Dante is making a funny noise.

At first it was amusing like an added scratch to my excessively loud sound system. Now its just annoying. Pops read me the riot act this morning, about taking it in for repairs.

I dread taking my car in for repairs.

Not only for the fact that it usually costs me hundreds of my hard earned dollars, but also for the fact that I always leave with the feeling that I am getting ripped off big time.
Its like they see a little girl, and say ‘Wohoo, let’s see what we can sell her today.’ And for the most part their manipulation is warranted. I know nothing about cars. Except that I like to drive shinny two door ones in pretty colors.

Another reason I need a boyfriend. Or more Gumption.

Ps: That's me in front of Dante, poser that I am.

It’s three twenty six in the morning, and he calls, and flippantly asks, 'What you doing?' 'I’m in the zone,' I complain. It’s a lie. I just got home, and have spent the last ten minutes thinking of him.

Come over,

No way, I ain’t your booty call.

Come over
No way.

Either you come here or I’m coming there.

Ok, come here then.

You know I can’t come there.

I know.

So come here.

No way.

Yes way, I just want to talk.

Listen mister If I am coming there, the last thing I want to do is talk to you. And I don’t want to come there right now.

Yes you do.

Ok, so maybe I do, but I’m not coming.

Yes you are…

I’m not coming, we are over, your over, this is over.

So he gets quiet like a mouse and says ok.

And I say bye.

And then I lay in bed for two minutes, and drive myself over.

And its good, way better than it ever was. It’s so good.

Almost worth the drive to Acton.

A fellow gets on the subway today with a medium sized bag.

He opens it up and fishes out a folding chair. He then makes room amongst the packed car for his chair.

He proceeds to sit down comfortably, open up his bag and grabs a sandwich and coffee.

Bringing a folding chair on the subway with you; brilliant.

But what happens with an elderly person gets on, are you obliged to offer her your folding chair?

A tale of two brothers

Friday night, S got an invite to a reggae party at some random club downtown. Having nothing better to do, we decided to check it out. We get to the club, and the front of it is snazzy. They have a little red carpet thing going on, with two bouncers dressed in suits. We mention that we are there for the reggae fete and are immediately ushered to the side of the club. There we are met by a friendly girl, who hands us little coupons and tells us that the party is downstairs. So we descend into what can only be described as a basement jam. It’s a small place, with a ceiling decorated in white linen that looks a lot like a basement decorated with toilet paper by a seventeen year old whose parents are away for the weekend. The music is great, so we decide to stay a bit.

And then I spotted goddess boy.

I’ve noticed a trend in my dating patterns. I attract in twos; and usually within the same family. I am a ‘brother’ magnet. This observation was confirmed this Friday when I met Goddess Boy in the basement. Goddess boy is with his brother and three other very good looking boys. S begins to pat me on my back, muttering something about me ‘finally making a contribution’ to our lives. We lime with them, and the brother is all over me. Anyhoo after watching his brother promise to lick me from head to toe, in ways I would appreciate for a life time (his words verbatim,) goddess boy suddenly decides to sprint into action. The things it takes to get a good looking boy’s attention.

Now I’m a little weirded out, I mean the brother was obviously digging me, why would goddess boy only move into action now, after all these years??

I spent the rest of the weekend have delicious fantasies of the two; mostly against my will; mostly. The brother is more of my traditional type: aggressive, too good looking for his own good and a charmer. Goddess boy is hot, in the sizzling reserved way, and his ability to not hit on me for the past couple of years is mind bogglingly hot.

Choices, Choices….

Today is one of those crappy days:

~The kind of crappy day where a fifteen year old dies for no reason
~The kind of day when no one comes forward to be honorable and truthful, despite the shooting taking place in a public high school, during the day
~The kind of day where all talk shows are being bombarded with calls for metal detectors at school
~The kind of day when you learn that ‘lock downs’ are a common occurrence in Toronto Schools
~The kind of day when Toronto makes the international news not for being the beautiful multicultural city that it is, but for a violent deadly crime
~The kind of day when you hold the young male in your life closer because you know that fate has a funny kind of humor
~The kind of day you lament the life this kid is never going to lead, the girls he is never going to have, the love he is never going to feel, the graduation he is never going to attend, the family he is never going to make
~The kind of day your heart bleeds for his family, who are probably sitting down in shock replaying the last things they said to him, regretting the time they took for granted
~The kind of day when you begin to wonder if we have created a generation of cowards, who film the people in their school getting beaten up and cheer as the event proceeds
~The kind of day where its hot and beautiful, the first actual day of summer, but its majesty is lost in a tragedy

Divorce child syndrome

My new job consists of me supporting two separate and distinct groups. At first this was exciting. Now I’ve realized that I am suffering from the divorced child syndrome (DCS.)

Because the two factions don’t talk to each other I am the intermediary. Thus I can now manipulate things to my satisfaction. You know the scenario ‘daddy suffers from the guilt of not spending enough time with the kid, so daddy throws in a couple of extra dollars every now and then.’ In my case it’s a lot of good work cheers and pats on the back, for no apparent reason. Also since both groups assume I am getting enough attention and love from the other party, I am left in peace to attend to my ‘normal’ activities.

Sort of a good thing, but like the poor DCS, I am starting to feel a little lonely.

A Story

It is a Sunday evening and the reel skips ever so slightly. He is bent over, intently watching the image before him, devouring every inch. He has watched the reel relentlessly for the past ten years. Her image is etched in his mind. He lives in this reel, his eyes closed he can see each image, each angle of her body, each curve. What is love but an unending fascination?

They meet as all doomed lovers meet; a brief chance gathering, seemingly planned by fate. She is luminous from afar. The center of attention, ensnared by a group of men she looks trapped. He stands apart, the other reference of attention, pale in comparison to her glow. Now, years later, sitting in this old musky room, he can’t remember what it was that entranced him? Sure, she was famous. A woman renowned for the desire she evoked yet he was equally famous and equally desired. What it was that made her desirable to him, goes unnamed, unarticulated, forever lost in a moment.

They do not meet till years later. She seeps into him instantly, invading his mind and he is lost. When they are introduced, his intensity surprises her. He is a capable man who takes care of things. She begins to call him Pop. She asks innocently, ‘Hey Pop how do you like this.’ She says it casually, thoughtlessly and he is lost.

Life is different with Pop. He does not look at her like the other men who want to posses her. Instead his look is the security blanket she has long craved. Pop is also different. He prefers quiet evenings, cooking her dinner and watching movies. They rarely watch any of her movies.

She likes this new life. It is the life her younger self should have had growing up, a life of stability and predictability. She is fond of her Pop.

They marry in two months. There are whispers and warnings; it makes no difference to him. He has been tied to her since the day he saw her.

The honeymoon, a time of joy and insatiable appetite between two people who have promised an eternity together, is a disaster. Her obligations catch up to her, she must oblige. After all she has never been a woman who could be only wanted to be a wife. How could she learn now? The Stadium, filled with men in uniform, is chaotic. They chant her name; their energy seems to make the stage move. As she performs she feels euphoric. She will later try to manufacture the same feeling through a variety of ways, each time failing miserably. Later she tells him, ‘You should have heard them Pop, all of them, there for me….you have no idea what it feels like.’ Inwardly, he smiles bitterly; of course he knows what it feels like.

It is not jealousy that comes between them; it is his realization that to her his love is a cage, not a home.

They go their separate ways, yet never separate. She calls him every now and then with her stories. She tells them in a voice infused with an exuberance for life. Every time she replaces the phone on its carrier, his heart breaks.

He first hears that she’s entangled with the big boys through the tabloids. The articles are sensational….’Beautiful Blond Bombshell, has ensnares the President of the most Powerful Country on Earth.’ Surely she can’t be that blind. They print horrible things. He calls her, demanding answers. She is coy, charming, teasing, says ‘Oh Pop you’re always so worried.’ He cringes.

The tabloids get more malicious with each passing day.

They call her a tramp, a harlot; they accuse her of bewitching the president from his family. The photographers follow her everywhere. She runs to him when she can’t shut the lights off in her head.


Years later he senses the danger, and like a father, attempts to shield her. Every time he leaves her, he knows it is a matter of time, and the weight of this knowledge exhausts him.

He watches the reel intently. Eyes closed he can see every inch of her. Not just the coveted curves, pouty smile, dyed blonde hair…he sees a girl, who has dreams bigger than her imagination, who becomes a woman the world molds into a sexual icon, who when the cameras are switched off and the world is asleep, is lost and undefined.

At her funeral he keeps the world out. The world that possessed her, the world he lost her to. Photographers swarm in, like locusts trying to devour last glimpses of her. He understands their obsession, their passion for her.

He arranges her funeral, and for the rest of his life sends pink teacup roses to her grave three times a week.

He never talks about her, nor does he remarry. He keeps her memory his own. They come in droves asking questions, seeking the ‘truth,’ lusting for an intimacy with a woman they revere.

It is a Sunday evening and the reels skip ever so slightly. He is bent over, intently watching the image before him, devouring every inch. He has watched the reel relentlessly for the past 10 years. Her image is etched in his mind. He lives in this reel, his eyes closed he can see each image, each angle of her body, each curve.

What is love but an unending fascination?

The Long Weekend Wuk Up

I put on my best balls this weekend, and went on wedding duty. This was my first Trini wedding, what an experience.

Saturday was the Hindu ceremony. I fished out the Indian regalia, and drove to the most booney part of the city, an hour late. I drove into the parking lot and the first thing I see is about twenty or thirty men standing in front of their cars drinking rum. As I get out they say, ‘Gyal, yuh rite on time, yuh just follow your ways to the temple, show yuh face, and come back to the real party.’ So like a good girl, I followed their advice, and went into the ceremony, saw the beautiful bride, smiled, made friends with some kiddies, and then went out and proceeded to spend the next three hours in the sun, drinking rum with the boyz. Then came the questions, ‘So why a pretty little ting like yuh out here on yuh own?’ ‘How yuh know N?’ ‘Let me introduce yuh to all the single men, here, here’s Sasha, he’s got a wife and kids, but he single when they ain’t around.’ And so on. They loved the fact that I was from Dubai, and all in all I got five solid invitations for Carnival next year.

Sunday came the reception. I must say hats off to N and wife, for pulling quite a show. There were at least four hundred guests, and the highlight for me was definitely the tassa drums. (I am currently scheming to find an occasion that would warrant the hiring of the tassa crew.) The tassa drums were hot and the drum men loved the red gown I was wearing. I got comments like, “Hotness, yuh tryin to give meh ah heart attack.’ ‘How yuh get into that dress, leave the man yuh wit, I show yuh how to take that dress off the rite way.’

All in all it was good times, though I do not recommend going to a wedding alone. There is a certain amount of shame associated with a woman going to a wedding alone, which men are immune too. Perhaps its our own creation, but you tend to feel it when the slow dances come on, and you have to dance with the slightly rotund, firm gripping only single friend on the table…….Now who want to see pictures of the red dress?

You know summer has begun when you get to sink your teeth into a juicy Alfanso Mango.

Alfanso Mangoes are small sized mangoes, grown in India. They are the sweetest mangoes on earth, though I am sure all the peeps from Carribean are going to disagree with me.

I say we settle this with a mangoe contest...you send me yours and Ill decide...

A Plea

To the wonderful bloggers whose blogs I love and Enjoy:

Please oh please get rid of your damn word verification.

I never get the letters right. How come a 'q' always looks like 'g' and an 'i' looks like an 'l'?

Either way its driving me crazy....and I don't have it, and I have yet to get spam. It's safe, DO IT, DO IT....(h0ws that for peer pressure?)

I aware that you lot are going to ignore me....but even if I win over one soul, one blog, one mind....... it would be worth it....

House Keeping Complaints

We Putz’s have the strangest issues. Most are related to heat and water.

Father Putz is obsessed with the cost of heat. When he was younger, my pops held the carefree ‘money comes and goes, se la vie’ attitude. As he began to age, his thrifty nature came out in all its splendour. In the middle of winter we are all forced to wear more clothes in the house, than when we are outside, all because pops is convinced that the most perfect temperature is 22 degrees. I prefer my living space to resemble Cuba. When it is snowing outside, I get a particular thrill walking around in booty shorts and a tank top. Not so with pops. Pops wants me walking around in a scarf, socks, and sweater. What’s the point of living indoor then? Why not just camp?

Related to heat, are our water issues. You know the feeling when you get home from a long day and your body is aching, and all you want to do is spend a few minutes under a hot shower, and instead you get lukewarm water that quickly turns cold? The disappointment is akin to a lot of foreplay and anticipation, and then the big bang only lasting a mere minute. It’s seriously disappointing.

Living in a house, and perhaps because it is an older house, there are certain evident trends:
~ First person in the shower in the morning is having a cold shower
~Despite having two showers in the house, only one can be used at any given time
~You cannot have a shower right after another person. You are obligated to wait at least fifteen minutes if you would like a few minutes of hot water.
~If you are lucky enough to get hot water, be warned it only lasts for less than seven minutes; if your shower runs longer than seven minutes, you are doomed to a cold finale.

Fathead and I were contemplating why we cannot have as much hot water as we like. Fathead is convinced it’s a conspiracy, that my pops has cleverly rigged the heater to ensure that we don’t ‘waste’ water. My theory is that our heater, having a limited capacity on how much water it can hold, only heats a certain amount of water at any given time. We spent an hour discussing in minute details various causes and remedies. We tried to figure out clever ways to beat the system.

We realised how seriously this was affecting our lives. For instance since we all get home from work around the same time, there is always a competition to see who can get to the shower first. Or the sneakier amongst us (ahem fathead) often will wait the extra ten minutes in the morning, for the first sucker to heat the water for them.

Fathead has decided that the remedy is for me to ‘volunteer’ to pay the heating bill going forward. He claims that this will give us the authority to add a few degrees. Just a solution you would expect from an eighteen year old with no job.

Nanny Bo Fanny

It’s 9.18 pm and I finally get to do what I’ve wanted to do all day….Blog.

Sounds nerdy? Well considering how many people admit to being addicted to face book I think not. I bowed to pressure and signed up for one of those accounts, but frankly I don’t see the big deal, do I really need to know when so and so is going to the bathroom. Or why am I expected to be so thrilled when a random person I used to know a zillion years ago writes on my wall…..I much rather have comments from anonymous people.

So here I am. The current horror of my life (besides abject loneliness and hormones) is my new boss. My new boss who happens to be a life like version of Fran Dresher. Yes my loyal readers, the ‘Nanny’ is my new boss. She is tall, she is loud, she has nails, long red, tapping nails, she has about twelve bracelets on each hand, she wears suits from the 90’s; But much worse than all this is the laugh. The Nanny Laugh. The insincere I’m laughing at your silly joke, but I actually think you’re a reaaaallll moron Mr. Sheffield.

Fran is driving me crazy. And she’s mean. In that sneaky ‘Ill ask about your day and make nice for two minutes and as soon as your relaxed, Ill dress you down like your four years old.’ Fran has this habit of giving vague instructions like ‘CP look at this file, feel free to mould to your liking.’ When I do mould it to my liking (Oh simpleton am I!) Fran gives me the “How are you today CP?” And then Bam, “CP, I need you to do things a certain way. My way!”

Err?

To the Society of Romantics and Mislead Hopefuls:

I wish to complain about my heart.

It appears to be defected, broken.

Lately it’s been a pain to carry around.

Last night I went to a wedding. At first my heart was fluttering and light. It was awed by the romance that hung upon the night. The beautiful dresses, the gorgeous hall, the magical bride. Then my heart noticed the couples. Everyone marching along, as if about to enter Noah’s Arc, two by two. Except us, my heart and I, we were a lonely ‘one.’

My heart was further appalled when some well intentioned, or perhaps business minded lady who approached us to comment on how lovely we looked, dripping in our Indian regalia. The lady was complimentary but she ended the conversation with a business card, in which she invited us to give her a call for our ‘big’ day.

My heart got a little heavy then. Very heavy, and frankly it was sad all the way home. It complained bitterly about having to go to another wedding next weekend, all alone. Recounting to it all the wonderful blessings it takes for granted did nothing to cheer it up. Perhaps it was an overabundance of hormones but my heart cried all the way home.

I miss the days when my heart was light and airy.

Could you please send me another, I promise not to let a new one get trampled on.

Pinky Swear,
CP

(What my plant should look like!)

I’m a little sleepy today. And I think I accidentally killed my office plant with too much love.

My old department gave me the plant as a parting gift and assured me that it was ‘death proof." All I had to do they said was water it and give it light. They made it sound so easy. I was determined to prove that I could be a good mum. So I ordered a lamp, dedicated to providing my precious with artificial light, since I got down graded to an office without a window (I know the nerve.) And every single day I gave the little thing all my left over water at the end of the day; Bottled Aqua Fina water, only the highest grade for my precious. I thought that bottle water would be akin to high grade fuel, and I was confident that my precious would prosper.

Only my ‘death proof’ plant is being obstinate. Despite the mineral water, endless hours of fake light, and tender looks I shower upon it each day, it insists on wilting away. First the flowers started to droop and eventually died. Now the leaves are being bitchy and getting brown. The nerve. And the smart alecs that drop by my office pointing out its impending demise are not helping. I gave it everything I could, if it insists on dying. Well I wash my hands of the insolent thing. Perhaps another cosmic indication that I should not be having kids?

On Minding the Yute

I was invited to attend a summer intern orientation this morning. I thought I would casually drop in, smile, and then skip out to attend another meeting.

Only I get to floor and I am accosted by thirty versions of me, all attired in their best. I say they were versions of me, because I look miraculously young for my age. (For instance the kiss a$$ who suckered me into buying an overpriced nail buffer purported to be made out of dead sea materials, claimed I looked eighteen….) At first they thought I was one of them. When I introduced myself as part of the company, they eyed me suspiciously, until one of them said, “Oh you were a summer intern last year?”

I usher them into the meeting room and we wait, thirty mini-me’s and me.

Eventually it dawns on me that no one else is coming, or at least not for a while. I have no game plan; after all I wasn’t even supposed to be there. But the snazzy HR in me comes out, and I decide to do a quick let’s go around the room, introduce ourselves time killer. It was sort of cute, all of them concentrating really hard trying to remember their areas of work.

Suddenly the into/ice breaker is finished and again silence. Twenty minutes in and no one has shown up. So I decide, Oh what the hell, let’s give them a little spiel. Which went well, until the natural smart ass of the group, decided to pipe in a smart A$$ comment about not realizing he was down town. I get a little bitchy with smart A$$ in groups. I cut the poor kid down in the sweetest way possible, and for the rest of time kept making references to his ‘great sense of direction. You must nip insolence in the bud, before it spreads….

One of the little boys was actually very very attractive. He was in his last year of school. Is it wrong to covet a borderline adult??

Ps. My nails look lovely, thank you for asking.

“She was not too old for it to be a tragedy, and not too young for it to be a passing event. Thus it was stuck some where in the middle, a purgatory of sorts…”

I saw Spiderman last night. Sitting in the theatre I was surrounded by kids. Kiddies gasping at the screen, yelling, “No Spiderman, No!;” their innocence unable to anticipate the inevitable doom.

Spiderman 3 is about venom; venom that can build up inside us over time. Venom happens to all of us indiscriminately. We’ve all experienced the bitter after taste of someone breaking our hearts, losing our children and getting our hopes and dreams crushed. Even the most well meaning and hopeful individual will stay up late some night, wondering “Why me?”

Venom taints life. It makes us look to an un-answering God for answers. It makes us doubt ourselves, and those around us. It hits us at our core, and moves the center of our beliefs, most crushingly in ourselves. We become petty about the silliest things, quick to anger at the smallest slights.

Venom infects everything. Our families, our jobs, our homes and most of all our outlook at life. We begin to see things through tainted lenses. Heaviness descends upon our bodies. Sadness creeps into our hearts. We yearn for more light hearted days. For the days we didn’t see the bad coming, for the days when we expected only good things, when we hoped for the best.

Every Friday Simple Enigma posts ways to better this world. It’s a great and simple idea, which goes a long way to assist destroying the venom that can build up in each of us over the years. I think we should all spend sometime examining our venom. And take the time to appreciate the venom of others, to try and understand their disappointments, and not to just see them as lost, lonely people.

The scene: Farewell lunch for my boss who is going on maternity leave; ten senior HR people, consisting of my project team, my new boss, my boss’s boss (BB), and her peers.

Mid conversation BB turns to me and says, “CP, Do you know Draconian?”
CP (Should I lie???): “Errr Yes”
BB: “I believe he is single, would you consider being set up with him? I think you both have very similar qualities and interests, frankly I think you guys would be a perfect match.”
CP: (Blushing, the kind of blushing where you feel your ears getting hot, and your face going red~ I don’t think I have ever blushed before.) “err….”
BB: “I could always set things up, introduce you to each other, frankly I think he would fall for you in a heart beat……”

Others in the table lean forward and begin to express opinions on how exactly we are suited to each other.

Thus I am convinced, the gods are against me. It’s hard enough getting over this man, but to have my boss’s boss try and set me up with him.

Seriously, when does that ever happen?

The Demise of the Crooner

I called Crooner today. It was eleven and the call went straight to his voicemail. So I cleverly left a message, about how jealous I was that he was still asleep. I got a call back almost instantly, and in a curt voice he informed that he was not asleep and was not a bum. I laugh it off, and ask what he has been up to for the week, share my own goings on. Then he brings up the point that we still haven’t gotten together. I decide that this is it, I am going to get biblical on his A&&. So I say, “Ask and Ye Shall receive.”

Silence.
Then Crooner says, “Well I don’t date.”

(Now men of the world I ask you, if you don’t date, why do you ask a girl for her number, flirt with her shamelessly, ask her where she is going to be and randomly show up and get all huggy feely? Why not just be a ‘friend’ and ask my views on philosophy and shake my hand at the end of the night, instead of trying to grab my posterior?)

I say, “Well ok then…”
Crooner says, “What does that mean?”
CP, “Well when a man says he doesn’t date, it is usually not a good thing, and usually requires a few Doctor Phil interventions.”
Crooner (all upset and insulted,) “How come girls have so many hang ups and issues?”

To which I sigh. How do I have the issues? I didn’t even ask him to date, if he had said lets meet for a drink, or go see a movie; I wouldn’t have taken up signs marching up and down the street proclaiming we were dating. But if the first thing a fella says to you is I don’t date, you have to wonder what he’s going to say later on, I don’t do relationships, I don’t want to get married, I don’t want kids, I don’t like your parents, I don’t like your hair today, I don’t I don’t I don’t. Also what part of dating does he find objectionable, is he going to be like the shyster and split everything even keel? Jeez Louise….issues!

So I say, “Alrighty well Taryiho, Gotta go”

So Now I’m singing the Barry white Song, “Kiss and Say Goodbye” as an ode to the demise of the crooner.

Mind Boggling

Was in one of my many meetings today, with my knees cramping, and my mind wandering off to crazy images like mass orgies......when the lead presenter sits down, and as naturally as ever takes out her nail file and begins to file her nails.

Complete with using the nail file to point at her power point presentation.

Seriously?

The Return of Crankiness

There is a reason I named this site Cranky Putz,

It was supposed to be my out let; My Outlet for whining, and being petty, my cranky zone.

Then all you good folks started reading, and like a circus entertainer, I felt compelled to be witty and funny. Funny and witty are more entertaining than depressed and cranky.

But today I am in prime cranky mode; And I want to Complain, So here you go:

~I am allergic to something. I know this because I am breaking out like crazy, and have a ‘Rudolph the red nose reindeer’ nose to boot. Thing is I can’t figure out what it is. All I know is I feel itchy all over. My diet hasn’t changed, I still work out, what the F&%%?

~My date for the wedding cancelled. I thought taking a girlfriend was supposed to be a safe bet? I mean, I asked her months ago, and she said yes. I clearly mentioned that it was the May 24 weekend and that it would involve two separate days of festivities. I gave details. Based on her response I replied +1. And now she casually mentions that she is going to visit some random person. I am all up for romances but what happened to honoring ones commitments?????

~I hate power point. And I hate that my new job seems to entail hours of drawing boxes and connector lines. Seriously it’s just a bloody line. Why is it so hard to do???? WHY?

~I am absolutely furious as my family. Granted I live at home rent free, but heck I am saving towards a worthwhile goal. Also I contribute, take out is always on me. So why then did I have to hear about how tight fisted I am all weekend long? I even bought a case of beer for pops which I honestly feel like returning. Can you return beer?

~In protest I’ve been buying my lunch instead of taking leftovers, I am sick of Teriyaki chicken.

~ Men. Him, the one of which I don’t speak of and don’t think of, well except every ten minutes like an annoying MC song. Why is my subconscious being so insolent and not forgetting about him, like it has clearly been dictated to do? I think I’ve got a faulty consciousness.