So…life called my bluff. A few months ago, we upgraded our home television and internet service. One thing led to another, and all of a sudden I was on billboards, radio stations, television channels, telcom stores, and web banners strewn about the Atlantic provinces.

Now, I’d fill in some of the details for you, but you have to understand that this is sort of how things go over here. The newf gets home from work, I tell him some random occurrence while watching Glee DVDs in my sweatpants, and all of a sudden the entire city is going about their daily business under the watchful eye of well…building-sized limited editions of my face.

It doesn’t make any sense, and it’s not going to make any sense, so I’m going to have to just ask that y’all get on board so we can move on.

Anyhow, in the midst of all this happening, I was joking with some fellow Halifax bloggers about how we should make a hashtag so that the entire Atlantic Canadian population could get in on the excitement of gazing upon my beauty. We’d call it #benspotting.

Ha. Ha. Ha. Yes – we’re obnoxious but at least we keep ourselves entertained.

And then it actually started to happen.

And then it sustained for longer than anyone thought possible.

And then more people wanted to use my face for things.

And then after multiple rounds in film studios, recording studios, photo shoots, and interviews, I brought you guys up to speed on the Kardashianesque mania that my life has become. Well, it’s Kardashian once you take away all the fame, wealth, power, and global embarrassment.

So, if all of Atlantic Canada has to put up with me invading their senses, so do you and there’s pretty much no way I can take you through all of this without it sounding really braggy and awful. But whatever. We’ll get through it like a bandaid…slowly but surely, one hair at a time. Or maybe that’s just how I rip off bandaids.

• First, and most prominently, do you remember that TV and internet upgrade I mentioned? Yeah. I’m all over that now. I basically own Bell. Again, if ‘own’ were to have nothing to do with riches, power, or control. So don’t be that guy who comes to me for customer service. I just wanted to download tween pop songs faster. And I do that on repeat-peat-peat-peat-peat.

• Second, and I am particularly happy with how this one turned out, I haven’t embarrassed my alma mater to the point of them denying any connection to me! Huzzah! In fact, they so very kindly brought me in for an interview, video profile, and lovely article about my ahem non-traditional career path. Check it out, y’all.

• Third, I somehow landed myself in very lovely company for a magazine feature on local bloggers. And this one? It’s more a testament to you guys than it is to me. Without you, I wouldn’t have a blog, I wouldn’t have found my voice, I wouldn’t have gone to Africa, I wouldn’t have ended up on billboards, and I wouldn’t have my style described as, “mini-memoirs: incidents in his life shaken vigorously into a cocktail of comical description and sassy sarcasm.”

Actually, now that I write it all out, I’m slowly realizing that this post isn’t obnoxious and braggy about me. It’s more accurately an obnoxious and braggy post about YOU, your unbelievable support of the blog that more than one person said would keep me unemployed, and the energy you share that keeps me thinking I can keep blazing my own trail year after year. Sure, I love the things I get to do, but so much of it comes down to wanting to make you (yes, YOU) proud. I mean that.

So thank you. Truly. But god – quit being so obnoxious about it okay? There’s something to be said about keeping some humility. Some people are just so arrogant…

The other day while the newf was out educating the leaders of tomorrow, I counted how many pairs of underwear he had. And before you go asking why one might feel the need to do such a thing, you need to understand that it’s winter up here in Canada and that means getting creative about filling all the time you spend indoors hating the world. Also, it’s been a full year since I started working from home without coworkers – I’ll be the first to admit that I’m getting weird.

Regardless of my motives, you’ll be glad I did because the results were STAGGERING. But before we get into the details that I’m sure are going to get me involved in some sort of family meeting about boundaries, it’s important that you know a couple of things:

- The newf, despite how he tends to dance in our kitchen, is not an erotic dancer that might need a full wardrobe of varied and often themed undergarments.

- There are no fetishes in our home to speak of that might give rise to a uncharacteristically large quantity of manties spread taking up three drawers.

- We’re gay so take any assumptions of $10 five-packs of Hanes and toss em out the window. I saw more labels in that dresser than there were in The September Issue.

Y’all ain’t ready…

It may not look like much…but that’s because you didn’t get to experience the happy task of trying to force those two drawers back into the dresser as the force of 100 pairs of underwear work against you.

That’s right – 100!! Enough to open up one’s own used underwear shop (I didn’t say it was a great idea)! Or outfit one third of the Spartans for their sexy wartime panty games! And if being able to dress a sizeable army of six-packed warriors with five minutes notice wasn’t shocking enough for you, let’s talk economics. Or finance. Or maybe just simple math…once numbers get involved, I pretty much just close my eyes and wait for it all to pass:

One pair of Ginch Gonch: $20-30

One pair of Dolce & Gabbana: $30-35

One pair of Calvin Klein: $15-20

One pair of random granny panty boxers often worn with fleecy sweatpants pulled up to his nipples because it, “feels like someone’s hugging my butt”: $8-12

Average cost per pair as arbitrarily chosen by me: $22.50

Approximate household holdings in Underwear Capital: $2,250

With that amount of money, we could pay an underwear model to come stand around the house in his skivvies for our next dinner party. And we wouldn’t even have to settle for a flat-stomach – we could afford the whole six, eight, or however many abs people are supposed to have these days.

Just in case anyone cares, I blame Ryan Reynold’s eight-foot torso for the arms race happening between Ideal Abdominals and Shaving Razors. I, too, could have fourteen abs if only I had the torso real estate. And if I stopped eating and drinking until the end of time. And if I occasionally made even the slightest effort to use even just a single muscle.

In other news, I don’t really have any way to end this post besides perhaps mentioning that Yelp sent me a onesie pajama set for Christmas and I’ve been wearing it under all my clothes pretty much nonstop.

So, compared to the newf’s 100 pairs of underwear, am I the 1%, the 99%, or just the ‘needs to do laundry more often’ %?

[Actual photo of a teenaged me working. My face suggests it was taken during science or art week.]

It has come to my attention (because some people can’t just let things go), that I may have overlooked one very obvious omission from my previous list of social encounters that make me uncomfortable: face-to-face interactions with children, babies, or anyone too far below the legal drinking age. While at first I attempted to counter this accusation, my internal reaction to news that a new-mom friend was coming over said more than I ever could:

“Wait. Is she bringing that baby?! YOU KNOW HOW I FEEL ABOUT BABIES. I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU’D RUIN MY LIFE LIKE THIS.”

Now, dramatics aside–actually, no…no ‘dramatics aside.’ Without the dramatics, I wouldn’t have a blog. In fact, I say we need more dramatics up in this B which is why I proudly stand by my knee-jerk reaction to the threatening possibility of baby time Or, if nothing else, I stand by my reaction because I know there are far too many similar cases to really deny at this point.

Last week my parents sprung two admittedly adorable and polite distant cousins on me at a Christmas open house (we’ll have to get into my mother’s particular blend of crazy that led to planning and hosting an open house with 36-hours notice some other time). Within three seconds of walking in the door, they were on top of me, kicking off a night of awkwardly running away lest my true colours show:

Cute kids: “Hi. Are you Stephen or Benjamin? Is that you in this picture? Do you live here?”

Internal Monologue: “EW. GET AWAY FROM ME, YOU LITTLE FREAK!”

Cute kids: “You can hang up your coat in this closet. And you should put your shoes here on this mat.”

Internal Monologue: “YOU’RE NOT MY MOM! YOU CAN’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO!”

Eventually I gave them the slip by distracting them with the newf’s iPhone. That’s babysitting 4G-style, y’all.

Even this week the lovely Ally was telling me about her two-year-old who has learned how to drop beats on his T-Pain autotune microphone (watch your volume) and expects daily Michael Jackson dance parties. I mean, if there was ever a kid I could hang with, it would be this one. He has imaginary conference calls with Lady Gaga for god’s sake! But no…

This morning she reminded me of the epic deny I tossed her way when she asked if she could bring the little nugget to a barbecue at my place. Without being able to remember my exact words, I feared the worst. I imagined something like, “Sure, but the likelihood of me giving you a false address will increase dramatically,” or, “Sure, but I’ve never grilled toddler before.”

While neither was quite on the mark, you can be the judge of whether the real deal (copy-and-pasted from the original message) is better or worse:

Toddlers welcome although they cannot be my responsibility also, Theo may try to take him down if he runs.

Yup. I agreed but also announced that I may sick my dog on him.

Children are the future or whatever…

Sweeping Statement #1: There are very few social situations that I cannot rock. Moreover (what a fucking terrible word…we should just replace it with ‘WHY YES. AS A MATTER OF FACT, I HAVE TAKEN A INTRODUCTORY-LEVEL ENGLISH COURSE’), the ones that cause me any level of anxiety are typically ones in which I know I will never find myself. Like orgies*. Or murder plots**. Or cover-ups after someone accidentally dies during an orgy and you’re the only one who wants to go to the cops about it***. Or basically anything that has to do with anonymous sex or death.

Sweeping Statement #2: Despite my mastery of social circumstances save murder and sex parties, it has recently come to light that weddings are shockingly not among my social repertoire. In fact, I would go so far as to suggest that I am one of the worst wedding guests of all time, made worse considering that people (myself included) generally don’t see this coming until the big day when suddenly I’m all up in your family’s business making everyone uncomfortable. My role as Ill-Equipped Conversationalist should be right up there with Depressed Single Sister and College Roommate Without A Filter.

I really don’t know what it is about weddings that makes me turn into a backwoods hermit whose only social experience played out on Geocities discussion boards, but it was a major problem during some New Year’s Eve nuptials just last week. The only–and I do mean *only*–phrase I could muster up for the bride was some variation on how gorgeous she looked. Nice the first few times, weird when I literally cannot find other words. Likewise, the only offering I had for the groom was, “I hope you’re actually getting to enjoy your day! Weddings be crazy, yo!”

Guys? I do not know how weddings be. I’ve only been to about four in my entire life.

I also have no business ending declarations with, “yo!”

My first foray into the world of weddings was as an infant buckled into whatever child seat contraption has since been deemed devastatingly unsafe for use among babies. My parents tucked me underneath a banquet table to sleep while they partied. When pressed, their excuse is a simple, “Hey – that’s just what people did in the eighties.” And while that excuse might work for cocaine and big hair, I remain unconvinced of its legitimacy in the case of my clearly traumatic upbringing. As for the wedding? It was about as good as one can be before you’re old enough to get inappropriately drunk and grind up on the bride’s great aunt Doris.

At age five, I was one of the ring-bearers at my uncle’s wedding. My fat cheeks weighed about as much as my entire body does now and I had no idea what I was supposed to be doing. What I did know was that it would be the start of my own lifelong romance with tuxedo vests, bowties, and having people watch me walk. I can’t be 100% sure, but I like to believe I invented the Tyra Banks that day. I worked that shit out, y’all.

With such a strong showing as a toddler (are five-year-olds still toddlers or just smaller, stickier children?), I honestly never saw my New Year’s Eve disaster coming. But people…what are you supposed to talk about at weddings?! I mean, as nice as a ceremony is–and this one was truely carved out of my very champagne-filled dreams–I just don’t have enough to say about it to last through the night!

Without a script, or talking points, or even the faintest reference point for social cues in these circumstances, and much to the dismay of anyone who got stuck talking to me, I just spent the night awkwardly asking Big Life Questions. For hours, I rotated through these three sentences, sometimes using them more than once on the same horrified people:

- “So…when are you two tying the knot?” (often said to married people.)

- “So…are kids in the plans?” (honestly, guys. I was awful.)

- “Well, I guess that’s marriage…amirite?” (the. worst.)

Two hours into the reception I looked desperately at the newf in a blind panic, wishing that he’d forcibly remove me from the building or at least punch me hard enough to black out for the rest of it. Of course, he was hammered and found it hilarious to watch me leave a trail of uncomfortable people in my wake.

Which brings us right to my strategy for the next time. At least then I’ll have the drunk excuse.

*Do you just start touching people? How do you politely say that you have enough going on around you so kindly just watch for the time-being until space clears up? What if you show up and everyone’s ugly…can you just leave?

**Even after working in advertising for almost three years, the thought of having to organize and delegate among a crowd of people who clearly have no qualms about ending lives is simply not something I’m comfortable with.

***Chick please…I’m Canadian. We don’t go to prison. We apologize and politely rat out our sexual acquaintances.

[Photo credit: Skona]

I have my serious hat on today, kids. Okay fine – it’s not that serious. It’s more like a grey tweed on the outside with a bright blue cartoon whale pattern liner. You know, business time meets ‘I’m five-years-old’ which is generally what I want for my entire wardrobe. But, seeing as how this now awesome-sounding hat is entirely theoretical for the sake of setting the tone for my final post of 2011, maybe I should stop talking about it and get down to actual business.

[Hey hatmakers: I'm ready to partner on my line of No Ordinary Hats whenever you are. I'll take my share of the business in unlimited hats* and bragging rights. Call me.]

This was a ridiculous year. As in, so ridiculous that I’m almost sick of talking about it. That’s not to say that the past twelve months haven’t been everything I’ve ever wanted and more, but 2011 offered only tastes of what I’m looking for – not the real deal. I’m just so afraid that I’ll spend too much time basking in temporary excitement at the expense of the momentum and focus I need to keep pushing toward my long-term goals.

Whatever those are…

See, I think I actually learned too much about myself all at once in 2011 – a couple great things but many more ugly truths and limitations that I’ve been trying to turn into wisdom. At first, it was great. I was able to adapt and adjust and plan for my own shortcomings with a clarity I’d never had before. But now? Well, I see the path to failure a little too clearly and get stuck making knee-jerk reactions and snap judgements at the first sign of that slippery slope.

Hi there, pressure. I figured you’d turn up eventually.

There you have it: Ben’s not satisfied again and no one’s surprised. I can almost hear my parents and the newf commiserating over Irish coffees from here. But, on a much more positive note and despite the manic obsession for bigger and better, I’m more excited, inspired and hopeful than I’ve been since my university days. 2011 was the happiest and most fun-filled year I’ve had in my twenties and you best believe I’ll do whatever it takes to keep moving in that direction.

So rather than bore you with the things you already know happened last year or dance around the secrets I have planned for the new year, I’m going to close out this bitch with a collection of the lessons learned that had me feeling like a brand new me at age 26. I tried to credit people but then scrapped it all when I realized how impossible that is when you’re surrounded by the coolest, smartest, funniest, hippest and most interesting people in the world – yourselves included.

Happy New Year, friends.

#1. Be nicer to yourself and those around you: knocking yourself down doesn’t get you anywhere besides stuck in the mud.

#2. Spend more time doing than you spend planning: a simple step in the right direction is better than any conversation about moving forward. (This changed my life last January.)

#3. No one sits around thinking about how they can make your life easier. Except maybe your mom. And she’s already put in her time.

#4. Fail often but fail fast and learn something new every time. Wouldn’t you rather realize you failed after an hour rather than six months?

#5. Tell people what you want instead of just hoping for it. Bonus: know who to turn to for what you need, when you need it.

#6. Say no to things that you don’t want to do. I mean, maybe not hygiene or rules of the road, but things like cookie swaps and sub-sub-committees.

#7. Focus on your cheerleaders and forget the downers. You think the Kardashians read our tweets? Nope – they’re busy making millions.

#8. Celebrate the people doing what you want to do. There’s room for all of us to be successful and hating each other certainly isn’t going to get us there.

#9. Be the first to bet on yourself. If you don’t buy it, nobody else will.

#10. Lean into your community: you’ll be amazed at what they can help you accomplish when you give them the chance.

*My lawyers suggest not making jokes when it comes to business proposals. So to be clear, I meant ‘unlimited hats, bragging rights, and lots and lots of money as to be determined by my representatives that boast a more sound and rational perspective that is not as easily clouded by pretty hats.’

Photo Credit: tweetheartwallar

As we seem to be coming up on a month since the finger-breaking injury and the abrupt end of my promising dodgeball career, it’s time to start thinking of new ways to put my dramatic, stainless-steel splint to new use. Because when your universal health care gives you shiny solutions for your physical flaws, you take that shit to the BANK. It’s what my uninsured American brothers and sisters would want me to do.

My pinky finger seems to be doing really well and is no longer determined to reduce me to tears on a daily basis. Sure, it’s not perfect and seems to have gotten comfortable in its stand-offish skew meant to let all my other fingers know that he totally thinks they’re beneath him (my pinky is a dude named Keith. Keith Richards. Don’t question me), and sure, the tip is still super sensitive, but overall I’m much better than I was. And…

No wait – you know what? I’m going to stop right there. Because as soon as I wrote ‘tip,’ I just know that all of you snorted and went all, “Ha! He said tip!” So just for a second, let’s try this:

Hi, English language-speakers. Can we talk about how angry it makes me when society jumps on some sitcom-esque, blanket punchline that sucks the wind out of my complicated, moderately entertaining monologues? And yes, that’s my fancypants way of saying that the next person who hijacks my story (which as you all well know can take anywhere from 500-1200 words to play out in full) with a ‘that’s what she said’ is getting a leather boot to the pancreas courtesy of Stephen Fry.

I don’t care if I said ‘tip,’ or ‘hard,’ or ‘stuck.’ Those, and the many other words you’ve taken to signal your cue for drunk comedy club patron behaviour are now going to be mine again. Trust me – my joke is going to be funnier than yours. It may take some time…but it’ll be funnier. And you know what? I’ll even let you keep ‘moist’ as a show of good faith. That’s a gross word that deserves nothing more than second-rate mockery.

Okay. Back to business. Here’s the start of my master list of uses for my faithful sidekick and most treasured accessory, the silver pinky splint. Be sure to add your own in the comments. I will attempt to do as many of them as possible while securing photo and video evidence:

• My personal insignia of James Bond villainy.
• The next Lady Gaga music video accessory.
• Dramatically flipping an imaginary hair strand out of my face when stating my diva demands.
• Using the cool metal to reduce the bags under my eyes after holiday benders.
• Keeping children away with rumours that I use it to slice throats.
• One half of a makeshift set of finger bells.
• Freezing it for use in rudely waking up the newf with naught but a gentle touch.
• Making a case for using handicapped parking.
• Getting out of the next season of dodgeball.
• Putting it on my pinky toe and pretending to be a velociraptor.

Now you go.

Today, I thought I’d try a little something different. Some of you may not realize this, but we’re coming up on the official five-year anniversary of this blog. Whoa, right? Blogging came into my life just a few months after meeting the newf which has given him plenty of time to grow into his role as a Joanna Lumley-esque, spotlight-stealing guest star. An impressive feat considering the many reasons why you’ve gotta be out-of-your-mind crazy to willingly date a blogger.

In a rare moment in his honour, I thought I’d cover the two equally important roles that he plays oh-so well in being the Corky to my Murphy Brown. I wish nothing more than for this to help guide you single guys and gals out there to not just love and happiness, but to a useful spouse who can earn their keep in a blogger household. You’ll thank me later.

The first common blogger-spousal role is that of The Voice of Reason. And thank god for that. While I see how quickly I can work my way through a bottle of wine while forcing my boozey thoughts upon the internet, the newf is usually busy keeping us afloat with forward-thinking finances, responsible choices, and grown-up plans. Without him, all those end-of-the-bottle ideas like “I swear, you give me two months and I can make 98 Degrees hot again. And the first month will be just to give the ugly one the slip. This is my new calling,” would actually take over my life for weeks at a time. Instead, I share these ideas with you, the newf stands in the corner with his arms folded, and we’ve got instant odd-couple hilarity.

Bonus Points: this hilarity does not come at the expense of my future which will be much appreciated when I’m 45 and the internet doesn’t exist anymore and all my life’s work toward making faceless strangers care about my zany adventures proves to be in vain.

Another, more fun take on being a blogger spouse involves being The Quippy Sidekick Who Says What Everyone Else Is Thinking If Everyone Else Were To Be Half In The Bag At All Times. This one is a slap-stickier take on reversing the previous roles. It’s also internet humour gold. Bloggers with a solid lock on an unintentionally funny significant other have got it made. They don’t even have to write anymore, they just have to sit back, wait for the next obnoxious statement, and blog that shit.

I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, but the newf does this one really well too. He’s basically a jack-of-all-trades when it comes to fulfilling his quota of bloggable whimsy. From randomly signing us up for water aerobics without asking first, to saying things like: “Could you get me an episode of those burger hose? The borgableese? The blagahoo? Fuck it – you know what I mean…the dirty pope show,” my man can definitely bring it.

The only problem with my blogging muse (self-proclaimed) is that occasionally, he knows it all too well. Lately, he’s taken to saying such foolish things as, “God. You wouldn’t even have a blog if it weren’t for me. I’m what the people want – you’re just the middle man,” before spouting off a series of rimshot-worthy one-liners, each followed by a, “are you writing this down? I don’t see you taking notes…it’s okay. I’ll wait.”

And it’s around then that he gets really unbearable in a Mariah-looking-for-three-dozen-morning-doves kind of way and I set out to take him down a peg. Which is what this post is actually all about despite the guise of it being a happy-go-lucky anthem for unappreciated blogger spouses.

You thought I was actually being nice? You must be new here. You see, kicking things off with a “SUCK IT. I MADE YOU AND I CAN BREAK YOU,” just seemed unnecessarily vulgar and I consider myself to have more tact than that. But let’s be serious: there will be no posts here about how amazing anyone is unless they’re about me. Get your own blog, losers.

So, in the spirit of putting an imaginary competition ahead of my relationship, it is my greatest pleasure to announce to you that up until last month, the newf didn’t know that there was a system to making rows disappear in Tetris. I’mma let that sink in for a minute…

No really. Since approximately 1993*, he thought the disappearance of rows happened by some random special surprise or by moving certain colour blocks from side to side as often as possible before they hit the bottom, skewing his entire understanding of the game. And that’s how he’s been playing UNTIL LAST MONTH.

Now, I don’t mean to be cruel. But to me? This is the BEST NEW THING TO EVER HAPPEN TO ME FULL STOP EXCEPT NOT FULL STOP BECAUSE WE NEED A COUPLE OMG YAYZERS IN THERE FOR GOOD MEASURE.

Why? Because now whenever he slips into The Voice of Reason role and gives me the side-eye when I can’t answer a single question on the math quiz he gave his sixth graders (fuck off, okay? I have a calculator. Eat shit, elementary curriculum), I can pummel his vintage video game knowledge gap until he’s weeping under the glow of an original Game Boy.

And isn’t that what relationships are really all about?

*No – he’s not a child. I made a guesstimate as to when he would have first played Tetris.

Photo Credit: autowitch

So. Dodgeball. Remember that time I pretended that I could love it? Remember that time that I got all team spirity like any football coach in any football movie during the halftime of the big championship game just before putting the scrawny, maybe-a-little-slow-but-it-would-be-inappropriate-to-say-it kid on the field to save the day?

Well take a motherfucking knee, bitches, because OH HOW THE TIMES HAVE CHANGED.

That’s right. The universe is back in proper balance again. I’ve reclaimed my stereotypically gay stance on sports (good for topless athletes and topless athletes alone),  and as a result, I suspect the global financial collapse should be rectified by the weekend thanks to the powers of the cosmos. “If a gay hates sports in Canada…” is just like “if a butterfly flaps its wings in Japan…”

Week by week, I was making it through the dodgeball season. I would push past the weekly anxiety of waking up knowing that my Wednesday would end with taking a couple balls to the face (yup. I said that), and I’d do my best to be a positive, contributing member of the team despite totally shirking any of my responsibilities to the random straight guys we recruited after our first devastating loss. No seriously – they watched us play one night and we never let them go.

Basically once we found our three jocks, my role was to be adorable and not get killed which felt much more natural than actually trying to win. (Quick pause to wave a timid hello to the people who are going to forever find this post when searching for ‘gay jock balls’. Sorry fellas.) But two weeks ago, I played my final game.

Almost too appropriately, it was against the team that crushed us during week one. And you know what? It was actually going well! We had won a couple rounds, I had made some decent plays leading to the uncomfortable silence after exclaiming, “I get it now! I’m more of a catcher than a pitcher,” and I was feeling pretty good up until the point that I was the only one left of our team with their four biggest guys left on the opposite side of the elementary school gym.

There’s something very sinister about getting pummeled by grown men whilst surrounded by laminated clip art but that’s a therapy session for another day…

Rather than simply lob all four balls at me at once, letting me fumble them in a big gay panic, and allowing me to walk off the court unharmed, these guys decided that the only way to win would be to whip them as hard as they could at my face, all at once (it gets better, my ASS) and within seconds, my right pinky finger looked like I was sipping tea with the Queen. ALL THE TIME.

They cracked my finger in what I can only assume was some Tonya Hardingesque attempt to stop my blogging at their expense. Well, you should have tried harder impotent, beer-bellied high school bullies who will later be lifting empty bottles out of my car at the recycling depot! I’ll never stop writing about your dumb asses!! I’m UNSTOPPABLE!

It just takes a lot longer now…and it hurts a lot. So maybe we’ll call this one a stalemate.

With the newf just a few short hours away from his first visit to Las Vegas and his second ever trip to the United States (innie precious?), I have the house all to myself for the next few days which happens just about every other never. This might be the third time in as many years that I’ve ever had a bachelor pad if a bachelor pad were to be dropped off in the middle of suburbia. Which I suppose would work for a very cougar-focused bachelor.

The last time this happened, I let you in on the theme days that I use to fill my time. This round, I feel like I should be a little more honest about the mental state I sink into when he’s gone. During the day, sure–I’m making my own fun with the carefree attitude of my former, happily unemployed self without the obviously dire financial consequences. But at sundown, Dr. Jekyll turns into Mr. Paranoid Recluse With No Sign Of Rational Thought.

I don’t know what it is about being alone in this house that makes me believe that all things evil, gruesome, and inconvenient are suddenly going to turn their focus onto me. It’s like at any given point I feel I’m going to live out the entire Panic Room movie while also being stalked by komodo dragons and losing the keys to the panic room door.

Quick interjection: Guys – have you seen that earth life ocean planet blue documentary narrated by Sigourney Freeman Oprah Morgan Weavrey? ‘Cause I sure did. I thought I would learn something cool about the komodo dragons (which up until 45 seconds ago I was convinced were actually named kimono dragons…like, to the point that I was all, ‘seriously, spellcheck? As if I don’t know how to spell kimono. Please…’) and suddenly one is stalking a jungle cow or water horse or something that he’s infected with a single bite and is now destined to die slowly over the course of several weeks.

BUT WAIT THERE’S MORE. The blood or decay or venom or something can be smelled by all kimono dragons (my way’s better) in the area so not only does this poor tropical take on a farm animal have to slowly die IN HD…it has to do so while accumulating an audience of twelve freaking mini dinosaurs standing around like they’re waiting for the kettle to boil. Jurassic Park gets all up in the donkey’s business as the poor thing is flailing about, probably chatting about how Gordon Ramsey would never let this take so long on Hell’s Kitchen.

C’mon, Migournah… was that really a necessary ‘did you know’ fact that just had to be shared with the people? ‘Cause it’s going to take more than an eighties starswipe for me to shake off THAT knowledge.

Okay. Back on track. One crazy at a time, Benjamin.

(We’ll get to my newly developed conversations with myself some other time.)

So, as the newf leaves and the inevitable fear of imaginary death by dragon takes hold, I do what any other well-adjusted scared person would: I find the most isolated corner of the house and sit there with all the lights off until I can’t keep my eyes open. At that point, I make a desperate sprint to the bedroom that only becomes an adequately safe stronghold once I reach a certain level of exhaustion. But until then…I essentially hide in the dark and wonder why I’m so afraid.

If nothing else it’s more energy efficient than the newf’s version. He Home-Alones the shit out of the place until I get home with every light and appliance running at full blast. Because clearly intruders stop to think about not wanting to interrupt your household chores when choosing whether or not to make couture accessories out of your skin.

Now before you even start, yes – there are a few obvious flaws in my plan too. Most notably the sheer panic caused by my reaction to fear. Sitting in the dark in spaces that I rarely ever use like the guest bathroom, the newf’s unused office, and the furnace room is not very likely to calm me down. Second, my unshakably detailed knowledge of the kimono dragon’s (I’m committed) creepy patience and moochy friends doesn’t disappear when the lights go out. But despite the system’s flaws, nothing trumps the power I get out of the delusional notion that sitting in a dark corner of the house will allow me to…waitforit…get the jump on intruders.

I mean, what?!? What exactly am I going to do to a burglar, rapist, kimono dragon, or the ghost of Dr. Robert C. Atkins, creator of the no-carb diet, if one were to invade the home? Kill them with planet earth trivia and Sigourney Freeman impressions? Tweet for help? Hope the dachshunds turn out to be shapeshifting warriors sent to earth to protect me, overlooking how weird it would be knowing that they’ve sniffed me in weird places while I slept?

The answer? Is yes, yes, and a hesitant yes.

See you next week. Hopefully.

Photo Credit: eflon

Every so often, we face defining moments where a challenge, hardship, or opportunity allows us to catch glimpses of truth from deep within ourselves. Sometimes life-changing epiphanies, sometimes defeating realizations – no matter what the cause or outcome, these moments are defined by a common clarity that allows you to rise above and become a better person. Or, to simply accept the good, the bad and the ugly that make you who you are.

Naturally, my story is not about becoming a better person.

In fact, I sort of just keep getting worse as all of this plays out.

Last week our dearest newf decided that after years of putting up with my weekly BIG ANNOUNCEMENTS and EXCITING NEW PROJECTS and SURPRISE TRIPS TO AFRICA and SUDDEN AGREEMENTS TO BE FEATURED ON BILLBOARDS FOR MONTHS AND MONTHS*, he would try his hand at adding some spice to our suburban life. I mean, if I have a proven history of justifying major life decisions based on potential for whimsy, surely he could shake things up too, right? [*More on this later. But yeah. That's happening.]

Wrong. Doing so throws off the balance of everything that makes us work. It’s my job to bring the bananas on the daily, and it’s his job to make sure none of us slip on the peels left behind in the aftermath. Without him, I would have self-destructed years ago. Without me, he would be 87-years-old. The system works.

You want to know what happens when you go against the system? You become Carmen Elektra and Dennis Rodman. Or Carmen Elektra and Dave Navarro. Or basically Carmen Elektra and anyone.

Overlooking the fact that maybe this isn’t about relationship roles and might just be about not behaving like Carmen Elektra, I’ve decided to declare this phenomenon: The Carmen Elektra Rules of Relationship Engagement. It’s just like her Aerobic Striptease DVDs except much less likely to earn any money whatsoever.

Despite years of comfortable living without offending the great goddess of relationships, Carmen Elektra (I knew I couldn’t come up with enough scientific jargon to maintain the theory-based approach to this story so I switched to Greek God-like legendry), the newf decided to try his hand at creating some havoc. Having learned from the best, he did exactly what I would have done and opened with his primer, also known as Forcing A Precedent.

“Honey, I was approved for that conference in Vegas. Looks like I’m heading out in about ten days. Is that cool?”

And of course it was cool. As someone who traveled for about three months out of 2011, it’s not like I could very well kick up a fuss over this. Obviously, I said something along the lines of “I love you and support you,” thus walking into my own trap by officially setting a precedent of being The Cool Wife. Now, no matter what his next request, any objections on my part could be squashed with a simple, “Oh, well I just thought since you were so cool about Vegas that you wouldn’t mind *fillinthehorribleterriblenogoodwhateverhere*.”

See how that works? Forcing A Precedent. Remember it. Look out for it. Use the shit out of it.

Having practically invented this game–no seriously…I’m kind of making it up on the fly here–I should have seen what was coming: the Sucker Punch of boyfriend requests that would now be unsquashable thanks to The Precedent, the true test of my own commitment to the very order that The Carmen Elektra Rules of Relationship Engagement exist to protect. Would I keep my cool or would I throw our entire existence into complete chaos?

“Honey, my ex is coming to town this weekend to find an apartment so I told him we could stay at our place. He gets here tomorrow. You’re cool with that, right?”

Masterfully played, my dear newf. I see you’ve been paying attention over the past five years.

And, of course, there was nothing I could do. He played the game, and I lost. There was nothing left for me beyond putting a smile on my face, setting up the guest room, starting a 24-hour fat flush, and training Calvin to hate strangers again.

Weight loss and small dogs are the weapons that win Gay Wars. Write that down.

But then it hit me. Sure, I was stuck in The Cool Wife precedent…but then again, so was the newf. You see, after these announcements were revealed, I went out and bought new designer jeans, new shoes, and a haircut so expensive you’d have thought I had Willow Smith’s weave put in.

Sure, my life partner (ew) and occasional arch nemesis could have said something about the splurge but not without risking the fragile house of cards that was keeping my mouth shut about the other developments. Being the master of The Carmen Elektra Rules of Relationship Engagement that I am, I used his precedent as a precedent to buy so many shiny things that I would have gladly played host to an entire ex-boyfriend summit so long as I got to do so in my new Toms. Also…precedent, precedent, precedent.

It’s a good word.

And just as I was coming to peace with all of this, maybe even coming close to a personal growth opportunity where I realize that sometimes you have to play a supporting role or at the very least not just use potentially uncomfortable situations as an excuse to blow hundreds of dollars (dozens of dollars, in case the newf asks), the ex canceled.

So to recap, the ex spent the weekend in Newfoundland without having to worry about Gossip Girl levels of crazy. The newf will still spend a weekend in Vegas without objection from The Cool Wife. And I spent the weekend broke, hungry, trying to calm down Calvin’s stranger-danger-fueled fury, and wondering if all of this could have been avoided with a group performance of Carmen’s strippercise DVDs.

Which is to say, somehow Carmen Elektra still came out on top here.

She still has so much left to teach me…