Wednesday, May 28, 2008

The Adventures of Tall & Short

On Saturday night I attended a very spiffy black tie event, for which I cracked out my very tiny gold sequined dress and my shiniest black patent leather high heels.  My friends and I, after a long night of canapes and cocktails, found ourselves dancing at a club, along with several of my colleagues, including the office's new interns.  Fuelled with vodka and confidence, I felt it was my duty to take advantage of the situation and assert my seniority over two particularly cute interns.

"Which one should I go for," I remember shouting over the music to a friend.  I was squinty-eyed with drink at this point.  "The Tall One," she shouted back.  Thus, the interns were christened Tall & Short.  

Luckily I got too drunk to do much more than criticize Short's shoes and do a lil' dirty dancing with Tall.  The night ended alone, at home, thank god.  

However, on Monday morning, I got an email from Short:  

Subject: Hey

Some of us are organizing a boat cruise this weekend.  Five hours or so, we'll have some drinks, listen to some music, enjoy the sunshine.  You in?
-Short

Re: Hey

Sure, that sounds good, I'd definitely be into that?  Who's coming?
-RCC

Re: Re: Hey

Um, so far it's me, you, and Tall.
-S

Re: Re: Re: Hey

Um, actually, I think I'm busy this weekend.
-RCC.

I mean, I'm up for alot of things, but on a boat, alone, for several hours, with Tall AND Short, who both clearly read the very obvious "I'm easy AND drunk" signs on Saturday night? I just don't think it looks or sounds good.  Although Ginger, who is RCC's new roommate, remarked, without batting an eyelash:

 "Well, I won't be home late that night, so feel free to bring both of them home."

That might be a little more seniority than I'm willing to exert.



Tuesday, May 27, 2008

The One That Got Away

Raincoast Confidential is about to move location, for good.  We're relocating to the Rainy City on the Thames.  You'd think this would be good for business: "I'd like to date you, but I'm leaving in three weeks.  So, uh, can we play until then?"  Surprisingly, several of the regulars who have appeared here before have seen it as kind of a turn-off.  They're looking for cuddles and romance that RCC will shortly no longer be able to provide.  Le sigh.  Who knew?  Not to stroke my own ego or anything, but maybe for one of these guys, I'll be The One Who Got Away.  I have one.  His name is Winston.

A street in Montreal, some time in the spring.  The snow was gone, and I was happy, heading over to L's house for John Cusack Night.  JCN always involves making Pillsbury chocolate chip cookies, filing our nails, and wistfully sighing over High Fidelity, Say Anything, and/or Grosse Pointe Blank.  Anyways, I was listening to some music on headphones, and smiling, in my own little oblivious music bubble as I walked to L's apartment on Rue Sainte Famille.  As I approached her building, I saw the. most. gorgeous. man.  He was ambling up the sidewalk towards me.

Young (25 or so), black, absolutely stunningly beautiful.  He was wearing a beautiful corduroy blazer with leather patches on the sleeves, that on anyone else would have looked contrived, but on him, looked just right.  He had a well-loved leather courier bag slung over one shoulder, and was carrying the New York Times (I shit you not.  The New York Times) under one arm.  He looked like he'd just finished working as an extra on Dead Poet's Society.  Ivy League, into poetry, handsome.  In short, uh, my dream man.  Although this didn't register with me, still firmly in my music bubble.  As he walked past me, I smiled, actually at the music I was listening to, but he thought it was for him, and he stopped dead.   

I have to say I don't think I'm all that, and I certainly didn't think so then, so I was a little astonished when he appeared a little dumbstruck, and so I didn't stop.  I kept going, a few paces, and turned in to L's building and pressed her buzzer.  As I waited for her answer, I noticed he was still standing in the sidewalk, staring at me and smiling this very dazed smile that said that he couldn't understand why he had stopped dead in the street either. 

I smiled up the street at him a little nervously, shuffling my feet, trying to look ultra-casual as I waited for L to buzz me up.   Before she could buzz, he was coming back down the street towards me.  My stomach dropped.  I took a deep breath, smiled, and turned around to face him.  He stopped in front of me and took my right hand in his, staring into my eyes. 

"I'm Winston," he said.  "What's your name?"

Stammering, I told him.  He replied that it was a beautiful name.  I said thank you.  I had nothing else to say.  Neither did he.  The buzzer on L's door was now buzzing behind me, and I took a half step back, said it was nice to meet him, and reached for the door handle.

"Wait," he said, putting a hand on my shoulder to stop me.  I turned again to face him.  

"Can I kiss you?" he asked.

I laughed nervously and said no.

"Why not?" he said.  

"Because I don't know you," I said.  

"So?" he said, smiling.

"Sooooo, I don't kiss boys I don't know," I said, for reasons still unbeknownst to me.  I totally kiss boys I don't know.  I did then and I still do now.   For some reason I thought this would make him think less of me.  He sized me up for a moment, both of us saying nothing, staring at each other.  

"OK then," he said sadly.  "It was nice to meet you."  He turned and walked down the steps of L's building back to the sidewalk.  Stunned, I scuttered up to L's apartment, breathlessly told her the whole story, and proceeded to spend the rest of the evening pounding my head against the wall and wailing, "Why didn't I just KISS him?"  I actually paced for much of the evening.

Why didn't he ask for my number? Why didn't I give it to him of my own volition?  Why didn't I kiss him?  Why did he just walk away?  Why did he have to be so cute?  Why why why why why? 

Well, it's 4 years later and I'm still mourning the loss of Winston.  My friends and I placed one of those "I saw you" ads in the Montreal Hour with an email address, saying, "Winston: you asked to kiss me on the street.  I owe you one, anywhere, anytime."  

Nothing.  I'm still waiting to repay the man.  Sigh.

So, yeah, Winston, if you're out there, and you remember me, drop me a line:  you're officially The One That Got Away.  


Thursday, May 1, 2008

Street Smut

I was walking home from the office yesterday, and standing on the corner of Burrard and Smithe when I was approached by whom I can only describe as Amy Winehouse on rollerskates: black beehive, heavy black kohl eyeliner, satin short-shorts, and knee socks.  Her rollerskates were the classic retro white, with rainbow laces.  She had a blond, non-roller side-kick, wearing much the same slutty uniform, with the classy additions of a gold bomber jacket with "Jimmy" embroidered on the left breast, pink leg warmers, and a side ponytail.  The three of us stood on the corner, waiting for the light to change.  

Jimmy was checking her cell phone.  "Ugh," she muttered, flipping her phone shut and turning to Roller Amy.  "Psycho French guy called AGAIN.  Go AWAY, crazy!"  She rolled her eyes.  "We HATE him."

"Yeah, but you let him eat your pussy," pointed out Roller Amy.  At that, I couldn't help but laugh, and they both turned to me.  I smiled sheepishly; I'd clearly been listening, but then, Roller Amy hadn't been exactly discreet.   There was an awkward silence.  I was afraid Roller Amy would misinterpret my laugh as one of disdain rather than amusement, and slam a skate into my face. "Well, I think it might entitle him to ONE phone call," I offered.  The girls hooted with laughter, clearly relieved that I hadn't said something scathing.

The light changed, and we all walked (or rolled, as the case may be) across the street.  Jimmy sized me up:  "You look really cute, hon.  I looove your boots," she gushed.  No, I wasn't wearing my awesome turquoise leather boots which have been the subject of much blogging; I was wearing my "Gossip Girl" boots...blue suede stiletto ankle booties I bought after seeing Serena van der Woodsen rock them with a leopard dress (go ahead and mock me for liking Gossip Girl, but the boots are fierce).  "They make you look like a REAL LADY," Jimmy said.  "Umm, thanks...." I said.  I've never heard stiletto ankle boots described as lady-like, but I guess if you think satin short-shorts are appropriate Wednesday afternoon attire, my boots probably would seem a little sedate.  

Just then, two guys in a circa 1990s red Mustang convertible which had clearly seen better days, turning left on Burrard and into our crosswalk, started hooting out the window at us.  "Hey laaaadies," they shouted. "Looking goood."

This disturbed me for a couple of reasons, not least of all because White Trash Boys assumed that Roller Amy, Jimmy and I were a trio, despite my lack of rollerskates, beehive, or booty shorts.  It made me seriously re-think whether my choice of outfits was office appropriate.   Also...who not only drives a red circa 1990s Mustang convertible without shame, but actually thinks this entitles them to catcall?  Tackiness.

Cardio Workout Extraordinaire

So I'm recovering from some health problems (nothing major, not to worry, Raincoast Readers), and my doctor gave me a list of "approved exercise activities."

Halfway down the list:

"Healthy, vigorous sex (monogamous)"

Snort.

Funny, but the Y doesn't have that slotted in between Urban Gladiator and Dancefit.  Too bad.