My old boss had said that this guy had a tendency to sound like a total chauvinist pig. "He'd spent years in the army," she'd whispered. He comes into the office to pick up the game's payout money. "I guess I don't have to wait out there anymore" -- he usually waits at the counter for us to give him the money -- "I'm not scared. I know you're harmless." "Ever since I had my teeth filed down...?" "Hah. I guess that's it. Well you've got such a cute little pootie I'd thought I'd get a little closer." My colleague looks at me and wrinkles her nose. She had just been telling me how she found his comments off-putting, right before he walked in. I had told her that I was used to it. Of course, this was the first time he'd mentioned anything about my anatomy. So he picks my book up from the table. The title, Big Breasts and Wide Hips. He raises an eyebrow at me. This is a man who likes to call me "Dear" and whose favourite topics of discussion always center around ways of "making the ladies feel good, eh?" So when he sees this book, I know what's coming next. "Hohoho, I love this book!" "Do you mean the story, or the title?" "Why the title, dear! And you know what? I can make it happen for any woman." "What do you mean? Give them bigger breasts and wider hips?" "You betcha." "Tell me." "If you spend two weeks alone with me, you'll soon find out!" "That's nice. You have some kind of miracle pill?" "I'll tell you what it is. It's the massages I give. I've got strong hands. Two weeks." "I wouldn't know about such things. I'm only 18." I don't know why I tell him I'm 18. Maybe to make him feel gross? I doubt it had any effect on him.
I've had HSV-2 for so long, that it now feels more like a nuisance (whenever I break out) than a curse. But I keep smiling, because my lactose-intolerance is a much bigger concern.
Still with me? Super.
Would love to meet someone crush-worthy. Myself? I'm a bit of a dreamer, sometimes a charmer. I love the texture of corduroy and stucco walls. I'm 28, but look much younger -- blessed with good genes, some might say. I'm very easily intimidated by cute boys with glasses -- with dimples and facial hair. I'm socially presentable -- "cute," they call me. I prefer skirts over pants, streetcars over the subway. I take my coffee black, club sandwiches with extra mayo.
I am sure I could last a long time without sex, but a little make out session on a park bench or a front porch would be so very nice, once in a while.
Hugs and kisses. That's as far as I'd like to take it for now.
There really is no better way to start your Monday off than with an ultrasound at 7:45. The transvaginal kind.
Actually got quite a bit done before going into work this morning. Checked my ovaries, got some blood tests done, relaxed with some french toast and coffee, black, at the diner across from St. Michael's Hospital. It's one of my favourite corners for people-watching. From the southeast corner of Victoria and Queen, looking north west, the way the sun hits the windowless back of the Elgin, the sounds of ambulances and cabs, the throng of suits and coveralls and scrubs sharing the sidewalks -- reminds me of a unnamed corner of NYC. I've been thinking about NYC a lot.
My visits to the Toronto Police Services and Chowhound sites have become less frequent. My new obsession? The rants and raves on this site. Wow I'm restless.
"Where was this pic taken again? Harbourfront or Centre Island?" "Centre Island, 1988." "We should go back there and pose." "Sure -- as long as we wear the same outfits." "Cool." "This is such a horrible picture. It looks like I'm wearing a diaper" "Yeh, what's up with those shorts? Are you sure it was 1988? I don't remember having that hair when I was six." "I think so. Remember that pic of me in the Markham Economist that spring, when I'd won the poetry contest at the mall? I had the same bowl-cut mullet, same glasses, same pink and white lanyard for my glasses..." "Yeh, well you'd had that look for quite a while. Maybe as far back as 1986." Sigh.
Thanks for passing this on, Marz. Sunday morning, reading two different rants about scrambled eggs. The first one, just ridiculous. The second one, made me bawl my eyes out. Oh look outside, it's windy and looks like it's raining leaves. How fucking poetic. I never liked my eggs scrambled anyway. Over Medium. Please and thank you.
"Hi, how are you?" This still makes me cringe. The "how-are-you" from a stranger. For a while, I'd answer with "I am fine thank you -- and who are you?" Then I realized it probably didn't sound very professional, so I give my automatic reply "Just super!" but I don't ask how they are -- I just wait for the sales pitch.
"Just super. How can I help you?"
"I would love to come over and lick the panties off of you." "Grody!" I should have said. But I just hung up.
After waiting more than two months to see this specialist, he spends less than ten minutes with me and tells me that I am underweight and overstressed.
"Any chance you might be pregnant?"
WTF?
He recommends that I redo the blood tests and ultrasound, as it has been two months since I last did them and so results may have changed since. He assures me that I won't have to wait as long to see him again for the new results -- "Don't worry, I'll make sure they squeeze you in!"
The receptionist doesn't see any openings until December and when I tell her about Dr. Shah's promise, she just laughs. "Dr. Shah tells that to all of his patients." Silly me. Well, knowing I have a month to wait, I won't be booking that ultrasound anytime soon.
