I’m groggy and hungover and start to move over, my immediate thought being that my friend spent the night on the couch and didn’t have enough blankets. Then remembered I came home alone and I don’t know who the fuck is talking to me. I roll over and open my eyes and it’s some girl I’ve never seen before and she’s still telling me she’s cold and to let her in the bed. I say something along the lines of, “What? Who are you? Why are you in my room? Get out!” “But I’m cold.” “I don’t fucking care, get out.” “Just let me get in and warm up for a little bit.” “No! Are you fucking kidding me? Get the fuck out of my room!” “But..” “GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY FUCKING BEDROOM!!!” She finally leaves and I go back to sleep. I wake up a little while later and can hear music and assume she’s watching TV way louder than she needs to be, so I get up, I go out into the house and she’s on the couch and has my roommate’s alarm clock and is passed out with the radio blasting. I turn it off and go back to my room and back to bed. By the time I wake up again, she’s finally gone. The next time I see my roommate, I tell him what happened and he apologizes profusely, he had no idea, and assures me it won’t happen again.

It was always a little weird whenever he had people over. He rarely spent any time in the house that wasn’t in his bedroom. So they would hang out in his bedroom. And he would never answer the door. He would be expecting his friend or brother to come over and he’d be sleeping. I’d be watching TV and then have to answer the door. I wouldn’t have actually answered the door except that our front door was never locked because the door didn’t shut properly. We had a sun porch, so there was a second door that we kept locked (after I had to make it clear to him that yes, we do in fact lock the door to the house when we leave), but anyone could come in the front door and then see through the windows in the door into the house. This meant that when I was sitting on the couch watching TV, it was impossible to ignore the face looking through the window. Believe me, I tried. And whenever I left for a few days, I would always come home to his brother hanging out in the livingroom. Alone. He would be in his room, usually sleeping, and his brother would just be hanging out watching tv, not cleaning up after himself. I didn’t mind him having his brother being over, but even when he knew I would be home, he wouldn’t make sure his brother took off. The one time I left for a few days and came back, I walked in and the house stunk like cooking oil. Like, really stunk. And his brother was on my couch eating homemade fries and bannock. I asked where Jesse was and he said sleeping. The cooking would have been ok, except that shortly after I came home, he left and didn’t clean up after himself. And neither did Jesse. There was oil EVERYWHERE. They had used both of my frying pans for this little adventure and completely ruined one of them. I’m surprised there wasn’t a fire started. All the paper towel was gone (of which I was the only one to ever buy). And there was food left out. I finally ended up cleaning the kitchen because he left and didn’t come home for a couple of days.

The key. Obviously when he moved in, I have him a key to the house. After a couple weeks of realizing he never locked the door, I had to tell him to lock the door. I thought that was common sense, but it was not. I had a spare key in the bbq, just in case. I’ve been known to lose a key or two in my day, so it’s always a good idea for me to have a spare around. My parents came to visit for Agribition in November and I met them at the event. We left to meet my brother for lunch, but we took my parents’ truck and I left my car there. When we got back, parking was a mess, so I dropped my parents off and said I would go home for an hour or two and then meet them later. It’s not until I get home that I realize my house keys were in my car. I go to grab the spare key and it’s gone. I text my roommate and yes, he has it. I’m pissed. This isn’t the first time and I can’t believe I have to explain to this idiot again that the point of the spare key is to be there as a spare. The next day I have another key made and I leave it in the porch and tell him that I’m tired of him losing his key and leaving it places and then taking the spare so I’m leaving one in the porch so it’s as easy as possible for him to put it back. It wasn’t a great hiding place, but it was out of site. Our porch was just used for storage so I put it in a basket with some scarves right beside the door. After a week or so, I had to explain to this kid that even though it wasn’t a great hiding spot, it was better than him leaving it beside the basket instead of covering it with the fucking scarf in the goddamn basket! So he started doing that. I started using that key too instead of carrying my house keys when I went out or when I walked Walter. And then I come home one day and the key is gone. Luckily, I had put a second spare key in a second hiding spot. I asked my roommate about it and he said he had taken it. So I said that was now his key there there was another spare one and do not take it again! Everything is good for months. Until I come home from work one day and the key is gone. Luckily I had my own key with me and could still get in the house. I text my roommate about it and his response is, “Yeah, I thought I’d take it with me today.” My response is, “What the fuck for? It’s the fucking spare key and I use it too. What if I’d just been out for a walk? Put the key back when you get home and don’t fucking take it again!” He apologizes and then tells me he’s trying to get his license to help him get a new job. He has his learner’s, but he needs to practice and would it be ok for him to take my car to practice with one of his friends that has a license. I couldn’t even believe the nerve of this kid. I can’t trust him to leave a fucking key under a scarf and he wants me to let him drive my car?! I gave him a straight up FuckYourMother No.

Once in awhile he would come out of his room and go to the front door and then come back in with a bag of food. I don’t know if it was from his grandma or what it was, but he’d put it in the fridge and it was always leftovers of some sort. Sometimes he would go to the door and then come back with nothing. I always wondered what he was doing, but didn’t think too much of it. And then one night he wasn’t around or maybe was sleeping. Actually, I think he was sleeping and I had to answer the door in my housecoat. There was a girl there who asked if he was home. I said I didn’t know. She handed me $20 and said he had asked her to drop that off for him. It reminded me of the time I found a $20 bill in our mailbox, so I brought it into the house and held onto it for a couple of days, thinking that if it was for Jesse, he would ask me if I’d found money in the mailbox. He didn’t, so I kept it. So, either mystery money, or I stole $20 that was meant for him. Oh well.

During the last 6 months or so of us living together, he had trouble paying his rent on time. As in, he didn’t pay it on time. He had been going to school for a few months and was at the point between school and work and wasn’t getting paid. Except he didn’t tell me this until I asked the day after rent was due where his rent money was. Normally he would e-transfer it on the 1st or sooner. He was pretty consistent with that most of the time we lived together so I thought maybe he just hadn’t realized it was the 1st of the month. Nope. Turns out he knew the date, he just didn’t have any money and didn’t tell me, and he wouldn’t have rent for a week or two. So I asked, well is it a week or is it two? Because one week, not a major problem. Two weeks, we’re starting to have a problem. Guess which it was? I told him in the future, if he’s going to be late, he needs to give me a head’s up before the 1st so that I can budget for it. But to not be late because when he is, I have to cover that. Rent has to be paid. He said ok. The next month comes. I get paid on the last day of the month and have some bills I pay on that day. So I did that, normal routine. 10:30pm he texts me and says he won’t have rent until Friday. It’s Monday night. And I just paid a bunch of bills. He took what I told him the month before as literally as possible.  This continued on for the next 4 months, except he didn’t let me know in advance, ever. And then he got laid off. I had decided to move and was looking at places, but hadn’t given my notice to the landlord yet. I didn’t want to have anyone coming to look at the house and tip him off. Given his past history, he might think it was ok to just ditch out on me. So I gave him the minimum required notice of one month. And that was the time that he was a week early with his rent and did a bunch of house cleaning. I woke up one morning and he had obviously spent part of the night cleaning. When I went to bed, his pile of dishes was still there. When I woke up, the dishes were done and put away, everything was wiped down, and the floors were…well, he had attempted to clean them. The sun was shining in through the kitchen window and at first I thought maybe it was the light that made the floor look weird. The kitchen flooring was black tile and it looked grey. Upon closer inspection, it WAS grey. It had been raining that week and there were Walter paw prints that hadn’t been cleaned yet. I’m not sure what he used to wash the floor. Quite possibly the dishcloth from the sink. And essentially just dampened the dirt that was on the floor and moved it around to evenly cover it, end to end. Good effort.

Stay tuned for the moving out story!