Thursday, April 21, 2005

J'aimerais t'embrasser

Mummy sent me six brand-spankin' new pairs of shoes (I'm going to pick them up later). She's resigned herself to my never returning home to the "armpit." She had given me an ultimatum a week ago: either I find a job to support my living expenses in Montreal or she terminates my cash flow. But that was the extent of her threat. I guess she felt sorry for me when I told her I had volunteered to whore myself to a local hospital for a thousand smackeroos. In exchange, I was expected to let them stick a thermometer up my rectum and monitor my sleeping habits during and after menstruation over the course of two months.

"Keep your clothes on," she warned. (My dad, however, found it hilarious.)

M. Biologique wasn't too supportive. He didn't like the in-house policy regarding visitors - as in, none allowed.

"What do you mean you can't even receive phone calls?!" he inquired.

Hey, the rules are the rules. You can't change the rules (but the offer can be declined).

Speaking of M. Biologique. He left town to horse around with haystacks and frolic with cows for a few days. He didn't have the decency to tell me beforehand, relying, instead, on changing his answering machine greeting to something resembling Oliver Twist in the role of Pirate Steve from Dodgeball and then unceremoniously (or poorly, if you prefer) switching to an accent associated with the House of Windsor.

He usually calls me in the afternoons, so when he failed to do so, my mind started racing to irrational lengths to prove that he was with 5'11 (or perhaps, 6') Amazon, practicing yoga, eating yogurt and bonding over Survivor Yucatan re-runs.

Yes, larvae and germs, I felt the tiny pangs of jealousy. It's awful, this glassy, green-eyed monster. It was incredibly destructive, made it painful to think otherwise. But I eventually talked myself out of it, knowing all too well the resentment it harbours, its soul-stifling ways.

Let's face it, my intelligence (or lack of, depending on who you ask) is definitely my major insecurity. I've been accused many-a-times of being intimidating because of it. So knowing 6' Amazon is Miss Organic Princess in the flesh, proud of her rural upbringing with a proclivity to eschew modern conveniences, I sometimes can't help but feel maybe M. Biologique would be better off with her. NorIda, a gorgeous Northern European herself, finds the woman homely, if terribly bland. But bland is good! Bland is adaptable! Bland rolls with the punches without thinking of retaliation!

Oy! She even has his facial bone structure!

This is Bridget Jones, signing off.

I guess I just need to be reminded why I'm lovable (without the presence of a pre-prepared eulogy written by a neighbour I never knew existed before my untimely death from icecreamgorgitosis).

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