The Canadian National Bank of Love

At work at the Cheer's equivalent last night I found out there's a young man, one of the investors, who has agreed to marry a girl for the sole purpose of making her a Canadian citizen.

If the US went into Iran, they'd be short of eligible soldiers. They've already exhausted the pool of any man, woman and child whose curiousities were piqued during the We Want You campaign. Extra coverage during Sweeps Week; it's a presidential directive! Even if it was just to sniff the butt of the Armed Forces, to see what it's all about. See if you could actually earn enough money to go to college, like they say. Or maybe deal with more pressing issues like feeding your family. Some discovered it wasn't for them, so they pulled out. For others it was only a weekend here and there.

Random Butt-Sniffing Soldier Boy/Girl: What do you mean I'm going to Iraq?
The Armed Forces: Didn't you apply for the Armed Forces 14,967 hours ago?
RB-SSSB/G: Um...
The Armed Forces: DON'T YOU LOVE YOUR COUNTRY?
RB-SSSB/G: Yes sir!
The Armed Forces: Well pack your bags, soldier! Yer goin' to EYE-raq!

Is it getting drafty in here?

There was a long moment where I'd deeply considered marrying an American to save a life.

The bridegroom I work with is of Chinese descent. I assume he follows ancient honour code with his family because it was his family who had asked if he would marry this young, or maybe not so young lady from China. The young man I work with is not saving a life. I think it's an opportunity to diversify the familial portfolio. My opinion. Please do not nail me to the wall.

This was the contract:
Return airfare to China. Twice.
Obligatory meet and greet.
Per diem.
Hotel accommodations.
Big chunk of change for his trouble.
Half upfront, half when she gets her Landed Immigrant status.

Check it:
He hardly speaks any Chinese. She doesn't speak a word of English. The immigration authorities have become quite prudent in these cases, requiring documentation of courtship and intention. A paper trail of love. Understanding the parameters, the young couple makes phone calls every now and then to one another. Because of the language barrier they really have nothing to say to one another. They call, place the phones down, in use, and go about their business. They then come back, replacing the phone back on its cradle, after an hour or so. This creates log evidence that Yes, there had been calls placed on these particular days, Mr. Immigration Officer.

Documentation? Priceless.

His parents and he look like heroes.
He makes some extra cash.
Maybe he'll buy another house.
I am happy to report that romance has been replaced by business.


That same night I'd met Paula. 5'0 tall sharing a bottle of wine with her 6'5" ex-boyfriend. Looking at them was discombobulating. Paula and I hit it off immediately. She was a sort of doppelgänger, not necessarily now, but maybe 10 years ago. No man could be in our conversational vortex. It was very rapid-fire chick speak. My friend Ian, whom I used to make out with, but don't anymore because I am a chaste woman who is in love with another man, was trying to keep up with our conversation, but all his eyes had registered were symptoms redolent of the whirling bends.

A few of us were engaged in an aesthetic boob conversation. The Good vs. The Bad and Ugly. One of the sub-topics included the unfortunate occurance of:
Inverted nipples
Distended areolas

Paula: Bologna belongs between two pieces of bread, not on a girl's chest! Don't make me talk about the mac 'n cheese loaf!


I went out for lunch with Ack, the ex-husband/ best friend, today. We had to do some bank business afterwards. Did you know, in Canada, it takes 15 days to process a cheque from the States? Apparently, that's how it is.

Ack received a call from the bank stating his Guaranteed Investment Certificate (GIC) had matured. What did he want to do with it? Well, as he's been looking at work in the same relative manner as I have of late, no work is good work, the decision was to cash in the bad boy.

Ack: I have a meeting at the bank with Kyle Hamilton.
The Comrade: What is that? His stage name?

Kyle Hamilton. Gay. Mulatto. Handsome. Thought I was hilarious and accused me of being the bright spot of his day.

Kyle Hamilton: So you are the ex-wife?
The Comrade: And current best friend.

Ack and The Comrade play our favourite game of mock beating the crap out of each other in public. Our second favourite game is pretending to fight over stuff the other person fled with after the separation. CD's. The espresso maker. I do it to humour him. He loves that game. He's getting really good at it.

Ack: No, fuck you, bitch! Dog Man Star was in my life before you cursed me with your presence!
The Comrade: Listen here, Dickwad! Did you nearly break your neck dancing to Brett Anderson's sibilance? No! I earned that! Give it back!
Ack: Shall we go the 8th round on the espresso maker?
The Comrade: Ding ding, mofo... ding ding!

Kyle Hamilton: Wow. That's amazing! You have a really extraordinary relationship.
Ack: Yeah, we're like brother and sister now.

The Comrade pretends to pile drive him into the cushioned partition. She notices a jar full of candies. Ack slow-mo's a swift uppercut.

The Comrade: Oooh! May I have a candy, Kyle?
Kyle: They're mints. Help yourself.
The Comrade: Hm. Mints. That's okay.
Kyle: They're good!

She inspects one. The small wrapper reads:
Super Mints
Can You Handle It?

The Comrade starts bellowing Can You Handle It? to withdrawl slip carriers and money lenders alike.

Walking down the street to the lunch destination, I told Ack, "I'm getting squishy lovin' all weekend!"
Ack: Don't make me vomit.

It's been awhile for Ack.

Ack: Screw this nice guy business! It's obviously not working out for me. I'm just going to have to take what I want now!

I tell Kyle about a T-shirt idea Ack has for himself.

The Comrade: On the front it would say SORRY. On the back it would say THANK YOU.

He thinks he can make millions.

I tell Kyle that my lover is a bit jealous of my relationship with Ack. Ack doesn't understand. He thinks our relationship is normal and regular. Bowel movements can be normal and regular. This relationship is rare and good. Kyle concurs.

Kyle Hamilton: I'd definitely be a bit jealous.
Ack: Come on, really? It's normal.
The Comrade: I kind of like a little bit of jealousy. I think it's kind of hot.
Kyle Hamilton: Oh, it's hot alright!

When we were leaving the bank we shook hands and thanked young Kyle for his lovely service and collective belly laughter for the day. Ack was looking at him sideways for a bit.

Ack: Kyle, I feel like I've met you before. Your face looks so familiar.

He couldn't place him.

As I was doing the dishes I was thinking about Kyle and I started laughing. I picked up the phone and called Ack who was unavailable. I left a message.

The Comrade: I think I figured out who Kyle looks like. Check it! Milli... Vanilli! [click]


A man named Peter came into the restaurant last night. Gay. Optimistic, yet a bit weary from the chase. He's been a subscriber to the dating service, Manline. This is a big, gay equivalent to Lavalife. He goes on a lot of dates, but he rarely gets to the elusive Date Number 2. The second date requires that there be enough interest in the person the first time around to garner future stock options. Peter is 42 years old.

The Comrade: What?!
Peter: 42.
The Comrade: I've carried this theory for some time now. It goes something like this: I'm convinced gay men sell their souls to the Devil just to keep their youth and beauty.
Peter: No, just stay out of the sun and drink lots of water.
The Comrade: I think I'm doing alright on my coffee, cigarettes and booze combo; thank you very much Devil Boy.

I tell you, he and Date #2 were holding hands across the table by Hour 3. I'd go by every now and then just to play approving Den Mother; making adolescent cooing noises while looking endearingly at both of them.

See I can do this now because I have some sweet lovin' coming my way. Yesssirrreeeeebob! Oh yeah!

Girl, you know it's, yes you know it's true!