March 4, 2010
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): You need to deal with someone else's needs today -- which is hardly a new thing for you. This time, though, you may have conflicting needs of your own. It's time to make a hard call!
Just got back from my first lesbian date. And, unlike what is apparently happening to Dana Delany on “Desperate Housewives”, I’m not switching teams this late in the game.
While at Lucy’s place a couple of nights ago, I met Isabelle, a talented young artist whose Booby Trap, a photo collage of women’s breast implants, has been hanging over the mantel at Lucy’s apartment for three months. Mom calls the purchase an overreaction to Lucy’s lingering teen trauma over flat-chestedness. (Lucy’s a size bigger than me. Does that mean I should have mannequin breasts mounted on a wall at my place? Come on in, folks. Feel free to rock climb Mount Pamela.) I can go either way on Booby Trap as a work of art. Love the title and the idea, but staring at a hundred exposed breasts is off-putting.
Anyway, Lucy and Carl(a)’s newest art acquisition is one of Isabelle’s oil paintings, Rage, No. 425. It’s an abstract of red and orange swirls superimposed on a pale blue surface. While I don’t necessarily feel a connection to the title, the use of color and the heavy strokes are visually appealing. It led me to a lengthy conversation with Isabelle in the kitchen as another lesbian poet recited a diatribe against men who had unjustly misappropriated bad hair. “Take back the mullet!” she yelled to a few hoots and wild applause. (Really?! It just goes to show how far gay rights have come in Canada. Is this really the last battleground?) As the applause died down, Isabelle and I became so engrossed in our talk that we didn’t realize we’d finished off a large bowl of the surprisingly tasty avocado-based vegan chocolate mousse, much to Lucy’s extreme annoyance (Rage, No. 426).
Isabelle suggested we continue our chat over coffee today so we met up at Prado Café on Commercial. I should have known we were operating under different assumptions as she rattled on about her ex named Chechnya (actually “Tammi”, but changed to increase political awareness) and how Isabelle missed giving someone an erotic full body massage. I naively continued to steer the conversation to mundane subjects like Ellen’s role on “American Idol” and Jessica Simpson’s weight issues. Apparently Isabelle thought I was being coy.
“So,” she said as she mercifully cut me off in the midst of an ill-informed rant about John Mayer’s Twitter addiction, “do you ever sleep with a woman on the first date?”
That’s when the milk foam went down the wrong way, some of it bubbling out my nose. “Do I what?!” I suppose there was a look of horror on my face. I attribute it to the fact my nose was foaming and my corresponding fear that people might euthanize me for fear of a rabies epidemic. Isabelle took it as rejection. She bolted.
And, just like that, the date I did not even know I was on ended. Seems like whichever team I’m playing on, the game ends in defeat.
THE BOSS WAS RIDING MY ASS FROM THE MOMENT I WALKED IN THIS MORNING. YEAH, I WAS FIVE MINUTES LATE FOR THE MTG BUT MY CALF CRAMPED UP WHILE DRIVING IN. ACTUALLY HAD TO PULL OVER & STRETCH ON THE CURB. IF ONLY I WERE A BETTER SWIMMER, I CLD GIVE UP THE DAMN RUNNING GIG.
ANYWAY, HE CHEWED ME OUT IN FRONT OF THE ENTIRE BURNABY TEAM. THEY WERE AS AGHAST AS I WAS. WAY OVER THE LINE. I WALKED OUT & PROCEEDED W/OTHER MATTERS IN MY OFFICE. FORTY MINUTES LATER, MTG OVER, HE STORMED IN W/A “HOW DARE YOU” DIATRIBE. YEAH, YEAH. EFF EWE. I CONTINUED WRITING AN EMAIL & HE WENT BALLISTIC. CHUCKED MY GOLF TROPHY BOOKEND AT MY HEAD & GAVE ME A BLACK EYE. WLD’VE FIRED ME, BUT HE MUST’VE WIZED UP KNOWING I’LL SUE HIS SORRY ASS.
I LEFT FOR THE MEDICAL CLINIC & SPENT THE REST OF THE DAY WATCHING DAYTIME TV. “THE DOCTORS”, “DR. PHIL”, “DR. OZ”,…WHAT IS ALL THIS SHIT? IF THESE FRIGGIN’ MEDICS ACTUALLY PRACTICED INSTEAD OF MUGGING, I MIGHT NOT HAVE HAD TO SPEND TWO & HALF HRS WAITING FOR AN OVEREDUCATED INTERN TO TELL ME “PUT ICE ON IT.”
FIVE CALLS FROM WORK THIS AFTERNOON. LET VOICEMAIL HEAR THE LAME APOLOGIES. OR, MORE LIKELY, THE NEWEST RANTS. I GOTTA MIND TO SICK JUDGE JUDY ON THE BOSS.