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He tries to hump mascots at the mall.

October 4, 2009

I imagine being a mascot is a pretty tough gig.

You’re wearing a hot, furry outfit for eight hours a day. You probably get pretty warm and it probably starts to smell in there after a while. You get a whole bunch of kids coming up to you – hugging you, having tantrums cause they can’t take you home, kicking you in the knees. You’re working all day at the mall. Or a fair. It really sucks when you need to go the bathroom. And you’ve also got to stand on your feet all day. I mean, have you ever seen a mascot sitting down on a chair? Me neither.

Then, a dude comes along.

He sees you, he makes contact with your googly eyes.

His face lights up. A goofy grin spreads all the way from his lips to his ears. He may or may not utter something along the lines of, “Ooooh!!”

He looks over at you once more, rubs his hands together like Mr. Smithers as he skips towards you. In the meantime, he motions over to a girl that is with him, shaking her head in a way that implies she knows what is coming, but that it is a force greater than her that cannot be stopped. Or killed. The guy screams out in a giddy voice, “Little, get your camera!!”

Uh-oh.

You start to get a little bit uncomfortable. Maybe a bead of sweat rolls down your giant furry forehead.

The guy runs over and, even before you can attempt to make a run for it, he’s holding you. Tightly. Pinching your cheeks. Or rubbing his face against yours. Or holding out your arms and attempting to dance with you. Or giving you the world’s biggest man-hug.

The girl takes a quick photo, a blurry one. She shifts her eyes, embarrassed, and stashes the camera back into her purse.

Then. He walks up behind you. Doesn’t do anything, just looks up at his girlfriend.

And terror fills her face.

She looks like she knows. Without any words. What he is about to do to you. This guy is getting ready to violate you, right in front of the entrance to Sears. And he wants a funny photo of it, to post on his Facebook page later.

You really start to wish you had taken that telemarketing job selling knives over the phone.

You close your eyes, waiting for the photo-op to be done with. But. You’re lucky today. Because the girlfriend, all red in the face and under the realization that she is surrounded by families with children, refuses to take the camera back out of her purse. She yells something back to the guy, along the lines of, “OMG! Come here!”

And when he doesn’t listen, she begins employing the same tactic you’ve seen parents employ on their three-year old kids when they, too, wouldn’t leave you alone. She starts slowly walking away, without looking back.

And, finally, the guy follows her.

Disaster avoided.

Here is your master shot – blurry as hell, because the girlfriend really wanted to move fast. And others like you who have fallen to his mascot lovin’ gaze:

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He counsels complete strangers. In Brampton.

October 3, 2009

Sometime last year, LO and I took a nice evening stroll in a park in Brampton (yes, in Brampton). We came upon a swing set and, naturally, I wanted to swing and yell “Weeeee!” so we made our way over. When we got there, there was already another couple talking on the swing set next to ours. An offbeat-looking woman named Eva with beautiful curly hair and her boyfriend, Shawn, I think. Of course, LO, finding a new audience for himself, engaged these people in a conversation that somehow led to a lot of information being divulged about who we all are. And, somehow, in the midsts of all this, this couple reveals that, before we came around, they were actually at this swing set breaking up with each other.

Ummmmm, awkward!!

For most people.

When I hear information like this, I tend to hum to myself in standard normal-person “dodododo” way, as if everything is perfectly fine. I don’t pry. I don’t investigate further. I don’t even know them so, really, I don’t even care.

Of course, LO’s immediate response is, “Oh. WHY?”

As he says this, I’m pretty much ready for Eva to cast a spell on us and make us disappear, or Shawn, who has been a little quiet this whole time, to ask why the hell that is any of his business.

Except, this is LO. He has “special powers”. He is seemingly approachable and friendly and, perhaps, the nosy feature that he comes standard-packaged with makes these people feel like he actually DOES care (and, creepy enough, he probably does).

So, they start to open up. About everything. How they have been treating each other lately. How money is getting in the way. Their sex life. What their friends and family think about their relationship. EVERYTHING.

For me, this has TMI written all over it. But LO listens intently, nods his head, interjects occasionally with, “So, Eva, Shawn is basically saying that he wants you to be more accepting of his work. How do you feel about that?” and “So Shawn, Eva is basically saying that you’re not pulling your weight. What can you do to make her feel like things are more balanced?”

And they responding!! Divulging. Sharing.

To me, this is all just a little fucked up. But LO is like the Dog Whisperer. He’s healing these people. Getting to communicate. And say odd things like “Well, LO, I never looked at it this way until you put it in those words.”

I really really want to laugh out loud and say, “Are you people kidding me?”

But then a security guy comes along and tells us that we need to leave the park. It’s been at least an hour, and they’re closing it for the night.

Great, I think, time to go home and get away from this Maury Povich moment.

Until Eva and Shawn, almost in unison, invite us to the pub across the street. Because they want to continue talking, this is getting them somewhere. And they’re going to buy us drinks and food.

So, we end up at the pub. Until 2 a.m. Hashing out these people’s entire relationship. Well, LO is, anyway. I’m just kind of listening in and jumping in any time they ask us something about OUR relationship. Because that is weird. And messed up. Obviously.

At the end of the night, we’re all a little bit tipsy. We make plans to hang out again sometime (we never did). And Shawn and Eva say they’re going to re-consider staying together.

WTF!!

No idea if they ever did or not, because they never returned LO’s emails (which I still make fun of him for – I think they MUST have sobered up and started wondering just what kind of creepy person hangs out in parks and counsels troubled strangers over beer.)

My creepy person. That’s WHO.

He is passionate about sandwiches.

October 2, 2009

The first argument I had with my boyfriend had nothing to do with feelings, finances or friends. It had to do with something a lot more personal, and a lot more meaningful, at least for one of us.

The first time I had an argument with my boyfriend, it was about sandwiches.

When I came downstairs after a shower and saw that he had prepared breakfast for us, I was thrilled. He made one of our favorite breakfast staples: open-faced (“Polish”) sandwiches and tea. Everything was super except for one small detail: my sandwiches had cheese. And butter. And I’m lactose intolerant.

So, I did what any good girlfriend would do while her loving boyfriend was off in the bathroom: I took the cheese off, scraped off the butter, and re-arranged my sandwich as if nothing had happened.

I thought I was in the clear until I walked over to the living room, plate in hand, and noticed another plate of sandwiches on the table. With no cheese. And no butter. My designated sandwiches. I instantly thought, “oh shit!”, but there wasn’t time to react.

Before I knew it, he was back, and already staring the sandwiches up and down. As he looked between the layers of ham, tomato, radishes and onions, he looked like he was going to shed a tear. Heart broken, as if I had just murdered his baby.

The silence was THICK. Like the ham.

He shook his head and began slowly explaining to me the “special method” in which he likes his toppings arranged. They were all out of order. Others were missing. He was obviously very passionate about his sandwich toppings.

As he began to re-arrange everything back to normal, I simmered in the first big lesson I learned about dating this guy – never come between him and a sandwich.

Clearly, it’s a “special” relationship.

I should have seen this coming, though. I already knew about his love affair with food. And lots of it. I mean, this is the guy who, while noticing that I was making us breakfast and had eight eggs in the pan one day, looked over my shoulder and said, “That looks delicious. But what are YOU going to eat?” The same guy who, when asked how much bread I should pack for a weekend of camping, just for him, replied, “About a loaf a day”. The same guy who only goes to visit my relatives when there is a possibility of cake being out on the table. The same guy who makes me carry a fork in my purse at all times “just in case” he needs to eat something, most often a poppy seed cake. Out of the box. While driving home after just having purchased it. And who’ll drive across all of London, to eight different grocery stores, to find his special barbeque sauce (then exclaim like a schoolgirl upon seeing it, and rub the jar against his cheek with love as the man behind him slowly takes a few paces back and makes a “WTF” face). The same guy who, upon meeting the groom at a friend’s wedding we were attending, first congratulated the guy, then followed with, “So, what’s for dessert?”

And so, it’s been about a year since I re-arranged his sandwich toppings, and it still remains one of the most intense moments in our relationship. I will never again get in between him and a piece of bread.

He loves making new BFFs.

September 24, 2009

I wanted the first meeting between my boyfriend and my friends to be super special. Which is why I decided we should meet up at a cheap pub in the city. He had just recently returned to Canada from training in the States, and had not had alcohol for a couple of weeks, if not months. Being the brilliant girlfriend that I am, I decided this night was the perfect opportunity for us to have a few drinks together, and with my parents, before heading out. So out came the rum and the vodka. As the night progressed, somehow one drink led to another, and a drink turned into a shot, and another, and another, so that by the time my friend came to pick us up, we were both very classy and drunk.

At the pub, we chatted for a few minutes with my friends, ordered some more drinks, and about ten minutes into it, my boyfriend excused himself to go to the bathroom. He disappeared, and a few minutes after that, I excused myself as well.

I already had the bathroom door in sight as I walked towards it, but something off to my right-hand side caught my eye. I stopped and did a double-take.

Yep. There was my boyfriend. Seated at a table of perfect strangers, chatting and laughing and drinking.

I made my way over, casually sitting down next to him and joining the conversation while kicking him under the table in a “let’s get back to my friends” kind of way.

But the thing about LO, whether straight-up or tipsy, is that he loooooves making new friends. And he usually does, wherever he goes. I swear, he could walk around with little colorful BFF bracelets and just throw them around like Mardi Gras beads and people would show their boobs. It’s a phenomenon I just don’t understand.

A few minutes into this conversation, a round of drinks shows up at the table, and I try to wave them off because I hate accepting alcohol from strangers, but LO’s new friends are encouraging us to keep going, and the shots keep coming and coming. So we keep drinking and drinking. On these people’s tab.

The conversation, on my boyfriend’s part is mainly composed of the things he loves to talk about while drunk: the millitary, sandwiches, and slurred Polish versions of how much he loves me (these people were not Polish). By the time I dragged him back to our table, both of us having forgotten about the bathroom all together, we’re both lucky we can even stand (again, we’re so classy!)

We finally start a conversation with my friends when, all of a sudden, I realize LO is not at the table. He’s gone again. Before I can start looking around under people’s feet, I hear a large commotion coming from the area near the bathrooms, and a friend of mine grabs me over. When I get there, LO’s friends, who are clearly no longer feeling the BFF vibe, are all standing up, shouting obscenities at him, while he tries to talk to them like a gentleman. I have noooo idea what they were so pissed about, until this day – maybe they disagreed on favorite sandwich condiments?. But the big crowd and the big mess pretty much meant that we had to leave the pub, as per special orders.

And SOMEBODY vomits in somebody’s car on the way home, no names mentioned. This wasn’t going to be a night filled with shining moments.

But the funny part of the story is not actually what happened that evening. It’s what happened the next morning.

Because, as I start telling LO about what took place and he cannot remember most of it, he scrolls through his phone and finds a new entry from the night before:

“Big Punisher. #phone number#”

And, as I play around with my camera, this gem happens to be sitting on it:

Big Pun looks like he can eat Little One.

We both thought we were going to die laughing.

My dad also stopped by later in the day, sharing with us some of the details of our apparently memorable trip home from the pub, which neither of us can really recall.

When my dad makes a comment about going to take a shower, LO, inappropriate as always, mentions something about grabbing some one dollar bills (the night when he saw my dad in his underwear was maybe a week ago and they’ve joked about it since).

My dad laughs. But turns to him and says, “I think I should be paying YOU for what I saw last night.”

And, despite trying to drag information out of him, he still refuses to share. Only smirks, as if only he holds the secret to some embarrassing story.

We didn’t drink for a long time after that night.

WHAT?! The reason I blog.

September 23, 2009

Think of any common situation.

A dinner party. Taking a drive in your car. Seeing your significant other’s father in his underwear for the first time.

What would you do? How would you behave?

I’m starting this blog because, when it comes to my boyfriend, the answer is always the same: ridiculously.

He eats sandwiches by the loaf. He licks my eyeballs to check if I’m crying during movies. He drops his pants in public places. He brings beer and kielbasa sandwiches to the movies. He meows at unsuspecting children, and their parents. He throws politically incorrect commentary into serious conversations. He owns a head lamp. He tells the homeless to get a job. He jogs with a water backpack and short shorts. He drives with his foot out the window. He reads with a Garfield bookmark. He loves to give piggy-back rides. He takes photos with absolute strangers. He’d do anything for a Polish sausage. He catches garters at weddings. He asks people with large dogs how much for a ride. And when he first accidentally got a glimpse of my dad in his briefs during the first week we dated, he says, “I should have brought my camera. I could have made a calendar!”

As someone who is usually quiet, typically reserved and unimposing on others, I admire his ability to stir the shit. Without even trying.

I also find myself covering my face with embarrassment often – the red-faced kind that can only occur when your boyfriend turns to the entire crowd at a ShamWow presentation at a fair and yells out, “Does it replace tampons?”

Which is why I’m starting this blog.

For all those times this “special” specimen (strategically-placed quotation marks) has made me think, “Somebody should write this shit down!”

I imagine this blog will take several different directions, depending on how much time I have and which stories I choose to share. Eventually, it will probably become a little chronicle of our relationship, our differences, and also the things that bring us together.

And which make us laugh.

So, here goes.

——————–

Sneaky disclosure: My boyfriend has no idea I am starting this blog. And that’s the way I’d like to keep it. My reasons are that (a) I don’t want to encourage him to be any more outrageous; I want this to be a true representation of how he naturally behaves, and (b) I plan on sending him the link to this blog once I have a lot of “evidence” together about his wacky nature. He’s a total attention whore, and will appreciate the posts.

Technical stuff: Throughout this blog, I will refer to my boyfriend by his nickname, LO (“Little One”). It’s really not as sweet as it sounds. We both refer to each other as “Little Bitch” in person – LO is what we use around family and friends when we’re trying to be “proper”.

More about me: In case you think I’m a douchebag – or get tired of reading about my boyfriend (impossible!!) – check out my personal blog here.

Happy reading.