Room to Breathe

Makes you feel great when you fix the President of a muli-billion dollar company’s email.

Makes you feel even better when he thinks you’re the shit.

I hate buying cards; and having to purchase a birthday card is no acception.

A couple months ago I was looking for a card for my stepfather, and found there was nothing appropriate for the way I felt about my step-father and my family situation. I realize that cards are supposed to be positive, but Hallmark HAS to start realizing that families are dysfunctional and it’s no longer just “mom” and “dad”.

I eventually found something, but still didn’t have confidence in it. My ultimate goal is to always find the best card; the card that represents our relationship perfectly.

However there are times I have to just give in and say, this will have to do. I’m not as creative as Hallmark, so to suggest writing my own card is just not worth it.

Tonight was no different. It’s my cousin’s birthday tomorrow, and he has invited me to his party; which he is throwing for himself.

We’re having dinner, and then I think his plan is for everyone to go to the gay bar afterwards.

So what kind of card do you get for a flamboyant 20-year-old? I realized I had never bought him a gift OR a card before. We just don’t exchange gifts. Our parents always did it for us.

Well, this is the card I got for him. Appropriate or not, I laughed hard:

Front / Back –> Click to Enlarge

And on the inside it read:

(more…)

Do you remember the first time your heard a “swear word”, or learned a new adult term? Well I had an open relationship with my parents, and was NOT afraid to ask anything. In fact, my parents encouraged us to, and I think they handled it well. They didn’t lie to us; they didn’t try to “dumb it down” so we would understand, without truly understanding.

I was a “but why?” kid, and had to know what everything meant.

At thirteen, I still lived a fairly sheltered life (hell, at 20 I did!). I would clean my hamster’s cage weekly, and give him a bath. Bathing my hamster involved filling up the bathroom sink with water, and throwing him in. Poor little thing. He literally shit himself! Not sure why I kept doing this week after week, but I thought he needed a different type of exercises. Some diversity to the wheel he would run all night long.

Following my routine I would blow dry him. Give him a fluffy “do” and warm him up.

One day mom called up to me asking me to do something.

“OK. I’ll be right down after I give Ralph a blow job.”

Mom ran up the stairs, “you’re what?”

And with that I learned what a blow job was.

I, being the little shit I was (AM! ), said it again one day in the kitchen with my whole family there. Mom turned around and asked me not to use that phrase, and I should say I’m going to blow dry my hamster.

So what did I do? I gather my younger brothers and get them to sing a song with me for my parents, “Blowjob! Blowjob! Blowjob! La-la-la.”

I laughed so hard I fell down and peed my pants in the middle of the kitchen floor.

I got a spanking. Which made me laugh harder because they were stepping in my pee.

To this day, every time I hear the word blow job I think of myself in a puddle of pee trying not to let it get into my cast on my broken leg.

Up all night working on what’s due this morning @ 9AM.

To bed @ 4:30, because the RootBeer @ BurgerKing was out last night after school, and so Coke was my only option; and so I just wasn’t tired after consuming caffeine @ 10PM.

Lying in bed not sleeping; Copacabana playing loud in my head.

Awake @ 6:30, Copacabana still playing.

Even the funny Morning Radio Show blarring on my alarm couldn’t make me laugh enough to clear the Barry Manilow out. Joke after joke about our Canadian Christmas Election and the candidate fools, and nothing.

This is going to be an interesting (and long) day….