2 weeks in and I have lost 15 pounds. I am surprised about how easy it has been. No, I'm not grumpy every day, and yes I am still eating regular food. I'm just getting nutrients and the essential vitamins that I have been missing. Next week I make my triumphal return to the gym after a 5 year absence.
My goal is a 4 pack for the summer, and a loss of gut. Those of you who know me are aware of my strong dislike of working out, and weight lifting but with the energy I have now, I figure 2012 will be the summer I get my sexy back and grow to love staying in shape.
Out of the frying pan - you'll recall, in my last column, a painful trip to Zara - and into the fire. Clothes shopping with my wife is seldom fun. Even back in the day, with girlfriends, it was only fun for a couple of outfits,preferably lingerie.
In this new cage match men are no longer the masters. Usually our expression-filled faces are now those of some sci-fi channel automaton. Normally we are in control of the final say regarding purchases. Not here brothers. Where is this place without televisions to keep track of the games ? It’s called IKEA.
The power of IKEA extends through the phone lines. A fellow brother call him DJ picked up the phone one day and his wife we’ll call her Sam told him she was purchasing a new leather sofa. He simply nodded and said, “OK” into the phone sight unseen. He was smart enough not to go but not smart enough to just let the phone ring. Behold the frightening power of the IKEA!
Like Charleton Heston said, “Soylent Green is people” I could just as easily hear him say, “IKEA is a giant dollhouse.” IKEA teases men with couches all over, empty refrigerators, and rooms with blank tv sets that don’t work. I am overwhelmed by the strange names Lycksele, Ivar, and Kastanj. What does it all mean?
I’m armed with the only thing she didn’t take from me: my trusty measuring tape. It seems the little numbers and lines coupled with holding a button with quick snap back action seem to scare women.
I communicate with other men by a type of tape measure morse code. A small bespectacled man with a pet mouse sends a message: “How long you in for?” I send back: “We just came for a couple of things, she said it would be quick.” His message before our wives gets wise to our communication. “I’ve been here since Monday afternoon, tell me where did Lebron go?” he asks. Just like that the guards are on to us and I am dragged to the kitchen department in silence. Shawshank moment “I wish I could tell you Daved fought the good fight, and the Sisters let him be. I wish I could tell you that but IKEA is no fairy tale world.
Over the speakers I wait to hear an authoritarian female voice say “What is the law? Followed by a chorus of beaten male voices, “Not to speak to other men in IKEA that is the law.”
Later I have an idea about the den/office space. I utter a word, a quick “Shhh” by my wife followed by “ No, no, you don’t know, be quiet.”
No matter what your living space looks like women are taken by IKEA, which incessantly changes the looks of the store, therefore, causing constant confusion in their minds.
I see a guy in uniform I say, “brother.” I find out he is working for the IKEA. He quickly turns me into my wife who drags me further into this beast.
Thanks to daddy’s little man Ty for getting grumpy and an unscheduled feeding, my IKEA sentence is shortened.
Shawshank moment: I find I'm so excited, I can barely sit still or hold a thought in my head. I think it's the excitement only a free man can feel. I hope I can make it across the parking lot. I hope to see my tv, and hold my controller. I hope the sofa is as soft as it has been in my dreams. I hope.
It's 2010, and men still have questions about women.
It's 2010, and men still have questions about women.
Even with all the unwanted help from being forced to watch daytime TV, or all that misguided help from Men's Health, Maxim, FHM and all those other rags, we still have questions about you.
Why do women ask us if they look fat in certain clothing? They say they want the truth from us, but do they want the real truth? Like Jack Nicholson said in A Few Good Men, "You can't handle the truth!" Or do they want a politician's truth: "Read my lips: no new taxes!"
If we say, "Yes, you look fat," we are damned to possible solitary confinement and meals, and definite sexual embargos. Followed by the all-chilling, "You don't love me anymore." Guys, just don't give the wrong answer and follow days later, after leaving a movie, by saying, "Boy, that Scarlett Johansson is fine!"
Women, do you really think we know the difference between a size 4 and a size 12? We know what large is, we know what small is. We just barely started using the term "medium."
Why do you blame us when you're in labour with our child? You lit the candles, you put the music on and you told us to come and get it. You had to know this would happen.
Why ask us if we think your friends are hot? That's entrapment.
Guys: Reply with a straight face and say, "She's all-right looking," then look into her eyes, give her a big hug -- holding her tush -- and say, "You are the hottest one in the group, babe," then ask, "How is your mother?"
Why do women tell guys, "It's just between us," and then go out and tell all their friends? Is it because you've been in a carnal drought or because we've over-promised and under-delivered on our prowess? If you have to tell, why not go to confessional and tell the priest in the booth?
Why do women insist upon telling a guy they just met -- after spending the previous hour flirting with him -- "I am so drunk!" This isn't the '80s. One false read, one bad move and guys, you're in the city lockup, being labelled a sexual predator.
Why does a women insist upon telling her friends she is dating a guy when in reality she knows she is nothing more than a booty call? Dating involves movies, dinner, lunch and planned meetings with his friends. Not the surprise meeting where you're leaving a late-night movie on a bitter-cold, frozen, rain-filled Monday night and he stumbles, introducing you to a smirking buddy at the drive-thru.
Why do women like to talk after sex? During the daytime, OK. Late at night, after we've just put in great work, it's time to sleep. If you insist upon talking, maybe the act wasn't so good. What if the con-versation lasts longer, and is better than the act? At this point, the conversation is called damage control.
And the Oscar goes to (insert your name here if guilty): Women: Why, when we've just met and things are getting hot and heavy, do you really think we believe you when you say, "Oh my god, I've never done this before!" Or "This is so not like me." Or "This is the first time this has ever happened?"
Ladies, why do you want to spend the night? Is the walk of shame any different at 3 a.m. then it is at 8 a.m.? I would think the last thing you'd want is to be seen in the early morning with your evening clothes and last night's face on while order-ing a grande, quad, ristretto, non-fat, dry cappuccino.
Every now and then there are these little “triflin” things I must vent about.
It's healthy but like a sneeze, you don’t hold it in.
I'm not alone. I know for a fact Vancouver some of you are “hearin” me, “feelin” me, and half way thru most of you will be saying, “AMEN tell it like it is Daved”. Or maybe like George Lopez some of you will say "I know huh" So we'll do a tradeoff: You can read mine today, then send me yours and
later I'll pull a Letterman where I'll list some of the top 10
peeves we have.
I don't like women who use small dogs as fashion accessories! Paris Hilton you really did leave your mark on the world. If the dog has no hair, keep him inside with the cat! Little coats and shoes for animals is moronic unless, of course, you're a grandma. Grandma can do whatever she wants by virtue of time served.
While I'm on dogs, when did it become all right to allow your dog to
relieve itself in changing rooms in expensive Pacific Centre stores and not
clean up after them? If you dropped a jewel off an expensive bracelet, you'd
pick it up, right? So clean up after your barking rat. Most women that carry small dogs are themselves accessories for certain guys anyway.
Do parents still tell kids that it's bad manners to stare? I agree particularly
when you're staring at people for things they cannot help. But what if the
guy or girl has a tattooed face, magic-marker-coloured hair, or piercings
all over? I say it's OK. It's a free ticket to the freak show. You brought that on yourself. I just wonder what lost tribe are you hoping to find anyway?
What's with the pedestrians? They walk out into the street oblivious to traffic
while talking on a cell phone while intently listening to their iPod
assuming that we motorists are reading their minds and can stop on a dime.
The least you can do, pedestrians, is give drivers some sort of definite
indication you are about to cross the street. And while I am on that topic:
Jaywalkers, keep the scowls to yourself when crossing illegally and getting
honked at.
Bike lanes, I love them just not the way we do them in Vancouver.
Why an entire lane? Why the concrete barricade? Why not use seldom traveled roads and paint a nice lane for the cyclists to use? I don't get it. I like cyclists especially the ones that get and follow the old rules of the road, as taught to me by my mom. Mom said, "stay close to the curb, look ahead, get your tail out of the street because you cannot accelerate like a car, nor do you have the protection of a car. So be defensive."
Isn’t it hard to keep a straight face when extremely large fake breasts with the tiny t-shirt enter a restaurant. I’ll ask, “so how’s your self esteem really?”
Picking up hookers is a column in itself. But picking them up on a weekday, during the daytime, in a late model minivan with a baby seat on Cordova takes the cake.
There are a lot of older dudes who have been dating younger. I guess they feel they can get away with more, experience something new, mold a young mind, and in turn ruin young lives by setting them back out into the wilds as bitter dangerous young women roaming the young dating scene with bitter old man baggage. Is my date too young? If you have to tell her the movie is an eighties remake, she is too damn young. Or just dumb.
If you are driving a dump truck filled with tons of earth you shouldn’t be yakking on the phone while you're driving through downtown.
When walking around crowded stores, give the lady the right of way. If she
scowls at you, then step on her foot and say "sorry."
Avoid the big-hipped lady, especially in the baking aisle. She demands the
right of way. I love hips, but large hips with an excess of junk in the
trunk can make for horrific collisions.
I don't like people who don't understand doorway etiquette. The person leaving the building has the right of way, the person entering should step aside. Especially while you are moving furniture. (Mister courier, you know
who you are.)
Finally, I have a problem with girls who hold hands at nightclubs. If you are old enough to be in a licensed establishment, why do you have to hold hands to move? You're posing in your older sister's come and get, grown-up clothes, yet you hold hands like Brownies in a national park.
I wonder about these girls. Does one do the thinking,and the other hold the money? Do you really have to worry about getting lost in a bar in Yaletown, or any other bar in any big city?
I’m not scared Vancouver to tell it like it is, call it like I see it.
I am a party guy. In college I used to love rolling about 4 deep filling the car with 5 bucks of hard earned sofa excavated change in order to have a half tank of gas to cover most of the San Fernando, San Gabriel valley and some city spots. We saved our hard earned minimum wage cash for the hooch. We would show up a case of cheap beer under our arms, emergency 40 oz in our back packs, and pose at the front door, establishing superiority. The incoming honeys got to see us first first. We also got to tag any potential bad actors for later in the night when things would inevitably jump off.
I remember my first Vancouver Police department party. I wondered would there be hard edged cops sitting around armed to the teeth talking about perps, drinking whiskey while chain smoking? Would there be squad cars pulled up on the lawn? If I spill my drink on the white carpet would I get interrogated in the garage with the swinging light bulb in my face? Afterwards would we speed home busting caps at highway signs like the two knucklehead officers in California? Wrong country.
Parties really don’t change much a dj, kegs are still there only now when you go to the upscale shindig its catered complete with multiple open bars.
Instead of the hooch under the arm or stuffed in the backpack it’s daughter Addyson under the arm and her brother Ty held by the hand and yeah there still is a backpack. Instead of a couple of wingmen it’s the live in hottie wife. How did this happen?
Last Sunday I did the Fisher Price club crawl. The new baby parties break all the party rules. No loud music, no kegs, no girls running shirtless through the house, except the brazen breast feeder, no one about to square off, and no bumping and grinding and something new has been added an abundance of older people, not US Festival old. No these are people that listened to music that appeared live on tv in black and white.
The first oddity was I was going to a party during the day light, strange and it wasn’t a BBQ. Inside all the adults have that look on their faces like what am I doing here? Isn't this precious? I naturally set up my spot for perfect visibility, (somethings are so engrained) just in case some kid runs thru the party with cake in their hands. I remember steering clear of the pregnant girls at parties, now they are the stars.
The birthday girl all of a year old screams at the top of her lungs. I wonder if she is saying where is my DJ? Yes it is her party, and where is the DJ? I decide to bounce outside to the keg line. I’m tripping there is nothing but some boring older dudes talking sports, (puck speak mostly) so I hang for a moment nod and bounce off.
We load up and head out to the next party not really knowing what to expect.Just like in parties past someone passes out drooling on the way to the next party. Except this time it’s not a wingman, girlfriend or even my wife, its my son.
Once again kids and adults are all over. The house is beautiful, the food is incredible. The birthday boy seems unimpressed with his jam and heads off for a nap. March madness is on but with all the kids I can’t concentrate so typical.
Finally the last party, its downtown, very city like, the party takes place in the remodeled extra large kitchen. The birthday girl wore pink with little wings, cute. Where are the girls wearing Victoria secret wings? Wrong party.Things kinda have changed. This party is more of an adult atmosphere, wine and pizza. You aren’t worried about someone making off with your wine, or your wife, and you aren’t worried about someone starting a fight except maybe over a crayon. I still love parties.
