Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Slow Burn Goes Cold

So, London Man never followed up with regards to a) marriage; or b) drinks. And then today, a text from my friend Ashley - "Hey, I've got a date with someone you know - London Man! Can you vouch for him?!"

I sat and stared at my phone for a few minutes. Then I slammed it down. London Man had been making witty comments on my Facebook page just this morning. And then - this? Don't get me wrong, Ashley's beautiful and gorgeous. I get it. But...oh.

"Yes, I know him, he's a nice guy," I texted back. "I don't know him that well though." Well - that was true enough, wasn't it? I didn't. Obviously.

I called my girlfriend Cara. "I hate men, they're DUMB!" I screamed into the phone. "Hang on," she said, "I have to turn you down, you're breaking my eardrums."

I told her the whole story.

"You're right," she agreed. "Men are dumb. I have no other platitudes to impart."

I hung up, and stared at the phone again for a little bit. Should I tell Ash or not? I didn't want to be disingenuous. Or have it be weird if they did start dating. Like, really dating. So, I called her.

She could tell something was up right away, although my tone was upbeat.

"Look," I said as brightly as I can. "He's a very nice guy. You'll have fun. And I'm not telling you this to be discouraging. It's just - well, London Man and I have been doing a little flirting, that's all."

Ashley started to say something but I continued on. "But look, obviously, if he's asked you out, and hasn't been bothered to get back to me, then he's not interested! So you should go for it! Seriously! I just wanted to tell you so you wouldn't think I was being all aloof or weird about it."

"Oh god, what a strange, sad little world," she said. "Um, I won't tell him about this exchange."

"Oh, of course not, " I said cheerily. "But seriously, have fun. I just wanted you to know the weird little history, I'm really not trying to put you off. If he's just not that into me, he's just not that into me."

I managed to convince Ashley that it was all fine. She said, "Well, obviously, I won't keep you totally in the loop then." I asked when they were going out.

"Do you really want to know?" she asked. "Oh sure," I said brightly.

"Well - tomorrow. We're going for a drink tomorrow."

We talked about her most recent breakup a little, made a date for brunch, and hung up.

I sighed. Maybe I shouldn't have told her, but - well, I didn't want to hear anything about how great her date was. Or what happened. Or if they went back to her place. No. I didn't want to hear any of that.

Well, it was a fun romantic fantasy while it lasted - the meet-cute, the coincidences, the parallel lives - that stuff doesn't work out in reality anyway. Right? Yes. I'll be more convincing about that tomorrow.

Saturday, September 24, 2011

The Slow Burn

Almost a year and a half ago, I was riding the Number 10 bus up Granville to a rehearsal. I was sitting next to one of Vancouver's own brand of crazies, who was singing along at the top of his lungs to something on his earphones. On the other side of Mr. Crazy sat a handsome guy with prematurely grey hair. I took one look at his suit - pinstriped, bespoke, lined in rose silk - and knew he was from London. We made eye contact a couple of times over Mr. Crazy's head and smiled. Then - he got off the bus. I remember thinking at the time, "If this was a movie, he'd get back on and ask me for my number. Or I'd get off and ask him for his number." But he didn't, and I didn't, and that was that.

A few weeks later, I was sitting in my office at work when London Man strolled by my office. I nearly fell out of my chair. He worked in my office? I frantically started trolling the company intranet to find out who he was, but to no avail. I tried wandering some of the other floors of our vast office a few times, to see if I ran into him, with no success.

A few weeks after that, my good friend Chris phoned. "Remember I told you my childhood friend was going to be starting in your office? Can you go and say hi and make him feel welcome? He's just moved back from England and is feeling a little out of place." I agreed, and went up to Chris' friend's office. Lo and behold - it was London Man. Trying to play it cool, I sat down and chattered frenetically at him. He was good natured, and chatty, with a wicked sense of humour, and we agreed that we should go for drinks with Chris soon. However, due to workloads, and then me leaving my job, it never happened.

Then, a few months later, London Man added me on Facebook. He informed me that he was moving to Calgary at the end of the summer. I told him that was a horrible idea as he would be leaving me behind. He would occasionally post on my wall that we needed to go for drinks soon, I would agree, and nothing would happen. And then, last month, a Facebook private message: "So. Are you married?"

My response: "No. Is that a proposal?"

Nothing in response. I put Chris and his wife on the task of sussing out whether London Man was interested - no report back. And I assumed that by now, London Man was long gone to Calgary. But then, tonight, a reply:

"No. But we should at least go for a drink first."

Me (after waiting at least an hour to reply so as to not appear eager): "That would probably be a more sensible solution."

How were we going to go for a drink with him in Calgary I wondered? Through the power of the internets, I found out - he didn't go! He's here! London Man didn't leave!

So. Now to drinks. After these months of build-up, this better be good, I tell ya...and I hope he wears his pinstriped suit.

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

To Woo or Be Wooed

I started seeing the Producer a few weeks ago, after a mutual friend introduced us to discuss working together on some of my recordings. We had a great jam session that turned into another kind of session altogether. Let's just say our artistic ambitions aligned.

He's nice and all, the Producer. He thinks I'm sexy and he ain't half bad in the sack either, although he did express a worrying general preference not to eat pussy (all the while professing mine to be delicious). As my friend the Rhino put it, "If you're straight, you eat pussy. Period."


But more worrying than this, was the Producer's statement to me that since he has had his heart broken several times, "he wants to be wooed now." Hmm. Right. I didn't give it much thought, but I can tell he's putting this plan into action and playing a little hard to get. I also know, however, that he's totally into me. And so now we're locked in a battle of wills - I don't mind making the first call, but I expect reciprocity, you know? Call ME sometime. Text ME sometime. Because, sorry, Producer, I don't like you enough to play this game all by myself.

Your pickup line is out of tune.

Apparently playing a musical instrument like a crazy person while you walk down the street is attractive. I’m taking a ukulele class – yes, I said ukulele – a few blocks from my house, and last night I was walking home, strumming as I went. As I stopped at a crosswalk, a man standing next to me, who was not in possession of all his teeth, remarked, “Wow, you’re really good.”

“I’m not really,” I responded. “I only know 3 chords so far.” I played them: C, G7, F. The man stared at me in wonderment.

“That was amazing!” Beat. “Can I buy you a beer?”

“Um, thank you, but I have to get home.”

“Um, OK. Can I have your number though?”

“Really, that’s sweet, but no.”

“But you’re so good at playing the ukulele!”

Um, yeah. I’m sure it was the ukulele that sealed the deal…

Thursday, August 25, 2011

Just Go With It.

So earlier this week Rocket Man introduced me to a friend of his who is a record producer. Rocket Man is still obsessed with my voice and wants to "further my career." He introduced me to this record producer a few months ago over email, and we became friends on Facebook, but I had not met him in person until this week.

We met for coffee, and then the Producer took me and Rocket Man to his studio - a beautiful set up in an even more beautiful house - so we could play around. We had a great session singing and playing guitar - just jamming, really. I had fun. The Producer is really charming and funny in a self-deprecating way. We spent the afternoon making music and then the Producer and Rocket Man dropped me off at a friends' house, where I was due for a visit.

Later that night I texted the Producer to tell him I had made it home safe, and that it had been nice to meet him. He jokingly invited himself over to hang out and watch a movie with me, and I told him he was most welcome. And within 30 minutes, he was in my house. Within another hour, he was in me.

I wasn't sure I was totally attracted to the Producer (he's cute enough, but in a hip hop kind of a way, which isn't really my thing), but I knew he was certainly into me when we were watching a movie and he sat up suddenly, turned me over, and slapped my ass.

"I'm sorry," he said, laughing. "I've been dying to do that all night." We both laughed hysterically. Then his hands were on my breasts and we were kissing and it felt so good that I just went with it. For hours.

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Maybe I Have to Come First.

I've been out a few times now with Single Dad, whose kid lives with him most days. Single Dad juggles parenting and a pretty rigorous academic job. After our first date, he sent me an email that evening telling me he'd had a blast, that the hours had passed by quickly, and that he wanted to go out again soon. I had enjoyed meeting Single Dad - I wasn't immediately smitten, but I was certainly ready to go out again, and I found his directness refreshing.

Due to conflicting schedules and various holidays on both of our parts, it took several more weeks for Single Dad and I to get together again. During this time, he completely won me over with charming texts and emails. He called me beautiful and gorgeous. He told me not to have too much fun without him (or at least to save some for him). He emailed me anecdotes about his vacation - in short, he wouldn't let me forget him. By the time he arranged for us to go out again this past Friday, I was more than a little ready to be romanced by Single Dad.

We met for dinner, and the conversation was free and easy. He made me laugh; I was my usual giggly self, which he didn't seem to mind. After dinner, he suggested we go for a walk, and we wandered to a local playground, where we played on the swings and talked some more. We finished up the evening with coffee and more chat - and we talked about everything, really: kids, relationships, friends, parents, religion, politics, art. It was a solid six hour plus date. After coffee, Single Dad walked me to my bus stop, and stayed with me until the bus arrived - which made for a somewhat awkward goodbye. I was hoping for a kiss, but wasn't going to force the issue with a bus approaching, and so settled with a hug. As I got on the bus I said, "Well, I'll see you when I see you..." "Email me!" he replied, miming typing on a keyboard as my bus pulled away.

On the trip home, there was a man speaking very loudly on speakerphone about baseball, so that the entire bus could hear. I found this funny, and texted SD. He replied with a bad baseball pun, I retorted, and for the next few hours (until the wee hours of the morning) we texted each other bad baseball puns every minute or so, until I cried Uncle in the name of sleep. "Sweet dreams," he replied. It left a smile on my face and made me feel reassured about the lack of a kiss that night. If he really didn't like me, why would he spend two hours texting me baseball puns, right? Maybe SD just wanted to take things slow.

The next day, Saturday, I woke up to heinous weather. Not wanting to lose *too* much momentum, I sent SD a short, witty text about the weather. I didn't get a reply, which vaguely disconcerted me for the rest of the day, given how responsive he normally is. I grew more and more anxious about it as the weekend wore on. Late Sunday night, I sent SD a chatty, "How was the rest of your weekend" email - he had told me to email him, after all - and shared some humorous stories about my weekend. It's now Tuesday night, and I've had no reply to the email.

I'm confused as to what happened. The date didn't feel like a bomb - there was no need for SD to hang out with me after dinner if he'd decided that he wasn't interested after all. I can't remember any particular awkwardness, other than me turning shy upon our goodbye (and he wasn't any more forward than I was). He certainly didn't need to engage in a late-night pun war with me, right? He could have responded politely and benignly to my text about the rude fellow passenger and stopped any further conversation in its tracks. I know that the evidence doesn't logically point to a sudden change of heart, but I feel in my insecure and self-effacing gut that SD changed his mind upon further acquaintance and isn't interested anymore - how else to explain the sudden lack of response, when he'd been so good about corresponding with me previously?

The Girlfriend Jury is out on this one. Some agree that it's strange behaviour, and that SD is definitely blowing me off. Others can't believe that he would do such an about-face and think he must be busy with dad or work-related activities - he's at least been direct enough in the past that one would expect him to be blunt about not pursuing anything further. So - he's just too busy? Too busy to respond to a girl he thought was gorgeous and beautiful two weeks ago? While I'd obviously prefer this to be the conclusion - that he's still interested but just very, very busy - I can't say it makes me feel that much better. Do I want to be with someone who has so many priorities before me, that even finding 30 seconds to text me is impossible? I don't know that my fragile little ego can handle that. Maybe I have to come first.

Friday, June 10, 2011

The Professor.

The Professor does not believe in monogamous relationships. The Professor likens sex to sports, and approaches it with the spirit of play. He's good with his hands, the Professor - must be all of the athletics he engages in. The Professor likes to send emails. The Professor also likes it when I greet him at the door wearing a dress, high heels and nothing else.

The Professor was in a particularly sporting mood this afternoon, and asked at 11:06 if I felt like a game or two. I said regretfully that I would, but that I had a lunch meeting at 12:00 p.m. No problem, said the Professor. He could be in and out (pun intended, I suppose) by then.

The Professor is always a man of his word. 25 minutes and several orgasms later, I had time to put my disheveled self back together for my meeting. As the Professor said when he kissed me goodbye, "It's a fine way to spend a Friday afternoon." And how.

To the Moon!

A few nights ago I was sitting drinking wine and having girly chat with my friend C. when I remarked, "Seriously, online dating is for suckers. Where are all the fun people?" C., who is a newlywed, immediately jumped up, grabbed her laptop, and signed me up for OKCupid, which I had never heard of, but is extremely fun - it matches you to people based to your answers to a number of personality test-type questions. It's free. And there are a lot of fun people on there. Yay! A new pool of fish! I immediately got to work identifying potential prey. Um, I mean dates.

One of my targets was a guy who had posted adorable pictures of him painting canvases in a park, with children. He's a painter and multimedia artist. Although OKCupid warned me that based on my personality type, I should stay away from artist-types, I can't say I've ever dated anyone who was not one, so I chose to ignore this advice and contacted him anyway. Within an hour he had contacted me, asked for my number, and called me. We had a nice but short chat, and he asked if I wanted to get together for coffee at some point. I said sure, and he came downtown to meet me last night.

First impressions? He was cute, in a teddy bear sort of way. On the phone he had talked very quickly, and - well, alot - but I chalked this up to nervousness as he didn't ramble as much when I met him in person, although he was still very talkative, but then, so am I. Kind hearted. Intelligent. Animal lover (important, what with Rain City Kitty and all). A good listener as well as a good, if intense, conversationalist. We talked about politics, religion, past relationships - typical first-coffee type questions, but on amphetamines. But then the conversation drifted to a topic that I must say, made me raise my eyebrows. You see, our friend - who I shall call Rocket Man - well - he wants to build a satellite. A satellite devoted to art. And send it off to other galaxies. Yes, an intergalactic art satellite, to share our culture with the universe. He's got a website, a business plan, and he's seeking investors.

It's crazy. It's kooky. And he is so serious about making it happen.

I don't know what to think. I kind of wanted to laugh hysterically - but also, isn't it kind of charming that he is able to dream so big? I mean, he knows it's crazy. He seems to have some self-awareness as to how ridiculous some of his projects sound, and he's OK with that.

Anyway, we ended the date by me playing Rocket Man some of my very rough musical demos. He was so complimentary, and excited by what he heard, which was delightful.

And then? He comes back an hour later to tell me he's pulled in a favour from a friend, and he's booked me to go into the studio next month to record a demo. That he's looking into a venue to shoot a video for my demo. That he really believes in my music, and that I can make a career happen.


I have never had anyone react that way to my singing. I mean, people enjoy it, but to be that confident that it must be heard? Wow. I remarked to my friend, the Scribe, later, "He's either crazy, brilliant, or really wants to get in my pants." (Scribe helpfully noted that these three things are not necessarily mutually exclusive). But - Rocket Man didn't just talk in lovely platitudes - he made it happen. And expected nothing in return (well - so far he has expected nothing in return). I'm - amazed. He's still crazy and kooky, and reaching for possibly unattainable heights, but he just might be able to get us to the Moon...

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

Since When Do Boys Have All The Issues?

So this guy contacted me through Match. Very good looking, well groomed, a banker. He contacted me a couple of times, actually, he was persistent when I didn't immediately reply. Eventually I did reply, and he asked if he could take me to dinner. We chatted back and forth, he sent me his number, I texted him mine. He's away on business this week, and so I texted him on Sunday night to say I hoped his week went well. He replied, said thanks, hoped I would have a good week, too. That he would get in touch when he got back. Fine, casual. What you expect when you're talking to someone you haven't even met yet.

So, this morning at 8:30, I get a text:

I should be straight up with you. I'm not looking for a deep, meaningful relationship. Just fun. :) Sorry if I misled you.

I didn't know *what* to reply. Since when does having dinner together signify an interest in a deep, meaningful relationship? Finally, I said this:

I don't feel misled. But you did pursue ME.


Yes, I did.


So, yeah. I don't feel misled. I feel like you don't know what you want, or from who. That's all. If you got a better offer, that's fine.


A better offer? No, I want to have fun with you, period. I'm tired of dealing with dating...I want you.


Who said we're dating? No labels, period. If you want to have fun, let's have fun. But "not dating" does not mean you don't have to be a gentleman, or that you're allowed to treat me like crap.


Sounds like a plan. I will treat you wonderfully. I hope you will let me prove this to you.

The more I think about it, the more I don't know if I should even meet Butch Banker. Dude sounds like he has some issues - he did mention that he was seeing someone but that it ended recently. Maybe that's too close for comfort? It's one thing to be what one of my guy friends crudely called "DTF" - "down to fuck" - but as that same guy friend said, you reveal that you're only DTF, well, after you've "F'ed" - not before. And why do we have to put a label on what's going on before we've even MET?! It sounds like Butch has been doing some girly-type obsessing.

I asked the Cousin for her opinion. She said, "Methinks he doesn't know what the fuck he wants. He doesn't even know you. He wants the idea of you. But you need more."

True. But it might be fun (or at least blogworthy?!) to find out just how bad Butch's case of the crazies, is, non?

Sunday, May 15, 2011

The Ex-Factor

"See, I know what we've got to do: you let go, and I'll let go, too..."
- Lauryn Hill, "The Ex-Factor"

I've never been the girl who could be friends with her exes. Most of the time my breakups have been difficult, bitter things, and by the time these relationships have limped towards the finish line, I've wanted nothing more than to put them out of their misery with one final shot to the head. However, over the past few years, several of my exes, important ones, have resurfaced in my life, in very different ways, and I have found, to my surprise, that I am, on the whole, glad they are there.

When the Italian and I broke up, we were in a long-distance relationship. We had a continent and an ocean between us, which was helpful. It was as clean a break as you can get. He made it clear when I moved back to London that he wasn't interested in seeing me, as he was in a new relationship, and frankly, I wasn't too hot on seeing him either, even though everywhere I went in London, I was besieged by memories of us together. Then, on Easter Sunday, a year and a half since we'd broken up and almost two years since we'd seen each other, he sent me a text, that read: "Shall we?"

"Shall we what," I texted back. "Meet, or dance?" "Both," he replied.

I equivocated. I did not want to see him. At all. Not because I thought it would upset me, or that it would bring residual feelings to the surface - because I felt I was completely done with him, that there were no feelings, and therefore no need to meet. We'd never been friends, and I didn't see why we should start now. But, I told him he could come over. I figured I would be so bitchy and off-putting, that we would have nothing to say to each other, and that would be that.

Instead, the minute I saw him, I felt happy. I felt a sense of relief in seeing him, as if seeing someone from home. We talked late into the night, and although we made no plans to see each other again, I knew we would. And we did, meeting a few times for a casual and friendly drink in the city.

Then the real mistake came. I invited the Italian to come watch Eurovision with me, and he arrived via the river boat that docked near my flat. I stood waiting on the jetty, and when I saw him on the deck, I felt flooded with familiar old emotions of love and desire. I suppose the feeling was mutual because we didn't end up watching TV, not by a longshot. But instead of enjoying it, I felt sick, and confused, by our being together. What did this mean? All of the reasons for us breaking up still existed. Did this mean I still loved him, two years later? I ushered him out of the house as fast as I could, and didn't contact him for awhile. But a few months later, I crumbled again, and there was the Italian, making me my favourite dinner in my kitchen, sitting on the couch to watch TV with me, rubbing my back, even climbing into bed with me to stay the night, until I literally jumped out of bed, threw his jeans at him, and told him to go. I could never reconcile the comfort that his presence brought with the feeling that I was moving backward. I also felt I was being disingenuous to the Italian. I didn't, couldn't care for him after all this time, could I? So I was using him, and that wasn't fair.

We never talked about what had happened, as we had never been a talking couple anyway. The last time I saw him was the week I moved back to the Rain Coast, when he came to met me for dinner, and told me I was making the biggest mistake of my life in moving home. His criticism brought me to tears and I left before dinner was served.

The Italian is still around, which I am OK with, given that we once again have thousands of miles between us, and he is in a relationship. I like that he still knows me better than anyone, possibly even myself, and can offer support and advice that no one else can. However, this is probably as much of a role as I will ever allow the Italian to play in my life again. We just fell too easily into old, unhealthy routines. I think this happened mostly because, due to the distance, we had never had a chance for our breakup to take a normal course. When we were physically together, we didn't know how to be anything, but, well, together.

This week I met up with an even more distant ex, Ethan. It's been at least 8 years, by our count, since we saw each other. It's hard to even calculate when we broke up because we lived a sort of weird half-relationship for a long period of time before eventually getting to the point where we couldn't stand the sight of each other and broke off contact altogether. We recently connected on Facebook, had some good chats, and decided to meet up for breakfast when he was in town. Again, I wasn't sure if I was looking forward to it, but I figured breakfast was just breakfast.

Except when breakfast turns into an entire day of hanging out. It was like meeting as strangers, in one way, after all this time, but also, there was an essential familiarity there, and I found I really enjoyed the time I spent with him. We walked around town, basically getting to know each other again, although I still felt like I knew him, and that no time had passed. We asked about each others' family and friends. I wasn't sure how to negotiate the dynamics of this new relationship - how do you treat the long-lost ex? With the same level of ease as a good friend, or with the politeness and restraint of a new acquaintance? I had no idea.

Later that night we met up again to go to a concert. Ethan texted me on the way to pick me up. "Prepare thyself," he said. "I look fabulous" (Ed's Note: he did). I saw that text and quickly got dolled up, too. Which I then regretted. Did I look like I thought we were going on a date? What message was I sending? Did I look like I had feelings for him or something? And did I want it to be a date? What if I did? Did I? But I know nothing about him now, do I? Did I want to date old Ethan or new Ethan? Or both? Ack! I was in totally uncharted waters and freaking out. Why were we dressing up and behaving like adults when the last time we saw each other, as kids, we were yelling and throwing things? (Ed's Note: OK, I was throwing things, Ethan wasn't). So confusing.

The next day, though, I took a deep breath and decided it wasn't so confusing. If I wanted to talk to Ethan, I was going to talk to him. If I wanted to see him, I would see him. We were friends, and the past was so far in the past that it really didn't have any bearing on our current friendship - other than him handily remembering some of my weird quirks, perhaps, and me being able to tease him about the mercurial moods of his 22 year old self. We have both been through so much over the past 8 years, it seems unfair to both of us to revert to the dynamics of our past relationship, which was dysfunctional at best. We would do ourselves, and our new friendship, a disservice, in letting the past inform the present.

So. Two major exes, back in my life, in very different ways. Can I call this growth, d'you think?

Friday, May 6, 2011

Awkward Encounters.

So tonight I met up with two friends at a local bar to watch the hockey game. As I sat waiting for them, I saw a mutual acquaintance approach the bar. When he entered, I smiled and waved, assuming he was coming to meet with our group - I know he often watches hockey with our mutual friends. He stared at me as if I was a stranger, and then walked over to another girl seated on the other side of the restaurant, sat down beside her and whispered something to her. She immediately shot me a dirty look, put her arm around him possessively, and then kissed him, in a clearly proprietary gesture. I felt completely awkward and embarrassed, lowering my hand and staring fiercely at the table, wishing I could take back the wave.

This acquaintance and I worked on a project together about six months ago. It's not a question of him not recognizing me. We had spent a lot of time together, and had a number of good conversations. I really liked this guy, not in a romantic sense, although it was perceived by some of our mutual friends that I had a crush on him. I didn't. I just wanted to be his friend, really badly. You know when you meet someone and just think, "They are so cool"? That's how I felt about this guy. But he was single, and I was single. When people started teasing me about having a crush, he avoided me like the plague, froze up completely. It made me feel rejected, unworthy, when really, I hadn't actually put myself out there.

And now tonight. I didn't quite know what to do when he rebuffed me. This felt like an extension of his initial rejection. I thought maybe I should go over, but what if they weren't meeting our friends? That would make an already awkward encounter even more excruciating. So I waited for our friends to arrive. It took them 10 agonizing minutes, in which I received a text letting me know that yes, Snobby Guy was meeting up with us. Meanwhile he and his girlfriend continued to throw glances over their shoulder at me, and his girlfriend in particular kept staring daggers at me, as if to say, "How dare you have smiled and waved at my man, girl-sitting-on-her-own-in-a-bar?!" This cozy, smug little twosome totally thought I had been hitting on him, it was clear, and were trying to make me feel small.

Eventually our friends arrived, and we went over to join Snobby Guy and his girlfriend. I smiled sweetly, stuck out my hand to introduce myself to the girlfriend, said hello to Snobby Guy. I did my best to show that I was not embarrassed, although I was completely mortified. "I didn't know we were meeting someone else," said the girlfriend apologetically. Right. And that's why you were giving me the stink-eye? Snobby Guy looked suitably embarrassed. "I didn't know you were going to be meeting us," he said. Uh, yeah. But even if I wasn't meeting them, why wouldn't you at least return the wave when I waved at you, acknowledge you know me? Later on, maybe 15 minutes later, when the conversation had truly moved on, Snobby Guy stared at me and blurted out, "Sorry." I knew then that Snobby Guy just thought I was hitting on him. Again. And he wasn't classy enough to at least be friendly, cordial. Again. But he got caught in the act.

I don't understand some people, I really don't. I'm of the opinion that you can never have too many friends. But it's clear that Snobby Guy doesn't want to be friends, and definitely doesn't want to be more than friends. And after his assy behaviour tonight, I'm not sure I want to be his friend, either.

Saturday, April 23, 2011

Oh, the joys of online dating. Here is a lovely tribute from a gentleman admirer in India:

Hope you are doing well.I read your profile.You are beautiful and attractive female.The clue to every thing a good man with good soul should love is in you there in your beautiful pictures.Right from the start in the light gentle smile that swell the archery of your so fully nicely shaped lips.There is a good sense of humour and confidence on your sweet and attractive face.your soft sweet velvety cheeks with light dimples look attractive.Honest vacuous innocence on your whole face the face which is looking with full of grace and really have a great force in your physical personality which can and maintain a status where ever you go with that beautiful looks.I think that curiosity to know the unknown does not hurt any one.

I'm not sure that being called "vacuous" is really a compliment. Also, I think there might have been a few Google Translator fails in there: "archery" of my lips? "Grace and corona"? I don't even drink beer! Anyway, this message right here is really good value for money, I this rate I'm going to enter into a domestic partnership with my cat and call it a day.

Best part? In all his photos, he's dressed as a cowboy.

Death to the Coffee Date.

The thing about dating is, you get into a rut. Into a routine. First dates start to follow the same pattern: keep it casual, meet for a coffee at a random coffee shop, chat informally, the end. It gets to become so familiar that, well, you get bored, even if the person sitting across from you changes.

I get it, I do. The whole "meet and greet" coffee date is not high-stakes. You don't have to shell out a lot of money or time to meet someone you might despise. You don't have to dress up, or bring flowers, or spend more than an hour in a relative stranger's company. But - why can't a first date be high stakes? How much can you impress over a cappuccino? My experience has been, it's limited.

I meet a lot of pleasant men on these coffee dates. But no one who sets my heart a-flutter over my mug, you know?

Take the Mathematician, for instance. I met him online a few months ago and we traded emails. He was funny, witty, self-deprecating, intelligent - he checked all the boxes, from a correspondence perspective. We lost a little bit of momentum over the past month or so, but he got back in touch and insisted that we meet up soon, for coffee. And we did, yesterday.

He was perfectly nice. Well dressed, in jeans and a Lacoste golf shirt. He was pleasant and polite, if a little restrained and shy. Where was the witty self-deprecation of his emails? Partly, I think it's because it would have seemed odd for him to get too raucous at Starbucks at 3 in the afternoon, you know? I suspect there might be a really fun party boy under the polite veneer, but darned if I could see it.

And so the verdict was...meh. His choice of date really didn't fit the personality I had suspected he had, but he had chosen the perfectly safe, perfectly acceptable "first date" location. And as a result, I only got the Coffee Shop Edition of the Mathematician, and I could kind of care less if I see him again.

So - what's wrong with high stakes? Let's take a cooking class, or go to a comedy night, anything other than sitting politely facing each other at a too-small table, over too-big coffees. Show me your crazy, and maybe, just maybe, you'll get a second date.

Saturday, April 16, 2011

Remembering the First Time.

So I've been trying for years to get my high school sweetheart and first love, B, to add me on Facebook. He's rejected me numerous times, and when I sent him a message to say, "Stop it, you're being silly," he actually blocked me for awhile. Anyways, when I saw that he had added some mutual friends who he had never been close with, I thought maybe he had become less discriminating in his Facebook friendships, and tried again. And lo and behold, he added me.

This doesn't mean we've communicated at all. But it is comforting to be able to cyber-stalk B; to know where he is and what's he's up to, even in the most general terms. He was my first love and will always hold a special place in my heart. (Editor's note: who the fuck am I kidding, if he showed up tomorrow and asked me to marry him, I would. *End crazy RCC confessional*).

Since B added me, I've been thinking about our first time. It was the blind leading the blind, really, but I couldn't have asked for a better first experience.

It was Valentines' Day (I know, I know). We had not talked about it being our first time, or anything like that. But it was Valentines' Day, we were 16 and 17, respectively, and in love. And horny. It was bound to happen, really. B had originally, and without my knowledge, booked a hotel room with a jacuzzi. However, the hotel had called his house to confirm. His dad, who has the same name, had answered. Plan thwarted. B had immediately put a back-up plan into action.

He came to pick me up at my house carrying flowers and a heart, carved out of tofu and wrapped in tinfoil. It sounds gross, but I had bitterly complained, as only a 16 year old girl can do, that eating a chocolate one would "make me fat." He had brought me a chocolate one, too, but this mess of tinfoil and tofu was infinitely more precious.

We hopped in B's car, and drove out to where his family's boat was moored - B had stolen the key from his parents. When I stepped onto the boat, I saw that B had decorated the ceiling with glow in the dark stars. The Beatles (my favourite) were playing on the stereo. My favourite Chinese take-out was waiting. A new volume of Nikki Giovanni love poems sat on the bed, surrounded by rose petals. It was, for me, perfect. We fed each other chow mein, read poetry aloud, and lay together silently looking at the glowing stars as the boat gently rocked back and forth.

And, being teenagers, it happened. Was it good? Not particularly, as far as I can recall, although the exact details are lost to me now. All I remember now is B tentatively pulling out a box of condoms, a sheepish look on his face, and both of us confessing how, yes, we thought tonight would be the night. That yes, we loved each other (out loud, finally). I remember how much love I felt for B, how loved I felt. How I never wanted to leave our little marine oasis. I remember driving home in his car in the wee hours of the morning, and way past my curfew, leaning my head against the window and watching trees and streetlights pass, listening to "Graduation Day" by Chris Isaak (one of B's favourites) on the stereo:

Driving slowly
Watching the headlights in the rain
Funny how things change
Think of the good times
Wishing you were still with me
The way it used to be

Graduation Day

Watching the stars fall
A million dreams have all gone bad
Think of all we had
I knew it all then
Thought you loved me, I was wrong
Life goes on

Graduation Day

Thinking of the time when everything was right
Thinking of the time with only you and I
Makes me sorry that it had to end that way
Learned my lesson, now there's nothing left to say

Graduation Day

Ironically, our relationship ended (or at least the death throes began) with B's graduation day. The Beatles CD has long been lost, the Nikki Giovanni poems grow dusty on my shelf. When we broke up, in a fit of teenage hysteria I threw my journal at B, and he kept it. I'm sure it's long gone, now. So what I have left of us is the fading memory, and that song.

Friday, March 25, 2011

Newsflash: I'm a Fucking Snob.

So I've been on a few dates now with this guy. We'll call him Mr. Dependable. He's got his shit together: owns his own business, owns a few properties, has a dog, a cat...the works. He checks most of the major boxes. There are some boxes he doesn't check: he is not well travelled and didn't go to university or college. There are also the shallow things that drive me crazy; not a great dresser, drives a big truck, and lives in the suburbs. But I keep telling myself he's got potential. He's kind, he's caring, he's supportive and thinks I'm "awesome," which he tells me all the time. He brings me flowers. He wants to get married and have babies. He loves his mom. He watches Buffy. So I keep telling myself not to be so damn picky, that maybe "good enough" is...well, good enough. That I can live without the "nice to haves" since he has all the "must haves."

Mr. Dependable blew it tonight, though, mostly because, I've realized, I'm a high-maintenance, picky snob. He wanted to take me to dinner (we haven't done the dinner date thing yet). Guess where we went?



I mean, really? Is that where you take a girl you want to impress? It's not about the price of things, it really isn't. I know when you own your own business, you get paid last, if at all, and that money can be tight. Really, it's not about taking me to a five-star restaurant and dropping $100, but how about the great little hole-in-the-wall place you found that has amazing $5 tacos (hint: there's one at Hastings and Cambie). Or why not show me you've got skills on the grill, and barbecue me a steak? Or pack a picnic and drive me somewhere beautiful. I just felt like - Earl's? Really?

When he drove me home tonight, I felt my heart sinking. I'd been trying so hard to make chemistry happen with this guy because he does look so great on paper. But he's missing that Snob factor I need. I need someone who can out-scene me, out-culture me, once in awhile. Mr. Dependable, happy in his suburban castle and anxiously awaiting his own wedding and children, in some ways represents all the things that stifled me growing up. It just can't work. Earl's on a Friday night is just not the future I want.

Which officially makes me a choosy bitch and a fucking snob. Because this man is kind and chivalrous and supportive and admiring. And I'm going to toss him aside, over a burger at a chain restaurant.