So, today, inspired by the beautiful weather and the streets full of eye candy I will write an open letter to the boys who work at King and Ontario, across the way from the Toronto Sun building. Here goes:
Dear Construction Workers,
I love you. I know this is sudden, but I think it is best to make my feelings plain. I may not know your names, and I probably wouldn’t recognize you without your hard hats and reflector tape, but I do know that you have toiled tirelessly on yet another magnificent structure to grace King St. East and I thank you. I would also like to thank the sun that has kissed your coarse skin giving you the golden appearance of the bronzed gods that you are.
Construction workers, you do not behave like the stereotypical Neanderthal hard hated goon so commonly lampooned in the funny papers. You don’t cat call or yell, “show us your tits” as women walk by. You tip your helmet and say hello. Once you noticed that I changed my hair. You have even complimented my smile.
The summer heat has blossomed inside men and women everywhere. My shirts are now more revealing, my skirts ever shorter. I have taken extra special care with my hair and yes, I bought new lip gloss. I am not ashamed to say it. I do this for you. I want you to think I’m cute. I want you to smile when you see me. And, when I look at you, I want you to look back. These are some of the little things that make my day.
Gentlemen, you look great in your overalls and large heavy construction boots. You sit like nobility in the cement trucks and stand like action heroes on the edge of the unfinished 5th floor. Poised on the city’s newest rooftop, you survey your skyline from a vantage point few will ever see. And from the ground level I adore you.
In my dreams we live together in bliss. I take you out of your grubby clothes, soothe your tired muscles and pack your daily lunch so you don’t have to spend your hard earned wages on coffee truck food. I look pretty while you fix the toilet. On Saturdays we can have breakfast in bed, and on Sunday afternoons I can hang out with my girlfriends while you and your buddies watch some major sporting event, I don’t care which one. Tell me about your job, use technical language, I want to hear it all.
In short, glorious Construction Worker, this city is yours as am I.
So, it’s that time of year. I love the extra special season at the end of spring and the beginning of summer when people start squeezing into the pants they last wore the pervious August. Everyone does it, but they still haven’t lost the last of their winter layer. No fear it will be gone by June 15th but the layer’s remnants make pants everywhere just a little too tight. They can be buttoned up, but they are a little extra snug below the waist line. So, for the next two weeks, we are in what I call, the Camel Toe Days. Every year I notice the escalation in Camel Toe during these precious weeks and fittingly June 1st is turning out to be a Camel Toe extravaganza.
I counted several sets of CT on the street car this morning. Men and women from all over the city are displaying their corresponding split or bulge. It’s kind of hopeful. Bring on the summer. The CT is just summer’s calling card.
So, like everyone else in the world I find spam REALLY irritating. Terribly so. I am waiting for a certain e-mail. Waiting very nervously, so I guess ‘waiting’ isn’t really the best term for it. Let’s say that I’m like a starved miner perpetually a few steps away from prime rib. He can taste that meat as I can read my phantom email. But the spam, THE SPAM! You sign into your Yahoo mail and the landing page is so hopeful - “You have 1 new massage” - and the little icon of the flaming letter is so promising – I know you know what I mean – and with your heart in your throat you glance around the room ensuring your boss isn’t looking over your shoulder. The blood rushes through your body heating up your face just a little as you slide your mouse along it’s pad to the appropriate link and click “Inbox” only to find that Calais is now 25% cheaper on the net. Not the news you were waiting for. You don’t care in the best of circumstances. But today you want to scream.
So, one of the best things to come out of the weekend is that I have finally managed to clean my room with reckless abandon. Not only did I sweep my hardwood floor, I also mopped it with some mop and glow or it’s equivalent made by their competitor. I spent some time in there gazing at my floor marveling in the lack of dust. I delighted in walking around barefoot feeling the clean dust free surface against my sole. I reveled in the plap-plap sound of my foot only makes when I slap it against newly washed hard wood. It really is the little things.
It’s Monday and everyone is back to work, aren’t you thrilled? I am writing my blog to see if I can shake my brain into a somewhat useful state, because as it is, I’m about as useful as a preacher in a whore house.
On the way into the office I looked at the Toronto Sun. Why? Reading the Sun is like snorting cocaine. While always a bad idea, it gets you all worked up for a short time and when it’s over you have lost a number of brain cells (and GRC tells me that once you loose brain cells you never get them back). Neither cocaine nor the Toronto Sun has any place in my life, but I figure if I have to choose one of them, I guess the Sun is the safer choice, but only marginally.
I have always disliked the Sun. It really is a rag. A few years ago they ran what sticks out as probably the worst cover known to all newspaperdom (I know that’s not a word). The cover line read “Baby’s Torso Found, But Not Head.” Who made that editorial/publishing decision?
Anyway, I opened the Sun and glanced at the Homolka porn they insist on running – on the front page and as often as possible – and found a small article about the King of Swazi land (Which, by the way, I first read as Swayze land. It caused me to briefly wonder if Patrick Swayze had set up his own small kingdom in the South Pacific or something and if “She’s like the Wind” was the National Anthem). Apparently the King has taken his 11th bride. That’s right, wife number 11. I think he chose her when she was in her late teens and she has been preparing for the wedding ever since. Now she is 21 and pregnant, as is the custom before a king marries. He already has 23 kids from the other wives. Also, he has already chose wife number 12 and 13. They are both 17 and are also preparing for their wedding. I wonder if they will have a dual ceremony. I also wonder if the king is crazy. I mean 2 even 3 wives I can understand but 11? Come on now.
I guess it could be a pretty sweet deal for the wives. They probably have really nice clothes and an easy life in a very poor country. Also, they have almost a dozen other women to be friends with who are, most likely, way more interesting than the King. I saw a picture of the guy and he’s not bad looking. Mind you, I’d be afraid that he’d bring home an STD. They have enough money to raise their kids comfortably and there is all that help for the other wives. I am sure they have freedom to do what they want so they could travel and what not. Hopefully, they could have boyfriends too. They could go back to school and maybe get a degree. If I was one of the wives I’d move to Brazil, live in a condo overlooking Copacabana beach and become a fashion designer. It would be a sweet life, I think. Kinda.
So, I have never been a fan of watermelon. I know, people say I’m crazy. But, I just have never been all that interested in it before. Last night, in an effort to get on the watermelon band-wagon I decided to take Vijay and Nadia’s advice and try to become friends with watermelon using booze - a bit of a culinary lubricant, if you will. So, I poured half a 26er of Stoli onto a bisected melon and let it marinate for a few hours before our apartment filled up with party goers. I had to say, it was tasty. However, I still probably will not be filling up on watermelon any time soon, because I think for me to like the fruit it has to be drenched in vodka, and frankly that would not fit into my 5 to 10 a day plan of healthy eating.
Yes, GRC and I had a party last night and it was good fun. Once the last guests left and I locked the door, I walked up the front stairs and found GRC leaning face first onto the wall near my room. Poor thing, I had to turn her around and help her stumble toward her bed, well in that general direction, really, I think if she had fallen asleep on the stairs that would have been fine with her. I wouldn’t have cared where she slept, except that it would have been real funny for me if I woke up to find her curled up on the bottom three steps that lead up to her room. I don’t know how she got so drunk. Could it have been the watermelon, the huge gin and tonics or perhaps the Malibu Rum smoothies?
I of course maintained stunning control over my drinking. I spent most of the night drinking sparkling wine out of the
The thing about these parties is that we often end the night with more booze than we had at the beginning. Now, we have more vodka than ever and our fridge looks like we have just joined a fraternity. Well, a fraternity filed with guys who only drink premium beer. It’s pretty sweet. Now that the nice weather is here and we have so much beer, perhaps GRC and I can put one of our master plans into action. We came up with this one last summer. We will attach cans of beer to fishing lines and cast them off our deck. It will be a new sport. Boy Fishing. I think it will catch on.