BEFORE WE BEGIN: A belated Happy Birthday to Le Clown. You have been well and truly blessed, my new friend. Enjoy the love and adoration coming your way. You lucky bastard.
On with the show…
Two years ago, I jumped into the wild, wonderful world of blogging to blow off some of the considerable steam that had built up after thirteen years of serving the public.
Then a funny thing happened.
I discovered I really enjoyed indulging my creative side. I made hundreds of new friends. I started a second blog, wrote a book no one wants to read and I began pursuing a serious career as a not-so-serious writer.
And it’s all gone downhill from there.
Among the many media outlets that have chosen to ignore/reject me is the Huffington Post Canada. Few news outlets have the reputation and respect of the Huffington Post. In July 2012, it was ranked #1 on the 15 Most Popular Political Sites, while I was voted most likely to slash my wrists with a hotel razor.
Don’t worry, though, hotel razors are too dull to do much harm… Where were we? Oh yeah, the HuffPost.
The HuffPost Blog Team are a truly talented bunch who count among their number the Ironic Mom herself, Leane Shirtliffe, a blogger/writer I truly admire. I would like nothing more than to stand shoulder-to-shoulder – virtually, that is – with Leanne as one of the privileged few. But alas, it appears it is my fate to languish in obscurity. Still, I am haunted by what could have been and of course, the question remains: Why am I not good enough for the HuffPost Blog Team?
Here are some possible answers.
1) They like humorists. At best, I’m a chucklist. My work generates a chuckle or two among my readers, but is soon forgotten once they sober up or the Xanax wears off…
2) You need to have your finger on the pulse of the nation. HuffPost bloggers have attuned their literary senses to accurately reflect the mood of this wonderful land we call Canada. My fingers are too busy grasping the laundry baskets or plastic bags that the Modern Traveler uses as luggage to take the pulse of anything, never mind the collective pulse of an entire nation.
3) They require their bloggers to be talented, gifted writers. It’s always something with these political types, isn’t it? Snooki “wrote” a book, but I can’t get arrested by the publishing world. A lack of actual talent never stood in the way of the Kardashians, the Biebers, the Lohans, but it’s sure holding me back.
All right, that concludes the self-deprecating humor portion of our program. Now let’s take a look at how my most-recent Saturday went.
It was quiet at the Bell Desk. The bulk of the weekend’s check-ins had been accounted for the previous night, so that left the usual suspects to be dealt with.
- Horny frat boys who were sure to strike out.
- Families who were too cheap to spring for the entire weekend.
- Hardcore gamblers out for a one-day shot at glory.
- Bachelorette parties.
In other words, it was a typical Saturday.
With one notable exception.
She was a statuesque, voluptuous, young blond goddess with a smile as powerful as a black hole, eyes equally deep and a manner that could disarm a charter member of the NRA in a heartbeat.
In other words, she was the girl next door, the babysitter most wives wouldn’t let their husband drive home and as the old folks say, a real looker. Her judgement however, was suspect, to say the least.
I dropped off her bags in short order and as I was leaving she took it upon herself to make my day truly memorable on more than one level. A ten-dollar bill left her hand and was eagerly grasped by mine. In fact, I nearly squealed like a schoolgirl when I cast my eyes upon the bill.
And why not? After all, I started my shift at ten a.m and by the time of our meeting (three p.m.) I has secured a nice round number in terms of the day’s gratuities: you guessed it, my pockets were empty. And so my reaction to my new best friend’s generosity was understandable, at least in my opinion.
“Miss, if it were appropriate or allowed, I’d hug you. You’ve made my day.”
It was at that point that matters took a decidedly, shall we say, “blue” turn?
She pounced, wrapping her arms around my bulky form – between my winter jacket and the various shirts I need to protect my forty-something body from the ravages of the Canadian winter, I had no less than five layers on – and drawing me close to her.
She smelled like youth. Think jasmine and non-degrading cells.
Her breath was simultaneously warm and moist. And young.
Her voice took on a husky, throaty, youthful tenor.
Did I mention she was young?
Her words were delivered slowly, with all the precision and timing of a surgeon. Or someone who had just finished reading all three Fifty Shades novels at once.
“You don’t have to go, you know,” she said, “You could hang around. My friend is open to new things.”
It was at that point I realized three things:
- She had a friend in the washroom, for the record, a female, who was apparently open to new things.
- I was actually having an experience that I could weave into a story that would begin with “I never thought it would happen to me…”
- I had the ultimate amorous guest repelling weapon on my finger.
Or so I thought.
I pulled away from her and took a step back before saying “Actually, miss, I’m – ” I raised my left hand to display my wedding ring..
Which was sitting on my nightstand at home.
“Damn.” was the only thing that came to mind. Fortunately, my new friend got the message. She flashed another killer smile my way, we gave each other a parting nod and I spent the next twenty minutes trying to remember my wife’s name.
Kidding. Sort of.