As bizarre as it may sound, we here at HBI get hit on by readers on a fairly consistent basis.  Some are obvious loons but others seem more subtle.  Not to mention unique.

 

Just last week, I was contacted by a guy who was convinced we were made for each other.

 

“I’ve always liked your writing and I think we have the same interests and sense of humour.  I’ve traveled quite a bit, read a lot and am not afraid to show my feelings.  But at the same time, I enjoy hanging out with the boys, farting and scratching myself.”

 

Oh goody – a renaissance man.

 

“My travels have brought me into contact with people all over the world and I’ve learned a lot from them.”  He cut to the chase:  “It would be nice to get together.  And I have thousands of tails to share with you.”

 

Hmm…this was troubling.  Although in the past I’ve overlooked things like heart-stopping ugliness, unfortunate dentition and extra nipples, even I have my limits.

 

I absolutely draw the line at men with tails.

 

I’m sure I’d find a tail distracting and by his own admission, he’s got THOUSANDS of the things.

 

How did he acquire them all? Did he escape from the Island of Dr. Moreau? Go AWOL from a circus?  Is he the next breakthrough after the mouse with the ear on its back?  Does his plastic surgeon have issues?

 

Are they all the same or does he have a variety?  And why does he want to share them with me?  Is this some form of kinkiness that even exposure to the Old Fella ™ hasn’t brought to my attention?  Some obscure American gesture of friendship? How in the world does the poor man find jeans that fit? 

 

Do I get to choose?  I could quite fancy something prehensile.  It would come in so handy on a crowded subway.

 

But no – in my business, you have to play your cards close to your chest and betray no emotion.  It doesn’t pay to tip your hand.  Having a tail would really be more of a hindrance – everyone sitting behind me in the courtroom would know when I thought I’d scored a devastating hit in cross examination or was particularly pleased with the court’s ruling. 

 

Besides I’m not a fan of meeting anyone from the internet.  I’ve never done it and I’m not about to start – the whole idea skeeves me out.  Remembering the Old Fella’s ™ adventures in trolling the web would be enough to put me off even if I hadn’t an aversion to it in the first place.

 

Obviously, many people do it. Which brings me to my next topic. (Or “tail” if you will.)

 

A good friend of mine has thrown her hands up in dismay at the chances of ever meeting a suitable, well adjusted man the regular way and has taken to the internet.  We discussed it not that long ago.

 

“Yeah, well I went for coffee with this one guy I met on Lavalife.  He seemed OK online, but in person he was a real dweeb and he wasn’t exactly honest about what he looked like.  Or his job.”

 

Imagine.  People you meet online lying to you.  What’s the world coming to?

 

“But I just don’t know how to go about it.  How do you meet a sincere, honest guy these days?”

 

Um…just a thought – not on the net.

 

As I guzzled endless coffee and ran up a frightening phone bill, we talked it through.  Although I find it hard to comprehend why any woman would think she needed a man, it’s apparent that some do and I did my best to be understanding and helpful.  Understanding, I can manage.  Helpful, well, not so much -- but with a snootful of caffeine motivating me, I’m sure I made some pretty creative suggestions.

 

It’ll come to no surprise to many of you I’m sure, but I am an avid coffee drinker.  I’m ashamed to confess it, but on a good day I can down in excess of 30 cups of the stuff.  Things have been extreme lately even for me – this is due to my 15 hour workdays and the necessity of staying awake through them.  Yep, there’s nothing like going through years of school for the privilege of working 7 days a week for weeks on end without a break.  Hundred hour weeks mean that if I could mainline caffeine, I would do it.  My typical workday begins at 4 am and ends around midnight.

 

The upshot of this is that by the end of the day, I sound like an auctioneer.  By as early as 4 on most days, I can feel my hair growing and have breath like decomposing carrion.  This means little to me, however, especially as a Timmy’s has just opened right across the street from me.  What Canadian could resist?

 

Yes, yes – I’ve heard all the warnings -- coffee can cause your heart to become arrhythmic, it drains calcium you’re your bones – but worst of all, it discolours your teeth.  I noticed this the other night, was appalled and set out to do something about it.  I went to the drug store and purchased a two hour whitening kit.

 

I read the instructions – you’re supposed to leave the stuff on for 20 minutes at a time, take a 10 minute break and repeat until you reach 2 hours of treatment.  Easy enough, eh?

 

I applied the product and began reading some caselaw between yawns.    Before you know it, I had nodded off.

 

Seven hours later when I awoke, I ran to the bathroom and discovered my teeth were now so white that they could serve as a rescue beacon in an avalanche.

 

Oh God, I thought to myself, I’ll never pull this off.  Time for more coffee.  After all, that’s what was responsible for darkening them in the first place.

 

Maybe I missed the manufacturer’s warning that the product can cause sensitivity to temperature. 

 

The first swallow felt much like what I imagine being hit by lightening does.  Except the pain lingered.  For about half an hour.   Then my teeth began to throb so insistently that I was sure I could use them to check my pulse.

 

Clearly, coffee wasn’t the answer but short of brushing with coal dust, I was stumped.  Damn.  Off to court.

 

So spectacular was the glare that every time I smiled, nearby plants bent towards me and effortlessly achieved photosynthesis.  Passersby either winced or crossed the street in trepidation.  Short of handing out an arc-welding visor to everyone I spoke to that day or single-handedly trying to revive fans as a fashion accessory, I was bound for a few days of double takes.  And I had a motion to argue that day.

 

As luck would have it, I had drawn a slightly deaf judge, notorious for becoming annoyed with mumbling counsel.  He’s a very nice man, but is getting on in years and relies on spectacles and a hearing aid so as not to miss a word.

 

As he entered the courtroom and took the bench, he smiled at me.  Reflexively, I smiled back.  He gave a visible start and took his glasses off. I thought I could see his eyes water.   He sat down and peered at me intently.

 

I always make eye contact with the judge.  It’s only polite and if you’re trying to persuade somebody of something, glancing at them now and again tends to lend credence to your remarks.  This day, however, I found myself addressing my remarks to the lectern in a misguided effort not to blind the court.  I cursed myself for not bringing a snow goggles to assist him.  It must have been like looking into the sun.

 

Thankfully, the matter was adjourned and I was on the verge of fleeing before I caused a panic when I ran into the person I least wanted to see.  This woman, who shall remain unnamed, has just been elevated to second in command in a place where one of my friends works.  I’ve met her before and she’s absolutely obnoxious – an avid purveyor of the most poisonous gossip around, which she repeats with relish and gobs of malice.  Those skilled in office politics (and office treachery) often go far, so despite her backstabbing ways and thirst for perfidy, I wasn’t surprised. 

 

I’ve thought of her as Number Two for years.

 

Luckily, all it took was one brilliant smile to stop her in her tracks long enough to allow me to make my escape.  I slunk back home and it looks like I’m stuck here until the glow from my mouth has faded. 

 

Till next time,

 

Morrigan