The Marriage Scam

Many years ago, I was in love. With a perfect boy. He was sweet, he was funny, he was attentive, he asked me to come to Costa Rica with him. I booked our tickets, I was happy, I was overjoyed.... and then I found out he was sleeping with my roommate.

My heart broke into a million tiny pieces. My face puffed up from crying everyday. I couldn't have a conversation without bursting into tears. Friends of mine started hanging out with him and his new girlfriend (my former roommate) because I was no fun, and they were such a blast to hang out with. I wore pajamas everyday, rarely washed my hair, cried into my tub of ice cream every night and had anxiety attacks over whether I should stay up and watch Letterman or go to sleep.

My mother, in her infinite wisdom, suggested I take my ticket to Costa Rica and trade it in for a ticket to London where I have lots of friends. Unable to make any sound decisions on my own at this point, I decided I would do just that. My ticket to London cost much more than the ticket to Costa Rica, so most of my savings went to paying the difference. But it didn't matter, I just had to escape. I couldn't be in the same city as that wretched happy couple and all of my back-stabbing fair-weather friends.

So off I went to England, with my shiny new ticket and probably about $800 Canadian dollars, which in my insanity I thought would be more than enough to last me 8 months. That's right, you heard me. 8 months! Yeah, I had free places to stay, but this is England we're talking about, not Thailand, and although it was about 12 or 13 years ago, even the most thrifty person can't make $800 Canadian last 8 months in England. Hell, most people would be lucky to last a week on that much.

My friend R and I decided to travel around together. Between the two of us, we barely had a cent, so we began sneaking onto trains and buses and crashing on couches until we got tired. R had a guitar and I can sing (well, I can kind of sing) so we began busking everywhere we went.

We did pretty well, and most days we'd manage to score about thirty odd pounds which would get us through until the next day.

But then I had an idea. An idea so fabulous that I know I'm going to regret sharing it, but you people have been good to me, so I'll reciprocate. This is like your grandmother's secret lemon cake recipe that she never shares with anyone, or like the secret to your mother-in-law's perfect lasagne, so I want you all to appreciate the value of the information I am about to pass on.

I call it The Marriage Scam.

R and I would busk until we had made enough to eat a nice meal in a decent restaurant. We would tidy up first though, because you can't pull a good scam unless you look the part, so we'd scrub our faces and clean the dirt out from under our nails and put on the cleanest clothes in our packs and then we'd go to dinner. Always a new place. Never the same place twice.

Then we would order our meals. Usually a salad to start. He would hold my hand on the table and I would smile at him like he was dipped in chocolate and diamonds. You know, like JLo does when she's trying to play the cute young ingenue type in any one of her many forgettable romantic comedies. Then I would leave and head for the washroom (the loo in England, for you international types). R would then flag down the waiter and hand him a ring (an old ring my grandmother gave me) and tell the guy he was going to propose to me. Then he would arrange to have the waiter hide the ring in my salad or on the plate somewhere.

Well, word carries fast in most restaurants, and generally by the time I got back to my seat, most places were buzzing with the news of R's imminent proposal. People at the next table would whisper and try not to be too obvious about staring. Kitchen staffs would gather at the swinging doors and peek out at us. And I would pretend to be oblivious to this happening all around me.

So, I would take a bite of the salad...sometimes two or three just to torture the crowd a little. And then lo and behold! I would "discover" the ring. Everyone loves a proposal, and I, the heart-broken cynic and theatre school drop-out, would milk it for all it was worth. I deserve an Oscar for some of the crying I did on these nights. And then R would get down on his knee, night after night, and say to me:

"Katie, the first time I met you I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. " Then, every night, he would go "off-script" and say something totally ridiculous designed to crack me up, like, "when I broke my leg in Nepal and you carried me down that mountain, I knew I couldn't survive without you in my life. You carried my body, now please, allow me to carry your heart forever. Would you make me the happiest man in the world and be my wife?" He should really be working for Hallmark, I'm not kidding.

And the best part about this whole thing is that women who've just been proposed to are nervous and crazy, so if I was feeling anxious about whether we'd pull the whole thing off, my shaking and laughing and crying only made it seem more convincing.

So I would stammer and cry, and try to get a reply out until someone in the room would say, "answer him!"

And I would shout yes! Oh yes R! I want to marry you! I love you so much! And the room would erupt and people would laugh and cry and clap their hands, and everyone around us would be so happy!

Every. Single. Night.

And, every single night, the restaurant would promo something--a bottle of wine, sometimes even champagne, a lovely dessert, and once or twice, our whole meal. And people at surrounding tables would send us drinks and start talking to us and asking how we met, and every single night we'd invent some crazy bullshit story and the room would be alive with happy people, celebrating the sweet young Canadian couple and their lovely romance, and they would order drink after drink after drink until most restaurant managers were in the back having orgasms over their liquor sales that evening.

And R and I would stagger out, holding hands and addresses of lovely people who insisted we come and stay with them while we were in England, our stomachs full, our livers hurting and our heads spinning.

Every. Single. Night.

Night guys--see you in a few days!

Alright, I admit it...I am having blogger's block.

That's not a gastrointestinal disorder, by the way...I have just had nothing to write about lately. Well, that's not entirely true. I've had lots of things buzzing around my brain, but now so many people I deal with everyday read this thing once in a while that it becomes really hard to bitch about them or talk about the stupid things they did. But trust me, there are some stupid things happening all around me, and one day when you all least expect it, I'll write the tell-all.

Anyways, it's been a stressful couple of weeks for me recently, and I'm heading to Vancouver to see a friend and decompress. I'm hoping some really weird shit happens enroute for me to write about...preferably something not involving mimes or patchouli. I get back on the weekend and I've decided to screw the whole camping thing and go to Ted Leo, who I really want to see. Besides, it's raining here, and camping? Not so much fun in the rain.

In the meantime, here are some things that I've been thinking of talking to you guys about:

1) My hair. This sounds like a boring topic, but trust me it's not. So get ready for this, because oh man, the stories I will share about the hair....wait for it!

2) The day I drove to some horrible town in the middle of nowhere B.C. and decided I would introduce myself to everyone I met as Lola and speak with a really bad French accent all day.

3) This weird guy I saw who was yelling into his phone on the street. He was screaming, "She has to wear the bikini or the deal's off! Fuck that! She said ten thousand and I won't pay a penny more!" As I got close to him I noticed he wasn't actually yelling into a cell phone, he was yelling into his hand. His empty hand.

So, get excited. There's some stories coming your way!

Cancelled plans last night, wish I had some tonight.

Yesterday I would have rather had my legs sawed off without anesthesia than go out on a first date. I would have rather poked my eyes out with flaming Q-tips than go on a first date. I would have rather eaten a pound of raw hamburger than go out on a first date...you get the idea.

Tonight? I am so bored. Still not into the whole first date thing, but that has more to do with who the date was supposed to be with than anything else. I want to go see a movie. I want to talk with someone interesting. I want to take my shoes off and run around on the beach at night. No one I know is around to hang out with and I could use a little positive energy.

Last night, having a couple of glasses of wine and renting a video seemed like a wonderful relaxing choice. Tonight it feels like this might be the rest of my life.

Why Hilary? WHY?

You're a pretty girl. You had a lovely smile. What on earth possessed you to do this to your mouth?! It looks like you had a head-on collision with a box of Chicklets!

Who did this to you? I want names. God almighty, girl, what's next? Scientology?!

I have one word for you.

Lawsuit.

Oh hang on...is that one word or two? Maybe it's a hyphenated word.

At any rate, call your lawyer now. Someone should pay for this.

Embarrassing shit that my kid has said loudly on public transit to the amusement of our fellow passengers

• (while pointing) "Is that a man or a lady, mom?"
• (again with the pointing) "Funny hair! Funnnnnneeeeeeee haaaaaaair!"
• "That man smells like granny."
• "How does a baby get in a mommy's tummy?" (I actually answered this question right there. There was a bunch of drunk college kids eavesdropping and I figured they might find some of the information useful in a couple of hours)
• "Mom, if you have a baby, then you will have two kids with two different dads. And if you have another baby then you will have three kids with three..." (Me: "that's enough now.")
• "Mom, you should shave your legs soon. They look gross."
• (To an elderly woman who smiled at him) "Stop looking at me! Stop looking at me! STOOOOOOOOOOP IT!"
• "My mom is 35! How old is your mom?"
• "I want a little brother, but if you won't give me one, then I want a dog."

A warning to computer geeks with low IQs.

If you have been staring at a computer all day and all evening until your eyes feel sore, and if you decide to go put Visine drops in your eyes, please, please, make sure you do so in a well-lit room. Or you might find yourself with the new KY Warming Liquid Lubricant burning holes in your retinas. Just sayin.

Is it possible to be fascinating all the time?

I don't think so. I mean, you know, unless you're Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes or Angelina Jolie or something. I've been trying to figure out what to write here recently, and haven't had much luck coming up with anything interesting. Part of that is probably because a lot of people I know have discovered the blog, and that's preventing me from saying much about what's going on in my life. Part of it is that I'm just kind of wiped out.

But anyways, here is an update/explanation for why I haven't been a posting monster this week. I'm heading back to school, full-time. I'm also keeping my job, almost full-time. And of course, the reason I do all this is to make a better life for my kid and me, and he takes up a lot of my time as well. And man, I am worried about keeping up. One false move and I am certain I will collapse from exhaustion, or have a nervous breakdown or something. I have 8 months left and then I can join the human race again. Until then though, I won't have any kind of time or any kind of money for any kind of social life. Which sucks, because that's usually where I get my best material.

Fret not though, fellow bloggers. I'll probably need to vent a lot, and I'm funnier when I'm pissed off, I think. I expect I'll probably be pissed off a lot more in the next few months.

Of course, before I sell my soul to the university and the man, I am getting one last weekend of freedom away from this dull little city. And you can bet I'm going to enjoy it as much as I can.

P.S. The "Tell this couple's prom night story" challenge is still on! Enter! I dare you, mofos!

Why, WHY, when I actually have plans, does every other cool opportunity pop up?

Ok, Crazy Polish Kate and I have planned another trip to the beautiful island of Cortes, but this time figuring out when to go was a nightmare, because we're meeting our former neighbour who lives in Vancouver, and trying to balance all our schedules and decide on a meeting place took a lot of work. We're taking the kids too, but we're considering inviting our teen neighbour and her friend along as babysitters so the moms can go out and tear up the tiny town. We finally decided, after much debate, on an upcoming weekend and all was well again.

BUT BUT BUT!

I'm walking past a telephone pole covered in posters today, and suddenly I see the words "Ted Leo and the Pharmacists with Ghost at ______on______":the exact same weekend we're not going to be in town!!!!

Ted Leo! Ted Leo!

Of all the weekends, why must it be this particular one?

The world is sometimes so totally unfair.

3 more things I cannot abide

1) Cutesy expressions: like "anyhoo." WHAT IS THAT?! For example, "So, anyhoo, we'll all be at the barn dance with Marge later if you don't see us at karaoke night!" Or, "Anyhoo, my mom bought me the cutest pink sweatshirt with a fluffy white kitten on it." I don't understand this at all, but it's even worse when I hear a man say "anyhoo." See my reaction to short robes below in the previous post, and you'll understand what this does to me.

2)Fashion from hell: Ok, we've all made fashion mistakes. I know I have. Once in the 80's I actually went out in public wearing a neon pink beret, a baby pink angora sweater dress, neon pink fingerless gloves (!!!!) and white keds with neon pink socks peeking out. I must have been on drugs. I was walking down the street and a bunch of guys in a truck drove by screaming, "turn it DOWN!!!" So much for expression. So, yes, humiliating, but I learned my lesson.

3)Email chain letters: You know the kind--"if you send this email to five people in five minutes you will have love and laughter in your life forever. If you delete this, a strange person will rip all your pubic hair out from the roots!" Well I'm not worried. I've already had all the pubic hair ripped out from the roots once, and I PAID someone to do it! So don't threaten me with weird horrid fates because I don't want to pass on your sentimental crap...I'm tough.

P.S. I know Marky Mark in his Calvin Kleins has very little to do with any of this post, but I cannot abide a day without seeing a picture of my future husband (back off Melly!) in his tighty-whities.

5 Things that I cannot abide

1) Guys in short robes: You know, the terry-cloth ones that hit mid thigh? I was once dating a fabulous man--wonderful in every way. He was funny, smart, interesting, not bad looking, shared many of my interests and loved to travel. We hit it off and I heard wedding bells in my future. Then I saw him wearing a short robe. And it was never the same after that. It was like feeling my ovaries dry up in less than sixty seconds.

2)Ass-crack revealing jeans: Do I even need to explain this one? Have you ever looked at a girl in ass-crack-revealing jeans and said to yourself, "Wow, she looks like a class act!" No? Didn't think so.


3)Cheesy music: Any song by Jefferson Starship or the Eagles makes me want to thrust sharp objects directly into my eardrums. Also, I really, really hate the songs "What a Wonderful World" (Yes, even the Louis version) and "Unchained Melody." I know, people love those songs. A lot of people also like Celine Dion, so a lot of people don't always display great taste.


4)Yippee moms: Take a hippy, give her a whole lot of money, a bearded Jesus-look-alike husband and a doula and watch her spend the rest of her miserable life attempting to make other mothers feel like shit for not breast-feeding until their kids are 5. She always sounds so peaceful, like she just had the most transcendental spiritual experience, and that makes you feel like a frantic unhinged, selfish, superficial, consumeristic moron when you're around her. My advice--skip the date you have with her to drink organic chai tea and discuss diaper-free parenting, and go get a greasy burger and a stiff drink with someone whose company you actually enjoy.


5)Friends who aspire to be Pablo Neruda: People who write really bad emotional poetry and then beg their friends to read it. This is not right. It is just not right.

Spam me and you're asking for trouble

I'm not kidding. I am overjoyed to see that there are people out here who are actually reading my stuff, and who might even enjoy it a little. It makes me think that one day, when I decide to grow up, maybe I could be a REAL writer. So, you can imagine how depressing it is when I come across a comment that says, "Wonderful blog, nice job," and I begin to get jolt of happiness, and then I scroll down a little further and see that the commenter has also written, "I sell adult diapers, check out my site--it's KOOL!"

So, to all future readers who feel the desire to try and sell me something, I am not interested, unless you honestly have bottled the secret to eternal youth. And I'm feeling lazy at the moment, but this is a warning: spam my blog with your crap product, and I will INVENT an equally useless product and I will spam you right back. And I will spam your friends. And I will spam your family members. And yes, if your dog or cat has its own website (and I'm sure it does) I will spam that too.

I don't make idle threats. I have a dull job, a great imagination, a serious evil streak, and lots of time on my hands.

You've been warned.

10 bad things about being a single mom

I have a wonderful online friend who has expressed a desire to maybe possibly have a baby one day. It's just an urge right now--she hasn't done anything about it (not since we last chatted anyways), but she jokingly asked her online friends today to talk her out of her current baby craze. We're not sure she wants to be talked out of it, of course, and between you (the 1 or 100 people who may or not read this) and me, I think she'd be an incredible mom.

So, although I absolutely love my kid (99% of the time) I thought I'd help her out.

Here ya go!

10 Bad things about being a single mom

1) It's 8:30 at night. You look in the fridge and realize there is NOTHING to eat...baby is sleeping (probably for the first time in hours, which is why there is no food in the house, because you are completely exhausted). You can't go out to to store without waking the baby (oh dear God, no) so you eat crackers.

2) Friends invite you over. They insist you bring the baby, because they want you to feel comfortable and realize your social life isn't going to change (ha!). Baby freaks out the whole time (or worse, toddler freaks out the whole time) and you don't know if you should stay and deal with it or leave. You, who have always felt comfortable with these close friends, suddenly feel self-conscious about how you're handling this. You, the capable woman who has always had a ton of self-confidence, are now a mom. Plus, your breasts are leaking and you cry all the time and you feel fat.

3) Everyone you know loves babies and tells you they will babysit for you anytime you need them. Until you actually get up the nerve to call and ask them.

4) You are tired ALL THE TIME, and you cry more than you ever have in your life, and you wish you had a partner who could give you a fucking break or just hug you or rub your back because sometimes you hate this kid with every fibre of your being, and you hate yourself for hating this adorable little crying pink puff-ball who seems to be out to get you and you look at it and it's all red and puffy from crying for who knows what (you've tried everything) and you just want someone to hug you and tell you it'll be ok, you're a good mom, and maybe it would be nice if the person hugging you had sex with you later.

5) Except you don't want to have sex. But you do. But you really don't.

6) Your stomach is poochy and wrinkly.

7) Babies spit stuff on you and then they laugh at you.

8) You're at a cafe, because for the first time in months, a friend has given you a break. You are totally freaked out about leaving the baby with someone but you know rationally that the baby will survive. Still, your breasts aren't listening so you have to wear three disposable pads on each side and you still have leakage coming through your shirt. You are flirting with someone and he/she seems interested and then somehow the baby comes up in conversation and suddenly he/she finds a reason to disappear. Instantly.

9) You might be forced to hang out with people you don't like at all because you have children the same age, and they want to talk about Baby Gap and nutrition all the time.

10) You begin to feel like your mother.

But of course, there IS that nice baby head smell, and the giggling, and the way they cling to you and nuzzle up like Koala bears and all that other stuff to think about too. =)

Oh now hold on here

I was walking down the street today, feeling a little down, feeling a little tired, stressed out, broke, confused about my future, etc.

And I thought to myself, "this is not what I'm supposed to be! I'm 35! This is not what I thought I would be when I was 7."

It's sad, you know? I would have been a kick-ass ballet-dancing-crime-fighting writer/lawyer.

Return of the Scary Mime

So, I'm walking down the street after work, and out of the corner of my eye, guess who I see? (Yeah, yeah, I know, it's in the title, I'm a genius)....but humour me....give me a drum roll or something, will ya?......

That's right! It was the scary psychotic stalking mime!

Surely this could not be a coincidence?

And he followed me again, I swear to God. He spared me all his mime manoeuvers this time though--it was hot outside--maybe he'd had a long hard day of MIMING. But a couple of times I hastily glanced at him over my shoulder, checking to see if he was still there, and yes, he was STILL THERE, grinning at me like the Joker or something.

Did I do something evil to a mime in a past life? What did I do to deserve this guy? I'd ask him what his problem is, but he'd probably mime the answer.

WARNING!

Ok, to the 2 or 3 people who I don't know who are actually kind enough to read my blog, wow--thank you so much for reading--the next few posts will be new to you. To the rest of my wonderful friends who I've been bullying for months to read my stuff, well, I'm really sorry, but you've probably already read the next three entries (or at least pretended to) back when I only blogged at myspace. But man, I really get creeped out on myspace. I like this place. I want my stuff here. So, it's yet another moving day. A rearranging day. And I'm kind of bored. So there you go!

Lavalife limitations

OK, yeah, so I have a profile up at Lavalife--what's it to you? Just putting out some feelers, ok?

And, you know, there seem to be a lot of nice, gainfully employed, really desperate available men out there, which should make a girl happy, right?

But here's my problem, and it might seem silly to you....I just cannot bring myself to date a guy, no matter how great he might be, whose profile says, "I'm spontanieus, and i want a girl who likes adventiure."

If this is wrong, I don't ever want to be right.

Cuddle Parties--what fresh hell?

That's it. I give up. I am officially dropping out of the twenty-first century. I don't belong here. I've suspected this for some time, but it became crystal clear to me today when I was flipping through a Marie Claire, and tucked in between an informative article called "Prostitution Gives Me Power" and and a fascinating piece about Angelina Jolie's love of tattoos and international adoption was a story about the latest hot trend in New York:The Cuddle Party
"What is a cuddle party?" you might be wondering. Well, if you haven't read about it in Marie Claire, The New York Daily News or The Free Republic yet, chances are you're as clueless as I was. According to Marie Claire, "Cuddle Parties are touted as the new way to explore nonsexual intimacy. Adults rarely touch without it being eroticized--here by exchanging simple hugs, we experience a more innocent kind of contact."

I'm sorry, give me a second, I need to wipe up the coffee that I just sprayed all over my monitor.

OK, yeah, I know, it's nice to be hugged. We miss it when we're single and it's not always comfortable asking our pals to give us long full body contact bear hugs. For me the absence of good hugs is the most difficult thing about not being in a relationship. Perhaps, in my twenties, when I was giving it up to anyone who bought me a drink just so I could get a good hug once in a while, this might have been a helpful service...I can see why this might seem appealing at first. But let's get real. We're talking about lying on smelly sweaty yoga mats with a bunch of strangers in pajamas. We're talking about lying in very close proximity with people we might not talk to if they approached us in a bar. We're talking about getting "nonsexual" backrubs from people who might think patchouli oil smells good! We're talking about my worst nightmare.

Hugs from people of the opposite sex (and occasionally the same sex) have two effects on me. They either make me feel vaguely uncomfortable, or they turn me on. Oh, I don't need to jump into bed with anyone who gives me a good hug, but to me, a really good non-familial hug can't possibly be nonsexual.

Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm just narrow-minded. I guess you'll have to decide for yourselves. Go ahead, read the cuddlemonials (I am shitting you not). I'll be over here in my time machine, with my arms wrapped tightly around myself, rocking back and forth.

Friends and nails

Crazy Polish Kate called me the other day and asked me if I had any polish remover. But she pronounced it PO-LISH, not PAW-LISH. So of course (and admit it, you know every single one of you would probably have done the same if you had a wacky Polish friend who was always walking into your house uninvited like some kind of sitcom neighbour) I could not resist saying the obvious:

"Kate, if I had Polish remover, don't you think I would have sprayed it on you years ago?"

Badap bam.

(I'll be standing by for your hate mail)