sweet.

During my sordid years of part-time retail employment while I was in high school, I was told by a sickening weasel-like man, who unfortunately happened to own the company I worked for, that there is next to no mistake you can make that a customer won’t forgive if you’re sweet enough. Detest the sniveling little man as I did, these words have stuck with me and have proved truer than I would have thought possible over the years. Apparently this formula isn’t solely reserved for those times when you’ve accidentally overcharged someone’s visa card by $200 or when you misjudge the width of their calves and get them stuck in a pair of custom fit riding boots. This sweetness stuff seems to work in the real world, too.

Nowhere is this truer than in that lethal gladiatorial ring we call the dating game. Almost any hackneyed form of communication will be accepted if it’s coated in some sort of pretense of being “sweet”. Not just sincere sweetness either: since there isn’t enough genuine sweetness to be had, often times we’ll knowingly mislabel the saccharine, “I’m just trying to win you over to get a favour” or, “we both know I’m just trying to get you into bed” varieties of sycophantism as “sweet”. Of course these seem to share less qualities with legitimate raw sugary sweetness and are more akin to the aspartame sweetness of Sugartwin (which, I’m told by sweetener connoisseurs, tastes as if it has the capability to unclog most even the most troublesome household drain).

Every time (and this is by no means an infrequent occurrence) that one of my girlfriends is presented with a relationship/dating-type email heavy in ambiguity and shrouded in mystery, the team of experts (otherwise known and the blind who are leading the blind) comprised of all her other girlfriends, is called in to pour over the text in excruciating detail to try and crack the male code to ascertain its true meaning. Having been involved in more of these crisis pow-wows (as both an email recipient and consultant) than I’d care to count, I’ve noticed the fickle nature of interpretation and forgiveness at work, and how the sweetness factor plays in.

Butcher the language as you will on a sweet card, email, or voicemail and it will be adored no less. Tucked away in my jewelry box I have an affectionately saved message that reads something like, “Your amazing. Can’t wait to see you soon again” which myself and the experts crowded around and confessed to melting a little bit inside when reading it. Exclamations of, “He sounds perfect!” and, “Wow, Prince Charmings do exist!” were heard around the room as hearts fluttered. Fast forward a few weeks to a crisis meeting. This time the line in question reads something like “I think we’re better as friends, I wish you all the best in the future.” Once again, emotions are running high amidst the pow-wow: “What were you doing with a worthless sack of crap who can’t identify a comma splice?” and, “Seriously, look at the syntax in paragraph two. What a philistine” and, “My god, his veiled reference to post-modern Brechtian theatre in his conclusion is clumsy and jejune.” Alright, I may have made that last one up.

Basically, the moral of this story is, for your own sake, proof-read any bad-news emails carefully. It would be a sorry mistake to assume that an email of a personal and sensitive nature will only be read by the recipient. It will be read by numerous people who are ready and waiting to scorn and ridicule any slip up in grammar, spelling, and writing style. If possible, to best prepare yourself for being put through the wood chipper of criticism, write your cold hurtful news as an epic poem in iambic pentameter and have it approved by an accredited English Literature scholar at your Alma Mater. Perhaps recruit a local artist to paint some accompanying watercolours. Sound time consuming? Not to worry, just think of all the time you can save on birthday and Valentine’s Day cards which you can feel free to drunkenly write in pigeon English scrawled by a crayon held in your mouth, still assured that hearts will melt.

progeny. part iii. the godprogeny.

Clearly, as demonstrated in the previous two entries, I seem to be comprised of equal parts ineptitude and disinterest when it comes to ever having children. However, with the selfish goal of not growing old and dying alone in mind, it seems wise to have a few young ones around in some capacity.

After a lengthy discussion with a good friend in which we established that my potentially good parenting skills were essentially limited to buying excellent gifts and wrapping them attractively, she suggested that I could take over that role for her kids, should she ever have them. I left the conversation feeling useful and also reassured that I was not a complete social pariah as I could still serve some purpose contributing to someone’s happiness other than my own. So, I spent some time blissfully basking in the idea of being a fantastic Aunt to my friend’s kids. After about an hour of these warm fuzzy thoughts I realized that “Aunt” was the wrong word, and I actually meant “Godmother”. This slight confusion aside, I was even more enthused about adopting the Godparent role, once again possibly due to some confusion in terminology, this time resulting less from my own idiocy and more from depictions of “Godparents” in popular media. Namely, The Godfather and Cinderella.

I briefly toyed with the idea of modeling my Godparenting style after Don Vito Corleone. However, I didn’t think I could make anyone “an offer they couldn’t refuse” without being laughed at mercilessly, and I had a premonition that no matter how well gift-wrapped, a horse’s head in the bed may not be well received as a gift for the godprogeny. So, I put aside my love for cannoli and fine Italian clothing and decided this was not an ideal Godparent model.

Taking the role in a slightly different direction, I decided that I would make quite an apt fairy Godmother à la Cinderella. At last, I had found the perfect niche for myself in the world of child-rearing. I would remain entirely absent during the unfortunate times of pregnancy and birthing. During infancy and the terrible twos I would stay out of the limelight. Naturally I would gracefully step aside throughout childhood, adolescence and the angst-ridden preteen years, biding my time to wait for the perfect moment of introduction.

After years in absentia during which I will have achieved a great degree of career success, traveled the world, and amassed a stylish wardrobe free of baby spittle, I’ll step out of the shadows into my godparenting duties when the child is poised on the brink of adulthood. Prom night. Godprogeny and her mother have no doubt had tense words about attire, curfews and the like. I’ll swoop in, sweep the distraught mother aside and tend to the bewildered teen. After a few minutes of drying her tears and primping her hair, I’ll slip her into a glassy pair of Christian Louboutins, toss her the keys to a pumpkin-coloured Audi, and mutter something vague about a curfew.

My work done, I’ll sink into a comfy chair and split a celebratory bottle of champagne with the child’s mother. What a fine job we’ve done. Now, time to sit back a reap the rewards. One night of stellar godparenting will doubtlessly be returned by at least a few visits during the lonely days of old age.

progeny. part ii.

Last Christmas I attended a small holiday party at which about ninety percent of the other guests were there with their young children, about five of which were under a year old. Needless to say, I divided my time at the party between chasing sticky-fingered drooling toddlers away from my purse and shoes, and staring vapidly into my wine while trying to tune out the conversations about diaper rash, breast feeding, teething, and God only knows what else. All things considered, the party was about as pleasurable as I’d imagine being poked in the eye with a lemon zester is.

As the evening progressed, one young mother apparently tired of being manacled to her young offspring and was looking for somewhere to plant it while she tackled the buffet. Looking around the room, her eyes lit up as she spied my empty lap: as it was the only place in the room not occupied by a little doughy ball of flesh stuffed into a festive sweater, its real estate value had soared to Trump Tower heights.

This ill-advised woman somehow decided that it was a good idea to leave her young daughter with me, despite my fervent assertions that I had never held a baby before and was not especially interested in this being the first time. Clearly, the lure of the buffet was strong, and she was not taking no for an answer. I suddenly found both my hands in use holding the baby and thus unable to reach my wine, which had been moved to a coffee table, and leaving me with only my flailing feet to shoe the crawling children away from my purse. These annoyances aside, it was an interesting experience to actually hold a baby for the first time. I was particularly struck by how top-heavy the little lady felt. Although, admittedly this particular child’s head did appear somewhat disproportionate to its body, to the point where I wondered if it wasn’t a coincidence that it was the only child at the party in a zip-up holiday sweater, rather than a pull-over.

After about 15 minutes, the child had still not begun to cry or make any attempts to get away from me, and I was quite pleased with myself and was starting to think that I had some sort of God-given gift for mothering which I had been previously unaware of. (I should perhaps mention that the child had been asleep when given to me, so essentially all I had done was not accidentally woken it up). My newfound confidence proved short-lived when the child’s mother returned to reclaim her lapwarmer. She looked at my proud face, her baby still asleep in my care, and cocked her head with an dubious look on her face. “Did I do alright?” I tentatively asked -- my confidence shaken by her bewildered expression. “Well, she looks really awkward, but not visibly in distress” she replied scooping her infant out of my lap.

Confidence shattered, I polished off my Chardonnay and showed myself out. On the way home I stopped by the store to bitterly inquire about the best product for getting baby spittle out of Nine West tweed slingbacks.

To be continued.

progeny. part i.

Simply put, I don’t like children. Over the years I’ve tried but it has, as yet, proved highly unsuccessful. It’s not that I’m a terrible person who eats babies or carries around a pin to pop kids’ balloons when I see their smiling faces. They’re just not for me. Maybe it’s because I was the baby of my family and never around kids younger than myself, or maybe my genetic make-up is just missing the maternal gene. More than likely, I just remember what a pain-in-ass kid I was, and never want to deal with anything equally high maintenance.

In any case, in recent years my general distaste for the younger sort has proved more and more bewildering to those around me who had once been so certain that I would “grow into it”. My mother seems to bemoan the fact that she’s doubtful to ever have grandchildren. I’ve tried to reason with her and offer a modest compromise which will accommodate my life goals, but try as I might, she still seems less than thrilled about the prospect of a grand Scottish Terrier.

My late grandmother was even more baffled by my lack of a maternal instinct and would frequently thrust pictures of her other infant grandchildren toward me pointedly stating, “I just love babies, don’t you?” As she would stare searchingly at me, looking for some spark in my eyes to indicate that I was not completely dead inside, initially I would try to feign some sort of enthusiasm, but the act wore thin pretty quickly. One day she caught me on a day when my patience was not exactly at it’s finest, and as soon as the words, “No, I love contraception” were out of my mouth, I knew I she wouldn’t bother asking me anymore.

To be continued.

moving.

I’m currently in the process of moving. Moving to a new apartment. New city. New country. New continent. It all sounds very exciting and glamorous, but what it really comes down to is a whole lot of boxes.

Of course moving is hell, that is in no way meant to be a profound statement. There is less than nothing fun about arranging one’s whole life into a series of boxes and suitcases. What manages to drive it into an even deeper circle of hell, however, is when the time comes to move and you realize that you never bothered to unpack your stuff from the last time you moved.

In sorting through some of the old boxes in an effort to condense all the contents into a series of smaller, more efficiently packed boxes, I started the great moving purge. Pretty much everything that gets pulled out of a box has approximately four seconds to convince me that is has some sort of fantastically useful role in my life, or is teeming with sentimental value. If it fails the test, it is tossed mercilessly into the general direction of a garbage bag which, due to a combination of sheer volume and bad aim resulting from lack of sporting involvement as a child, quickly becomes a large pile about the size and shape of a small Mayan pyramid,

After about an hour of rummaging and purging I stood in the shadow of my Mayan ruin-esque pile of rejected belongings to survey the small selection of objects which had won over my sentimental side with the fond memories attached to them. A quick inventory showed that my memories came from an engraved flask with a pink suede case, a silver cocktail shaker, art deco swizzle sticks, and a set of martini glasses. The thought that I might in fact be a raging alcoholic in training had just begun to cross my mind when I was thankfully distracted.

The light caught one of the martini glasses at just the right angle to show a jagged crack essentially breaking the glass in half. I was dismayed. As a bit of a persnickety sort, there was no conceivable way that I could keep an incomplete set of glasses. They were all doomed for the trash now, or as hand-me downs to someone who wouldn’t shudder at the thought of an awkward trio that had once been a quartet.

As I sadly surveyed the broken glass I wondered how something that I had valued so much had been so carelessly broken. Recalling the day of my last move, I think I managed to pinpoint where things started to go awry. As I’m not really one for lifting or doing any sort of physical labour, I had recruited my personal-trainer brother to help me move. Seeing him as something of an ox capable of carrying heavy objects with a minimal amount of complaining, and requiring modest compensation only in the form of food, the prospect of me delegating and him doing everything else had seemed like a perfectly symbiotic situation at the time. Then I remembered watching him carelessly carrying a stack of boxes out to the van. I watched with my head jutting out the apartment window as he crossed the parking lot in a jolty manner and I recall yelling out, “Be careful with that box – it has stemware in it!” He turned awkwardly and with a bewildered expression yelled back, “What the hell is stemware?” Without waiting for an answer he continued in his choppy gait in the direction of the van.

Turning the broken glass over in my hand for the last time before I tossed it into the trash, three thoughts were running through my mind. First, I hope to God I don’t have to move again in the foreseeable future. Second, never be so naïve as to expect a man’s vocabulary to include such words as stemware, pashmina, merino wool blend, and commitment. And finally, what are the exact parameters of the term “alcoholic”?