1. I have a dimple on my knee, well a dimple on each knee. The dimple on my right knee is cute in the right light. The dimple on my left knee, not so much. I am right handed. The dimple is on the far side of my knee. The dimple does not get shaved. Somehow, it's always passed up. For weeks and months at a time. This could get ugly, except for the lucky (?) fact that I have chubby knees, which means the dimple kind of folds in on itself, creating some sort of sink hole, or suck hole, or some sort in infinite abyss, if you will. Still. I know it's there.
2. Jason's boss gave him BBQ sauce on Sunday. Jason was all like "Why is there BBQ sauce on my desk." And his boss was all like "Because it's father's day." And Jason, politely I'm sure, informed him that he was not a father. Boss magnanimously replied that all men working on father's day merited a bottle of sauce so as not to leave anyone out. Well excuse me, but doesn't the term father's day necessarily leave people out? Say, non-fathers, for example? Everyone who is not a father? Have we become so overly politically correct as to reward every living thing with a dick a bottle of BBQ sauce just to say we were inclusive? Well, before you start thinking this backwards town that I live in is PC-minded at all, chew on this: the men got BBQ sauce for father's day...the women were each given a rose on mother's day. Now tell me, where in the world does BBQ sauce = rose ? That's not equal! And if it's not equal, then it's not exactly PC, and if not PC, then it's just plain weird, which was my inclination from the beginning! If equality is your bag baby, then give a stupid flower to everyone. However, I tend to think that parenthood is not equal. I mean, 24 hours of oozing labour is a pretty big divider, right? So if a year's worth of fathering is worth 1 bottle of BBQ sauce, then a year's worth of mothering must be worth an 8 week vacation in the Carribeans. At least.
3. My grandmother told me I have "a nice cleavage."
4. I went out for a walk the other day, wearing a white linen shirt over my new pink decolletage bra. I walked hours from home under gray skies with no umbrella, into parts of the city where hundreds of potential witnesses milled about. And it didn't rain. Not one drop. How weird is that?
5. It's summer time, so much of the city is pocked with construction sites right now. One such site, found on one of my excursions, beheld a sight that almost burned the retinas right out of my eyes. Picture this, if you can: some sort of hole was being dug into the black pavement. 6 men were sweating profusely as they dug. 12 men stood on, watching from a shaded area, sharing a thermos which I can only assume was lemonade. I did a doubletake: 6 men working. 12 supervising. That's a 2:1 ratio of not working to working, unheard of for city workers! What the hell! Usually at least 4 or 5 people stand around useless for every 1 person working. City tax dollars were barely being wasted at all! I would say money was only hemorrhaging from this project, which is a lot less serious than the usual monsoons of waste that I see every other day. How could this be?
6. Putting as much distance between myself and the above affair, I crossed into what may be referred to as this city's ghetto area. Houses are dilapidated. Shingles are a luxury most people are content without. Shutters hang on by a string, if they hang at all, unpainted and ugly. Random furniture takes up space on limited lawns, 5 or 6 homeboys in wifebeaters sit crowded on outdoor couches that must house hundreds if not thousands of fleas and lice and other vermin I know nothing of. There is chalk on the sidewalks. No, not police outlines, this is Canada, where we don't have murder. But strangely, none of the following either:
- For a good time call ____________
-Swear words
-Big giant phallic pictures
In fact, the sidewalks were simply decorated by children. There were stick figures and rainbows and unicorns. Nothing lewd at all. Maybe I stepped into some sort of twilight zone.
7. There is a dentist's office that faces one of the main drags in this city. The entire wall is made of window, so when you drive by, you get a glimpse of people sitting in great big chairs, just a blur really, but you get the impression. When you walk by this building, it's way creepier. I felt like a peeping tom looking in on someone getting a root canal. They're high on laughing gas, one eye is lolling about in its socket while the other is trying to focus out the window at the street where I am feeling very guilty for existing. So I discreetly avert my eyes, choosing to look across the street instead. And what's on the other side of the street? A high school track. And boys are running on the track...no, wait. These are men. One is topless, and gleaming in the sunlight. I trot across the street to get a better look. When he sees that I am watching, the golden-chested man gestures to his buddies, and suddenly they all remove their shirts and wave them at me, shouting I don't know what. I laugh, and clap, and wave back. Strange days indeed.
8. Jason says to me "I really like your new bra." And I say thanks, but before I move the conversation in a different direction, he elaborates. "It makes your boobs look a bit smaller, but they're pushed up higher. More out. I like it." I give him a blank look. "Know what I mean?" he asks, and I tell him that I do not. Later that night, off comes the shirt, and the bra. Jason points: "See! Look! Scientific proof!" he exclaims to my chest. I confirm that I am a girl, and he is a boy, and he need not point it out every time I take my top off. "No, no," he says, "look." And I look down at my boobs, and I see what he means. The tops of my breasts have been brown and sun-kissed for weeks. Tonight there is something more; an extra half-moon of pink at the edge of the tan, where white skin almost down to the nipple has seen sun for the first time. Jason was right: the new bra shoved them out further. Whoa man, that's heavy: Jason was right.
And so you can see why I might believe that the world is coming to an end. I will keep an eye out for chickens tomorrow, and if one should happen to be hollering "The sky is falling! The sky is falling!" I, for one, will believe her.
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