Rain Coast Confidential

Same Time Next Year - Part 1

2012-01-10T21:30:00.001-08:00

Well, it's probably time to talk about the Writer (who will no doubt get a kick out of it as he has been known to lurk here on occasion). Warning. This is a long 'un.

I met the Writer oh, almost four years ago now. My book club had read his first novel, which was beautiful. When I heard he'd be in town, doing a reading from said novel, I had to go. I dragged along two of the girls from the club. The reading wasn't terribly well-attended, but the Writer was fascinating. During the Q & A he was well-spoken, witty, and self-deprecating. Charming.

After the reading, I took my copy of his book up to him to sign. I had mentioned, during the Q & A, that I was originally from the town where he lived, and he casually said that if I was ever back in town, we should go for coffee. I wrote down my email for him, which he appeared to recognize (to this day, I don't know if that was a line or not). I stammered something about my email being the same as my blog address, but that he couldn't possibly have read my blog. He gave me his email. I floated out of the reading totally smitten.

The next day at work, I sat at my computer, trying to think up ways that I could contact the Writer that would be appropriate. I wanted to talk to him about writing. I wanted to talk to him about him. I wanted to talk to him about me. In the end I concluded, any way I framed it, that getting in touch would be inappropriate. The Writer, you see, was married. I knew this. He mentioned it in the reading. His book was beautifully dedicated to his wife. I sighed, looked at the card on which he'd scrawled his email, and put it in a drawer.

A few hours later, I burst out of my office with a stupid grin on my face, and raced into my BFF Ginger's office.

"He emailed," I shrieked! "The Writer emailed!" I walked around delirious for the rest of the day.

And so it began. A casual email correspondence turned into a not-so-casual email correspondence. Email correspondence turned into all-day MSN sessions. MSN sessions turned into phone calls. And soon, I found myself proclaiming to the Girlfriend Jury that I was hopelessly, hopelessly in love. Which I was. I was obsessed. I could do nothing but think of the Writer, every moment of every day.

At the same time, I was plagued with insecurities and doubts. The Writer did not fit my picture of a Raincoast Hero. 10 years older than me, married, a father? No. How could I explain this to my parents? How could I live with myself if the Writer actually left his wife for me (which he sometimes hinted at doing)? Also, why did the Writer seem to like me so damn much? The more insecure and petty I showed myself to be, the more he seemed to like me. I couldn't understand it, not liking myself very much at that time.

It all culminated on the day that I left my apartment on the Rain Coast forever, soon to relocate across the Atlantic to the Rain City. I was deeply saddened by the sight of my empty apartment in the June sunshine, and somehow, the Writer was there to hold me in his arms, as I shook a little when I closed the door for the last time. And then we were speeding in a cab across town to Ginger's apartment, where I was house-sitting, and we were kissing, and then we were making love, and it felt strange and alien and also exactly right, so right that it completely and utterly terrified and mystified me.

And I ran for the hills. Well, for Europe. And the Rain City. Away from the Writer, and from his texts, and his emails. I amputated us, excised his particular corner of my heart, and left it behind.

But it wasn't a clean incision, you see, and so there was always something growing there, quietly, stealthily. I couldn't stay out of touch. And gradually, we struck up a carefully casual correspondence again. I was relieved, but also immeasurably saddened, when the Writer appeared to move on - first with another woman, then reconciling with his wife. That's that, then, I thought. He's figured out I'm not really so special. Now I don't have to suffer the pain of watching him find that out in front of me.

When I moved back to the Rain Coast, the Writer became a sort of confidante at a distance, someone I could speak to in my lowest moments. I could show him the face I couldn't show anyone else - the one that wasn't strong, determined and confident. His marriage dissolved - I was relieved to be only a witness to that, rather than a cause.

A few times the Writer asked if I wanted to meet - "for a drink - just a drink" - he always said. But I always refused. I couldn't bear to disappoint him, or myself, by finding out that our magic was gone. I was so sure that it was, you see. A few times, when home for the holidays, I walked into his place of work, just to see him. Every year but one, the first year I came back, I missed him. But that first year, I saw him. And I froze. And I couldn't go to him. I was rooted with fear to the spot. I wheeled and raced out of there as fast as my high heels could carry me.

Fast forward to this past December. I'm a much happier, wiser, gal, and the Writer is a much more contented, less angsty guy - separated, and happily involved with someone else. We still talk - well, I talk, he listens - and I think of him daily. He is still the dear void into which I pour my deepest, darkest thoughts and insecurities. And yet - there is always this tension between us, this forced separation, for - what, really? Safety? Yes, safety. At least on my part. If I stay away, I can't fall again (more). I can't be rejected. I can't be hurt.

So I really don't know what possessed me this year to make my annual pilgrimage to his workplace to see him. Enough time has passed, I thought. He loves someone else - he told me so. Indeed he had. Had told me that he wouldn't trade the calm waves of love he felt for this woman for anything, certainly not our I-will-die-if-I-can't-touch-you kind of love. I resolved this time to say hello, to be friends, to go for the drink.

I missed him. Again. And so I texted him. We made plans to meet, on Christmas Eve, for a drink. And we did.

The immediate feeling on seeing the Writer again? Relief. Comfort. I felt like I could breathe again. We sat in front of the fire, we drank, we talked. I curled up with my head in his lap, content to just be near him, to hear him talk. I was safe, I figured, knowing how much he mentioned his new girlfriend to me. We were friends.

And then we got on the subject of us, and as we rehashed old feelings and long-ago conversations, I suppose the old feelings started to return. We joked we were the "Same Time Next Year" couple, who meet once a year for a secret rendezvous for, well, their whole lives. We both knew we were tiptoeing into dangerous territory - for me, the danger of being vulnerable. For the Writer, the danger of jeopardizing what he has now. I don't know how we resolved this (we were well into the gin, and the vodka at this point), but the Writer resolved to "have a cigarette, kiss me, and go home." I agreed. And before we even left the house we were kissing in my kitchen, and for me, it was a tidal wave. We shared a cigarette, kissed under the porch light. And as much as I told him he should go home, that there was no rush, that this, whatever this was, would keep, I wanted him to stay. I wanted to actually spend the night with the Writer, for once, just once. I wanted to wake up to him. The minute he left, I wanted him to come back, and texted him immediately to come back. I even put on my robe and slippers and resolved to chase him down the street. I really did. He agreed to come back, and I left the front door unlocked, went to bed, and waited.

He never arrived. I awoke groggily early in the morning to realize he wasn't there.

The next day, he texted me, apologetic. He had been tired and drunk and sick, which I understood. What was I doing tonight, he asked. I said he should come back, tonight. In fact, I commanded it.

"I'm hoping to," he said. I immediately knew he wasn't going to come. He didn't say "I will." He didn't say "Wild horses couldn't stop me." When a man is saying maybe 12 hours before the fact - well, it means no. All day, as I stood in the kitchen preparing Christmas dinner, I felt sick with hope, hope that he would actually come back. But sure enough, later that evening, he texted me his excuses. And his apologies. He said he was sorry. And I believe he was. Sorry not just for not making it, but sorry for choosing not to. Sorry that the timing was wrong, again. And I understood. We had a friendly goodbye the next day before I left town, and he went to spend time with his girlfriend. But I was devastated.

Devastated because of one tiny, simple thing the Writer had said to me, that Christmas Eve. "RCC," he said. "You never understood. I didn't love you in spite of your flaws. I loved you because of them."

The Working Relationship.

2012-01-10T20:50:00.000-08:00

A few months ago I met Jack online. We went on one of the zillion coffee dates I've been on in past months. To my surprise, we had a delightful time. There was an awkward moment when I walked into the coffee shop Jack had chosen and smack into an ex, the subject of this post, who I haven't seen in years - since he unceremoniously dumped me after I dared to bring up the subject of commitment. Jack instantly won points when I whispered to him that the man sitting behind us, who I had greeted so awkwardly, was my ex, and he promptly took off his watch, tossed it on the floor, and casually bent down to pick it up, stealing a glance at the ex as he did so.

Jack was charming and fun and we seemed to have great conversational chemistry - much more so than I'd had with anyone in a long time. I left the coffee shop with butterflies in my stomach, the long-forgotten pangs of a developing crush. Almost immediately, we made plans to see each other again. This time, we went for sushi, and Jack was again charming, and take-charge, ordering various plates he thought I'd like, keeping up the stream of interesting and intelligent conversation the whole way.

After that, Jack had to go out of town for a few weeks. We stayed in sporadic text contact while he was gone, and the day he landed back in the city, he texted me to make plans. Date 3, I thought excitedly! This is it! Jack hadn't kissed me yet, nor had I kissed him - although we had both come close. I invited Jack to my house. I said I'd cook dinner.

The evening in question arrived. The house was immaculate. I was immaculate, for that matter. Casual but cute in my favourite cherry-print dress. Asian-inspired menu because I knew Jack had a preference for Asian food. Carefully selected playlist on the iPod. Clean sheets on the bed.

Jack arrived promptly, and looked a little ill at ease, so I told him I needed help in the kitchen, to give him something to do other than sit there and look awkward. He very obligingly took off his watch, rolled up his sleeves, and went to work. Our witty banter was there, as usual, but Jack seemed...distant. Uncomfortable. The food was good, we ate sitting on the couch, talking. We each told a few funny relationship stories, we talked about his recent trip. Nothing unusual. Jack also did a few magic tricks that were quite amazing, actually. We talked at length about his new business, and he casually mentioned that he might want to hire me (in my capacity as a freelancer) to assist him. I looked a little confused, and said something vague, like, "Yeah, sure, that would be cool."

And then, the clock struck 10 p.m. Jack started gazing anxiously at the clock on the wall as I was talking. I finally interrupted him. "Are you watching the clock?"

"Yeah," he said. "I should go. I should get to bed."

I was a little surprised.

"Uh, OK," I stammered. He got up quickly, and headed for the door, and was out the door without so much as a peck on the cheek.

The next day, a thank you email. A cute word about Rain City Kitty, and then again - the mention about hiring me as a freelancer.

A few days passed, and then Jack really started to talk to me in earnest about work stuff. So much so, in fact, that I decided he really wasn't interested in me at all, other than in my professional capacity. So I started to restrict our communication to work topics. I did some work for him, and he sent me an email asking if I wanted to meet up to talk about it, over dim sum. I said sure, as I would to any other client.

On the day, I arrived in full work mode, with my hair done, briefcase in hand.

"Don't you look all dolled up," he said admiringly.

"Well, it is a work day," I said.

"It's not a work date," he replied, mishearing me (deliberately or not, I don't know).

And just like that, charming flirty Jack was back, who wanted to hear all about me and my adventures. Not a single mention of his work, which was languishing in my briefcase. I was once again won over, so much so, in fact, that I asked him out to dinner and a theatre opening with me. He readily agreed.

On the night in question, I wore a fabulous dress. Jack was once again charming and polite during dinner. But when we got to the theatre, where we mingled with people I knew but he didn't, he shut down. He actually went and sat in a corner with his laptop, and did work, before the show and during intermission. All of the sparkle of earlier in the evening seem to have faded, and he seemed weary, and bored.

After that final little disaster, I decided to write Jack off. He was destined to be my client, not my lover, I guess, although I couldn't understand why he became so withdrawn and disinterested after such a promising start. And so, that's where we stand now - the man I met on a dating site is now my client, without us ever really speaking about how that evolution occurred.

The line is always blurry. We'll trade emails about work. He'll occasionally ask if we can meet to discuss the work, which we will, and occasionally he'll make a personal comment like, "Did you get your hair done? It looks great" or "Love the dress." But gradually, any personal conversation, at least from him, has receded into the background. Even if I try to move the conversation to a personal topic, asking how his holidays were, for example, he avoids the question. He's such a frustrating person to read, which I said to him one day.

"What do you mean," he said, laughing a little at me.

"I can't read you at all," I exclaimed. "You keep all your cards close to your chest. I never know what you're thinking."

"Then it's working," he said with a twinkle in his eye. "I can't understand why you're so bothered by it."

I didn't know what to reply to that.

And so it continues. Today we met to discuss work, and he made some flip comment which I didn't respond to.

"Oh, we're not playful today?" he asked. "No jokes for RCC today?"

I didn't know what to say. Why joke when we're talking on a purely professional level, client to contractor?

Ah well. If he won't warm my bed, at least he'll pay my rent.

Slow Burn Goes Cold

2011-11-16T17:29:00.000-08:00

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.

The Slow Burn

2011-09-24T23:32:00.000-07:00

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.

To Woo or Be Wooed

2011-09-21T20:19:00.000-07:00

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."

Indeed.

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.

2011-09-21T20:07:00.000-07:00

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…

Just Go With It.

2011-08-25T18:05:00.000-07:00

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.

Maybe I Have to Come First.

2011-07-20T02:29:00.000-07:00

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.

The Professor.

2011-06-10T13:05:00.000-07:00

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!

2011-06-10T09:59:00.000-07:00

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.

What?

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...

Since When Do Boys Have All The Issues?

2011-06-07T22:04:00.000-07:00

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.

Him:

Yes, I did.

Me:

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.

Him:

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

Me:

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.

Him:

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?

The Ex-Factor

2011-05-15T22:58:00.001-07:00

"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?

Awkward Encounters.

2011-05-06T00:15:00.000-07:00

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.

Mismatch.com

2011-04-23T21:54:00.000-07:00

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 corona.you 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 think...at 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.

2011-04-23T14:47:00.001-07:00

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.

Remembering the First Time.

2011-04-16T01:46:00.000-07:00

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.

Newsflash: I'm a Fucking Snob.

2011-03-25T22:14:00.000-07:00

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?

Earl's.

Yeah.

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.

A Wrench in the Plan.

2010-02-01T20:58:00.000-08:00

My friend Sarah has been in love with the same man, Jack, for around three years now. While her devotion has never wavered, it took him time to focus. He dated a lot of meaningless girls, and rolled up to Sarah's house whenever he needed a friend. Jack knew the connection was there, but wouldn't admit it, least of all to Sarah. To the point where she sometimes felt like she was going crazy, that it was all in her head, that they weren't speaking the same language. At various points, the relationship was a sexual one, and two years ago, Sarah found herself pregnant and alone, as Jack had recently departed for one of his surface "relationships" with another woman. She had a termination, much to Jack's consternation (he didn't want to be with her, but wanted her to have the baby), and when it was all over (with Jack noticeably absent from the support network that grew up around her), Sarah told him she never wanted to see him again, and tried to move on.

Of course, it wasn't that easy. Jack was in love, whether he could see it or not, and so he couldn't stay away from her, even if it was the kind thing to do. Kind because he still wasn't willing to commit, or to declare publicly, what all of us knew: that he loved her. Sarah's self esteem took a beating. My heart ached for her. I've been in unrequited love. It sucks. I've also been in love with someone who loved me back (which I knew, in my soul), but couldn't admit it. That's worse. Sarah moved to a different city to focus on her career, and to get some distance. Every few months there would be a call from Jack, an offer to visit. They formed an uneasy friendship. Whenever I saw them together, I could tell how gingerly Sarah was treading, how every word, every gesture, was designed to protect her from further heartbreak. About six months ago, in a desperate bid to move on, Sarah told Jack to stay out of her life. He tried, but was still in touch with her family and some of her friends. And of course, Sarah couldn't really enforce the separation either. She took whatever she could get.

And then, four months ago, for whatever reason, Jack came to his senses. He realized who he loved, and moved heaven and earth to get to Sarah (still in a different city), to tell her what she meant to him, and that he wanted to try. Finally. Romantic? Yes. Terrifying for all of Sarah's loved ones? Absolutely. We didn't know what was different this time, what was going to make Jack's commitment finally stick. So we have all been holding our breath, moving slowly from dreadfully anticipating when Sarah's heart gets broken again, to being cautiously optimistic, as Jack made plans to move to be with Sarah, spoke to Sarah's parents about his love for her and his intention to marry her, as soon as he could win their approval. Sarah's parents of course never knew about the termination, or the emotional maelstrom that ensued, but somehow sensed that Jack had to jump through a few more hoops before he got their blessing. So Jack is devoting a lot of energy right now to being worthy of Sarah's love.

Sarah called me today to talk. She's pregnant. Again. And she's terminating. Again. And this time, she's not telling Jack.

So. There still won't be a happy ending for Jack and Sarah, not right now, although it's probably the right ending. If Sarah told Jack, he'd want to get married (he's kind of an old-fashioned alpha male in this respect). He'd want her to have the baby. And four months into a very precarious, high-stakes relationship, Sarah (and I, for what it's worth), know that this would be the death knell for their future. He'd feel trapped. So would she. They'd rush into something he hasn't yet earned. She'd resent taking time off from her career at a crucial point in her development in order to have this baby. She also knows that because they're finally "in love," Jack wouldn't be able to accept her decision. And so...she won't tell him. Whether that's right or not, I don't know.

"Can you live with not telling him?" I asked her. There was a pause on the phone.

"I think...I think that I can. Because I don't want this to end. And this baby would end it...I can imagine all the ways in which it would end it," she said. I nodded into the receiver. So could I.

"And in the future," she continued optimistically, "I can see us talking about it. And I can see him forgiving me...then."

I remained silent. I can't see that. I can't see Jack forgiving her. I can't see him accepting this decision again. But I support my friend. I want her to do what's best for her. And this is what she thinks is best. And if she thinks it's best not to tell him...well, I support her in that. Whether it's right or wrong. I can't even decide if it's wrong, to be honest. All I know is I don't want my friend to be hurt again. And the truth? I think she will be, no matter how this turns out.

I Attract Them Like a Magnet.

2010-01-25T23:44:00.000-08:00

So, up until this week, things were going fine with David. It was nice, dating again. Going out to dinner, doing date-y things. I was a little worried, however, that we were going to be left circling in friends territory, as after several dates, he still hadn't made a move - to hold my hand, kiss me, nothing. I brought it up one night at dinner.

"So, where's your crazy?" I asked him, taking a swig of my Mojito.

"What do you mean," he asked. I had just rather abruptly switched tack from discussing which appie we were sharing.

"Well, my crazy is always out there, on display, " I pointed out. "I'm overdramatic, histrionic, at once flirty and prickly...it's all there. YOU, on the other hand. You seem so normal, so well adjusted. You communicate. Where's your crazy."

"I suppose in bed," he said thoughtfully. I spewed Mojito across the table, choking.

"Good answer," I muttered.

After that conversation, we were off to the races, and soon left friend territory behind for more exciting lands. Unfortunately, David also seemed to think, within days, that we were also crossing the line from dating, or sleeping together, to serious relationship, rather more quickly than I would wish, given that I had disclosed, in abbreviated terms, the sad history of Complicated Man and cautioned that my heart was bruised, that I would have to take it slow.

Our first sleepover was a Friday, and was accompanied once again by a talk about how I like to take things slow, that what is comfortable for me is to push people away, and that while I was going to try my best not to do that, I was only prepared to take baby steps, romantically speaking. That Sunday, he asked me to brunch to meet his ENTIRE circle of friends, who, when I arrived, had all clearly been briefed about me. I smiled through the brunch and suppressed my paranoia, offering up my cheek when he tried to kiss me in front of the entire table.

The following Tuesday, after yet another dinner with another set of David's friends, and another talk about why, no, I was not comfortable being referred to as his girlfriend yet or changing my Facebook relationship status, given we had only been dating a few weeks, and again explaining how I was trying very hard to move on from hurtful things in the recent past, David dropped the bomb.

"I love you RCC," he said, staring into my eyes. I covered my face with my hands.

"It's too soon," I wailed.

"I know," he said. "I'm sorry. It's just...I was in love with you years ago, and couldn't deal with it then, and now all the emotions are just flooding back, and...I love you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

I couldn't say it back. I just stared at him.

"I don't want to hurt you," I said softly.

"I don't think you could," he said, smiling. Which made it even more clear to me that he wasn't in love with the real me, he was in love with this idea of me he's been caring around for eight years. Because the real me definitely had the capacity to hurt him. And if he knew what was good for him, he would have seen that.

From that point on, David got just that much more clingy, and I got that much more freaked out. On Wednesday he tried to sleep over and I made him go home. I needed alone time. On Friday, we went to a burlesque show with my BFF and her new man, who came for drinks at my place first. David, who had showed up with flowers for me, played the genial host, serving drinks, offering people a seat. At MY house. It was a little unnerving. Then, at the end of the evening, after we had all come back to my house for drunken snackies, and the last guest had left, David remained, loading the dishwasher, wiping down the counters.

"You don't have to do that," I said several times from the sofa. "I'll do it in the morning."

"No, no," he said. "I'll do it now." He continued puttering around my kitchen.

Finally I stood up.

"Well, I'm tired and going to bed," I said, yawning and stretching. "Good night."

David didn't take the hint.

"I'm going to have a shower," he said.

I was annoyed, but a little too drunk and tired to point out he had not been invited to stay. I climbed in bed and prayed I'd be asleep by the time he came to bed. I wasn't; he climbed in, and soon began snoring, so loudly it woke me up. I sighed, stood up, and stumbled down the hall to the spare room.

David heard me and quickly followed.

"Was I snoring? Oh, sorry sorry...I'll sleep in here," he said.

"No," I said. "I don't like the idea of you sleeping in the guest bedroom. You should just go home."

"But I want to be here, with you."

"But you're not. You're down the hall. In the guest room."

"But I want to be there."

"But. I. Don't. Want. You. To."

I couldn't believe he was making me argue with him about whether he was welcome in my house or not. I insisted he could not sleep in the spare room, like my handservant. This would not do. I could tell he was close to tears as he slunk towards the door. I was furious and relieved when he left.

At the door, he turned. "I won't call you tomorrow," he said. "YOU call me when you get up."

I nodded tiredly, knowing I would not call.

When I woke up the next morning, there were two voicemails from David.

And the bonus? My BFF had two voicemails from David. The first, informing her (mistakenly) that my phone was "toast" after I had sent him a Facebook message telling him I had taken my iPhone to the Apple Store (it wasn't toast, nor was there any need for him to tell my BFF about it), and a second, telling her that the two of them should get together soon to start planning my 30th birthday party. WHICH IS FIVE MONTHS AWAY.

BFF was furious. I was furious. And now, David has crossed from potentially-really-nice guy to crazy-clingy-and-just-a-little-bit-scary-guy.

I called him on it. I sent him an email laying out in no uncertain terms how I was feeling, and why he was jumping the gun and needed to take a step back. In 10 days, we had the L-bomb, plus all this clingy boyfriend behaviour. And the calls to the BFF? Back the fuck off.

He sent a reply to the email saying he was working on a reply. He also sent me a message on Facebook to ensure I understood that he had received the email. 4 hours later, came a biblical second reply in which he admitted he was completely in the wrong, grovelled more than slightly, begged me to always tell him when he's being obtuse because he "doesn't get hints" and "doesn't understand when he is behaving inappropriately in relationships," and gave himself "action points" to take away, such as "Do not treat things RCC tells you about baggage as merely RCC trivia, understand this applies to your actions and behaviour" and "Do not assume RCC feels the same way you do and that what is good for you is good for her."

The email made things worse, almost. Maybe a different kind of woman would appreciate this. I didn't. His backbone completely disappeared, and the fact that he is trying to hold on to a woman who has basically said, "I'm pissed off with you and not interested in being your girlfriend so chill the fuck out" has somehow made him less attractive. I'm not feelin' it anymore. And it's disappointing. And also, I don't know that I can be with someone who has relationship autism, who can't read cues, doesn't know how to act, and actually INVITES out-and-out criticism as this is the "only way" he will know he is behaving inappropriately.

So. I've told him I won't see him for a week. There have been emails but I haven't responded to them. A guy friend, Max, said earlier in the week of David, "It's always better to have the guy be more keen on you than the other way around." But you know what? Sometimes it's not. I know I tend to push people away who tell me they find me attractive. I've been quite aware of that with David and have suppressed that reaction in order to see where things go. But if where things go is being told "I love you" in a week, and having someone ready to move in within 10 days, and me not feelin' it within two weeks, I think I'd rather revert to aloofness. Maybe one day I'll attract a man who can cut through my bullshit and still retain his dignity.

The Bolt from the Blue

2010-01-09T17:21:00.001-08:00

I've been home on the Raincoast for two months now, and settling back into a healthier, happier routine, where I have some work-life balance and am surrounded by good friends and family. Dating hasn't been a priority. I'm not feeling good enough about myself at the moment to actively go man-hunting; I just haven't had the energy. So I've mostly been playing wingman to my single girlfriends, and enjoying time alone.

"Oh, you'll meet someone," say all my smug married friends. "You're too great to be single for too long. It'll happen when you least expect it."

"It" happened Christmas Eve, when I was in my hometown for the holidays. My mobile phone rang, and the number that flashed on the screen wasn't one I recognized, but I answered anyway.

"Merry Christmas," said the male caller warmly. "How are you?" The voice was familiar, but I couldn't place it. "It's David," he said. I racked my brain: "David, David..."

David?!

I had met David almost a decade ago, when we were in the same arts club at university, long before I hit the Raincoast. He was outgoing, smart, flirty, and we had started showing up early at club meetings to talk to each other. Pretty soon he had asked for my number, and we began hanging out. It never turned into anything; I thought I might like him, but David never made a move, I was (and still am) too insecure to make a move on my own, and pretty soon I was dating someone else. We never moved from friend territory. I moved to Montreal, then London, and we lost touch. It sounds horrible, but I never even really thought about David, as the years went by. I couldn't remember the last time I had seen him. Still, it was nice to hear from him; I had always enjoyed his company.

"How did you get my number, " I exclaimed, after we had chatted for a few moments: he lived in Vancouver now as well, and was home for the holidays. "Oh, I called your parents' house," he said. "That was the last number I had for you. Actually, I've called every Christmas to see if you were around for the holidays. I've left messages with your mom. Did she never tell you?"

"Uh, no," I said. "No, she never did tell me that. I'm sorry; I would have called you back."

"It's fine," he said. "She gave me your number, but, uh, can I keep your number?"

I laughed. "Yes, definitely," I said. "We should hang out in Vancouver!"

"Well, let's do something while we're both home for the holidays," he said. I agreed; we made plans to meet up after Boxing Day.

As I hung up the phone, I didn't know what to think. I hadn't thought about David in ages, but it was certainly nice to hear from him. I had liked him 10 years ago; would I like "adult" David? Would we still have things in common? What would we talk about?

The day after Boxing Day, he showed up to pick me up for our meeting. I opened the door and smiled; he looked the same, although a little better dressed, some new facial hair, and, I noted with glee, a little grey (I love prematurely grey hair on young men. I blame George Clooney).

"You have NOT changed," he exclaimed.

"Oh, don't say THAT," I said, cringing. I am well aware I'm not in as good shape as I was even two years ago, when I was at the peak of fitness, running everyday...I hadn't been in great shape in university either and didn't need the confirmation that unfit, non-confident RCC was back.

"Hey," he said. "I am NOT complaining!" It was sweet; and it put me at ease immediately.

Off we went for a winters' walk on the beach. Conversation came awkwardly at first; we had alot to catch up on, including the basics: "What do you do now? Where do you work? Where do you live?" Pretty soon we were chatting away, however, and our walk on the beach turned into a walk through a nearby park, and a tour of downtown. It was nice. When David dropped me off, I gave him a hug and said, "I hope you'll come and play with me when you're back in the city." I was leaving the next day. "Definitely," he agreed. "I'll call you." I was happy to have a new friend to hang out with in Vancouver (my life is rich with friendship, but hey-you can never be too wealthy).

The next day, as I was packing to leave for home, my phone rang. It was David.

"I just wanted to say that I had fun with you yesterday," he said.

"Me too," I replied. "It was so nice to catch up."

"Do you think we could hang out today before you leave?" he asked.

"Absolutely!" I said. I was more than happy to have an excuse to get out of my parents' house, after a week of "family time" (God love 'em).

Pretty soon he was back at the front door, and off we went, for an afternoon drink and a snack at a local pub.

As we chatted away, David suddenly interrupted me.

"Hey-at the risk of ruining everything, do you think, when we get back to Vancouver, we could, uh, go on a date date?"

I was silent for a moment, then smiled.

"I liked you 8 years ago, David, and you never made a move," I said. "You should have asked me out on a date then!"

He laughed.

"Well, I wasn't so confident then. But I am now. And hey-I realize I'm batting above my league here...I'm just really attracted to smart women." (Bonus points for both of those last remarks).

That did it.

"Yes," I said decisively. "Let's go out on a date-date."

And so there you have it. Just like that, I'm dating again.

Cards on the Table.

2009-11-03T22:20:00.000-08:00

I'm back on the Raincoast, feeling jet lagged and un-sexy. On my first day out in town, I needed to get to a particular store to buy a particular technological gadget so's I could surf the internets (essential). I hopped on a bus and asked the driver if I could get to this store on his route; he wasn't sure but a man getting on behind me interrupted and mentioned that it would be better if I hopped off at a certain stop and walked the rest of the way.

"I work near there, and that's where I get off," he said.

"OK, then I'll just get off when you do," I said. "Thanks."

We chose separate seats. When he stood up, I stood up, and we got off the bus. I started walking in the direction of the store. Awkwardly, he was walking in the same direction. I tried to slow down so we weren't walking together, but he paused and waited for me at the corner.

"Where is it you're going, exactly?" he asked. I told him. "They're in my office building," he said, laughing. "I'll walk with you."

So, off we set, even more awkwardly. We made conversation; he was a journalist, we talked about the story he was writing. We talked about my work. It was as good a conversation as perfect strangers can have during a 10 minute walk. He was clearly intelligent, and witty. And English. I was sufficiently entertained. No wedding ring.

When we got to the building, we shook hands, exchanged all those niceties: "it's nice to meet you," "good luck with your story," "good luck with your move," blah blah. Then he handed me his business card, and we parted ways.

When I got home later that day, I looked at his card. What did it mean, the giving of the card, I asked myself? He didn't say "call me." He didn't say "it would be nice to hear from you." But then, why the card? He had seemed like a pleasant enough man, so I thought, could it hurt to have a drink?

The next day, I emailed. I kept the tone casual, light: "Thanks for the guided tour, it was nice meeting you." I made a little joke referring to something we had talked about. Three lines, that was it.

He responded literally within 30 seconds. The reply was basically "You're welcome." Friendly, responded to my joke cordially, but that was it. No leading question for me to answer to continue the conversation, nothing to give me some encouragement that if I sent another email, he would reply. Certainly no invitation to meet up again.

I immediately hit "forward" and sent it to my friend Cath, saying, "Well, so much for banter. What the hell do I say now? I guess nothing." She immediately emailed back a suggested reply, which I fired off to him immediately. He responded, a little more wit this time, but again, the email was the electronic equivalent of a poker face, impossible to read. I had no idea if I would be shot down if I asked to meet up, and was not willing to ask until I was a bit more sure of the response I would receive. I waited a few minutes, and emailed a one sentence reply. Then I had to head out to meet a friend for lunch, but eagerly anticipated coming home to a reply, which I was sure was forthcoming.

Nothing.

Hmm.

So, if he didn't want to talk to me again, why the business card? There was no reason, professionally, to give me the card. If he was waiting to see if I was interested, clearly, emailing him in the first place indicated my interest, non?

While I am not devastated or even feeling particularly rejected, as there was nothing more than a mild interest on my part in the first place, this incident has confirmed that I am decidedly against the act of business card spamming. Cards should only be handed out to people you genuinely wish to contact you. This is what I have concluded, after much deliberation. Amen.

If it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge.

2009-08-08T15:12:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure why, but following my recent dark night of the soul over C.M., my friends thought that the best revenge was to head out on the town and on the pull. I reluctantly agreed. I was only willing to venture out of my room after dark anyway, as my eyes were so swollen from crying. At the very least, I thought, a good night of drinking myself into oblivion was in order.

After many, many shots of sambuca, I ended up going home with a much much younger man for some meaningless "revenge" sex. It didn't feel like revenge, though, as I realized, C.M. didn't care. It would mean nothing to him. The only person I was hurting was me.

It would have been one thing if it was fun. But I just felt sad. And hollow. I think this is a feeling I will have to learn to live with...

Devastated Girl Seeks Uncomplicated Man.

2009-08-05T16:21:00.000-07:00

I should have known it would be my heart that got broken in the end.

I haven't had much to say here for many months. Readers of this blog will know this is because I've been hopelessly in love with one very Complicated Man and waiting for him to figure out what to do about it. I've been very patient, I think. Every email, every letter, every phone call, every gift, every meeting, was like water to a gasping traveller traversing the desert, quenching my thirst momentarily, and giving me the strength to stagger on in search of the next oasis. At times, my faith wavered, and I couldn't see the horizon. I doubted what I felt, thought perhaps I'd imagined it, but was drip-fed hope in small enough doses that I continued to trust in what I felt and to trust my heart when it said he felt it too.

Even in my deleriously hopeful and optimistic state, I couldn't help but notice a chill in the air over the past few months. It went acknowledged but blithely and pointedly ignored. I chalked it up to him having to figure things out. C.M. is a good man who found himself in a situation where it was impossible to be good to everyone, and I felt very confident that if he searched his heart, he would make the right choice, and that it would be me. So I gave him space, and tried not to panic as the gulf widened.

My birthday last month went unnoticed, which hurt. Then came a momentous announcement from me, that I was making a huge, life changing decision that would certainly put physical distance between us. The response I wanted: "Please don't go, I love you and I just need time to sort things out before we live happily ever after." The response I got: "Totally understand, and think it's for the best. You'll be happier." Even then, however, I didn't clue in. The encroaching silence, the gentle let-downs...they didn't register.

The final blow caught me while I wasn't looking, while I had exhaled. Things seemed hopeful. Chances of a reunion were on the horizon, the daily contact that I craved was back in full swing, and I was confidently striding towards a future that I was creating for myself with a quiet confidence that C.M. would be part of that future. Tonight, I was sitting at a table in a restaurant, laughing with friends, happier than I had been in months. I casually checked my Blackberry, to find an email from C.M., always a joyous event. As I scrolled down, I saw the line, casually buried halfway through the third paragraph of otherwise witty, breezy chat. I don't need to tell you what it said, other than to say it was a death shot. It was aimed to kill, not maim, and it found its target easily. It was information that was withheld from me until it became the elephant in the room too large to ignore.

At that moment, reading the words, the air disappeared. I couldn't focus on what my friends were saying, I was upside down, underwater, couldn't find the surface. After what seemed like hours, stumbling home in the dark, I was able to process it, chastising myself that it had all been in my head, right from the very beginning, a ruse cleverly designed by my heart to carry me through some of the darkest times in my life. Friends assured me that I was in his heart, no matter how hard I argued that I had deceived myself. No, they said. He found himself in an impossible situation, unable to be honest with me for fear of alienating me completely, of losing our friendship altogether. I reproached myself, that I had let my imagination turn that friendship into something more than it ever, ever was.

It may not have been love to him, but it was life to me. And for that, I am grateful, despite this assassination of all my hopes. Despite the calculated, careful nature of the attack.

And so, after tonight, which I need to grieve and mourn and admonish myself for daring to dream, I will put an end to it. As I move on into a new phase of my life, I suppose I can let go of this crutch. It's painful. It hurts like hell. I'll be limping for ages. But I'll be walking. Forward.

For The Complicated One.

2009-06-18T15:49:00.001-07:00

The stars align

But they don't align for us

Excuse me, for I am the ocean

And I will stop for you

Will you know how to stay brave

Search for fragile moments we share

And you are my everything

Even with nothing to say...

-DG

And...we're back.

2009-06-18T15:48:00.001-07:00

And I'm glad.

I Did Notice You Had Gone...

2009-06-17T12:17:00.001-07:00

...from my life, from my inbox. And it hurt.

The Girl Code

2009-04-24T15:23:00.000-07:00

There is a code among girls. Girls' girls, that is. If a friend:

a) dates a fella;

b) is in unrequited love and/or lust with a fella; or

c) even expresses a remote interest in a fella,

if you are a girl's girl, you back off. Even if she protests, says she's no longer interested, that "oh, you'd make a great couple and honestly, I don't even CARE about him anymore," you back. the fuck. off. It's the Girl Code.

I feel very blessed in the girls I have in my life. They are, without exception, girl's girls.

Or so I thought.

There is a man that I've been circling around for awhile now. I more than like him, but, as Facebook would say, "It's complicated." He's married, for one. But there's just something. At the very least, it's a very close friendship. If I get my way, it will be a very close more-than-friendship. The line has already wavered, and continues to, in one form or another. Suffice it to say, he's been marked for some time as mine. I take comfort in the "complicated" status of whatever-it-is we're doing together because universally, those that know both of us get that we're working through something, even if it comes to naught, give quiet encouragement where needed, and basically stay out of it.

My co-worker Paige has been one of these people. She was the first person I confessed the real depth of my feelings to, and she was encouraging and empathetic. She was the first person I texted when I woke up in bed one morning after a night of partying to find Complicated Man right beside me. She's seen us together, and dissected every detail with me later. She's agreed with my analysis of Complicated Man's attractive qualities, and given independent third party observer confirmation that yes, he definitely is into me. She's been, in short, a girlfriend.

Last night a group of us, excluding Complicated Man but including many mutual friends (Paige among them) gathered at our local pub, the Shakespeare, getting drunk on someone else's tab, which is always good fun. The drinks were slightly tinged with hysteria, as all of us had found out a day earlier that we were all potentially on the chopping block at work, victims of the credit crunch and the recession crippling the City, and our double G & T's turned into double-doubles. I hadn't seen Paige in awhile, and in fact, someone had pointed out earlier in the week that they thought Paige and I had "fallen out" (for reasons I'll explain in a minute), which had been a surprise to me.

After a few double-doubles, Paige came up to give me a hug, drunkenly crooning "I miss you, it's been so loooong." I hugged her back and filled her in on the fall-out theory. Paige looked truly perplexed, widening her eyes to emphasize her shock at such an outrageous statement (perhaps more than she needed to, I thought, but I blamed that on the G & T's).

"But what do they think we fell out about?" she asked incredulously. That's when I took a deep breath, and raised the issue of the Girl Code.

"About Complicated Man," I said, and sat back, stirring my G & T anxiously and waiting for her reply. "They think that you got together with Complicated Man, and I found out. This was the first time I heard any of this, so I said it must not be true." To my horror, she calmly took a sip of her drink, and nodded knowingly.

"Ohhhhhhh, there's NOTHING going on with Complicated Man AT THE MOMENT," she said airily. "We've gotten to know each other very well, and I know he fancies me, but you know, he's happily married. So nothing will happen."

I stared at her in shock. It was like we were talking about someone else. She couldn't be talking about MY Complicated Man. WHEN did they have time to get to know each other very well, I asked, swallowing down my fear with a swig of gin. She gave a vague answer and I only half-listened. My mind was racing. Why was she acting like the fact that he was happily married (and my wounded ego begged to differ on that observation) was the only obstacle to them acting on the unbridled lust she was implying had grown between them? And where the hell had I been when all this was going on? When had they seen each other without me, and what was he doing when he wasn't with his wife or with me, or talking to me, or texting me, or writing me emails? In short, whataboutmewhataboutmewhataboutme?

My first reaction was to hope against hope that she had just been misled into believing that whatever heat was generating between me and Complicated Man had cooled. While carrying on with him in these circumstances was still a technical breach of the Girl Code, it was one I could live with.

"You know," I said, "CM and I are still kind of...well, I don't know what we're doing, but we're still doing it."

It was like she didn't hear me. There was no immediate gasp of horror and reassurance that, whatever there was between them, it was nothing to what he and I had. Or that all they had done was talk about me and how crazy about me he was. No. She responded with some comment about how fit he was and what a nice guy he was. I tried to suppress my panic. I tried to pin her down once again on when exactly they had had time to get to know each other, when they had last seen each other, and how this had all transpired. Once again, I didn't really get an answer. I felt sick to my stomach.

Oblivious to my discomfort, she repeated that while he was fit and she definitely fancied him, "nothing would happen between them." She said this with such ingenuine reassurance, as if they had already held a summit on this matter, had nobly resisted the irresistible animal attraction between them, and declared it closed...for now. My insecurities now overcame my pride. Whatever cards I still held to my chest were thrown to the table.

"You know Paige," I said. "If something happened between you and CM...well, that would make me really upset."

"Well," she said, just as ingenuously as she had before, "then nothing will happen."

At this point, I smiled feebly, stood up, and walked like a zombie over to where another group of our friends were standing just out of Paige's earshot.

"If she mentions CM again," I said, smiling sweetly for Paige's benefit, my teeth gritted, "I'll fucking punch her." And I meant it.

Immediately my friends sprang into action. My friend Chris walked me into another side of the pub, and earnestly told me that Paige was just drunk, that she was insecure and fragile, and that I should a) trust what I had with CM, or b) realize that maybe he was happily married, despite whatever was going on between us, and let it go. I responded by reminding Chris (a married man himself) of the Girl Code. That every word that had just come out of Paige's mouth had been in flagrant violation of the Code. Meanwhile, our friend Karen wheeled Paige out of the pub, out onto the patio, to remind her that CM was a no-fly zone. I learned later that Paige again intimated to Karen that something could have happened with CM, but wouldn't, for now. Karen didn't get any better a hold on the details than I had.

After a few deep breaths, I was calmed, but not calm. Chris was right. I couldn't trust CM because we were clearly doing something a man in his position shouldn't be doing anyway. I couldn't tune out Paige because she was playing on my biggest insecurity, that I am not a girl that stands up well to competition. Complicated Man was, perhaps, Too Complicated Man, although my heart told me I couldn't let him go yet. I rejoined our friends, my mind a thousand miles away. I couldn't face another drink.

As the night progressed, Paige continued with the double-doubles, studiously avoiding my gaze, until just before last call. I watched, teeth gritted, as she tried it on with several of our other guy friends. It poured salt in the wound, really: if she could be interested in any of our other guy friends, then why did she need to meddle with CM? Why did she need to help him break my heart? She stumbled over to me, threw her arms around me, and buried her head in my shoulder.

"Sorreeee," she mumbled. "Looooooove you."

I stroked her hair. There was nothing else to do. She was maybe about to lose her job. We all were. Did that make up for the sad realisation that Paige was a Girl Code Breaker? No. But I tried to be understanding. I tried to blame it on the double-doubles.

"Love you too," I sighed. "Do you want to get a cab?"

Paige nodded, silent, head still buried in my hair, arms wrapped around my neck. I led her to the door, and realised at that moment just how drunk she was. She could barely walk, lurching from side to side. I needed to use all of my strength to steer her in the right direction. As we stood outside the Shakespeare, I let go of her for an instant to hail a cab, and she fell with a thud to the sidewalk, bumping her head, and skinning her shin, which began to bleed. Cabs whizzed by us, reluctant to pick up a girl who was obviously very drunk. Finally, one came along. I got Paige inside and buckled her in, and started to give the driver her address, but Paige had already passed out. The driver wouldn't take her home without me. Home for Paige was in the opposite direction from me.

Sighing heavily, I gave the cab driver my address, and climbed in. There was nothing to do but take her home with me. We drove in silence, the driver annoyed that Paige might "soil his cab" at any moment, me lost in hurt, panicked thoughts that I had lost CM forever, and Paige...well, she was out.

We arrived home, and I somehow managed to get her to the door and up the stairs to my third floor flat. I opened the door and she stumbled onto my couch and immediately passed out. Her leg was still bleeding from where she had fallen. All over my couch. I cleaned up her cut, and went to the spare room to begin making up the bed for her. I placed the expensive pillows and the beautiful suede throw from my brother on one side of the bed, and pulled back the duvet.

I got Paige to the loo, and tried to get her to change into a t-shirt of mine, but she was belligerent, and so I let her climb into bed in her clothes. Tucking the duvet around her, I placed a glass of water and an empty bucket (just in case) on the bedside table, and turned out the light. I got into my own bed down the hall, feeling nauseous, unable to sleep. Paige was the last person I wanted sleeping over tonight, given I'd publicly threatened physical harm to her several hours earlier, but I couldn't have left her.

I had just drifted off to sleep when I heard her stirring in the next bedroom. "Paige?" I called out in the darkness. No response.

I got out of bed and padded down the hall to find a very drunk Paige crouched in the corner of the spare bedroom, PEEING on my expensive throw and pillows.

"Nooo, Paige!" I cried. "You have to use the loo! Stop it!" She grunted incoherently, half-asleep and fully drunk, and continued peeing. "Noooo," I wailed at her. She stood up, and fell across the bed, which I noticed was already covered in puke. I knew she was drunk, more drunk than I had ever seen her, but it was hard to be charitable. If only CM could see her now, I thought grimly. There was nothing to do but return to my own room, and lie awake fretting until dawn.

When I got up in the early morning light, I tried not to make much noise. I wanted to get to work, have Paige wake up surrounded by her own pee and puke, and save her the embarassment of having ME find it. I thought if she found it, she might, in her horror, do the cleaning, to spare herself the absolute mortification. No such luck. As I carried my bowl of cereal from the kitchen to the living room, she woke up and made a beeline for the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her. I grimly sat in the living room, intently focused on the breakfast television I was watching.

Within 5 minutes, Paige was out of the bathroom, and out of the flat. Muttering that she needed to go home and change before work (no kidding, I thought dryly), clearly embarassed, she made her exit. I went into the spare bedroom and surveyed the damage. There was no way she could have missed the puke and piss fest. She had also knocked the glass of water off the bedside table, breaking the glass and leaving a pool of water on the floor. I felt like crying, but I was too tired. I stripped the bed, picked up the soiled things between two fingers, threw them all in the laundry basket, and immediately started putting them through the laundry. I mopped and scrubbed the floor with antibacterial soap. All before 8 am.

Paige was already at work when I arrived, showered and in a black dress, looking much more put-together than I could have believed possible. She thrust a potted orchid at me, muttered her thanks for my hospitality, and made her exit. I didn't hear from her for the rest of the day.

Now, some would say Paige's breach and subsequent pissing and puking on the Girl Code, would entitle me to some revenge. To casually mention the event to CM, for example. But I find that I can't. I want to be better than her. It's sad to have come to the realisation that I can't trust her as far as I can throw her, but I want to do right by Paige. So the worst punishment she'll get is being written about anonymously, on this blog.

But please god, don't let it be true. Paige may have already broken the Girl Code, but don't let CM break what we have between us. It's too precious to me. I'm not ready for it, whatever it is, to be over.

Back to the laundry. I have bloodstains to scrub out of the couch tonight, too. Unbelievable.

Words to Live By

2008-11-12T15:24:00.001-08:00

My friends and I seem to have our romantic crises in sync with each other. A dear friend of mine-we'll call her Juno-has found herself very unexpectedly knocked up following a romp (well, several romps but I'm assuming one in particular did the job) with an intriguing but oh-so-unavailable man. She's still in the denial stage, I think, and therefore slightly giddy and unwilling to face up to any of the options before her. Meanwhile, I am besotted with a married work colleague whose wit keeps me in stitches. Our flirting is definitely the (sad) highlight of my day at the moment when I have too much work on my plate and not enough men.

I only truly admitted the obsession today. Now, it's not that I'm averse to having a thing with a married guy-I've been there and done that, a few times, with varying results-but this married guy-well, I don't want just a thing. He's quality. Therefore, nothing will happen due to any machinations on my part. I will pine away at my desk and wait for the next email. I confessed my deep dark thoughts to Juno today and sent her "sample" email exchanges from Quality Guy to get her opinion. Her opinion was, "Oh, my! You're in trouble, dear! This could be fun, though." Our exchange continued a little along these lines:

To: Juno

From: RCC

Sent: 12 Nov 2008 21:09

Subject: I TOLE YOU SO

He makes me laugh like no one has in a really long time...sigh...

To: RCC

From: Juno

Sent: 12 Nov 2008 21:11

Subject: Re: I TOLE YOU SO

Then keep him around...nothing wrong with an innocent giggle...kee hee

To: Juno

From: RCC

Sent: 12 Nov 2008 21:12

Subject: RE: RE: I TOLE YOU SO

Like I'm going to take advice from YOU on this subject at this particular moment in time. LOL. And, you know if I had my way it would hardly be innocent. I'm the homewrecker, 'member?

To: RCC

From: Juno

Sent: 12 Nov 2008 21:15

Subject: RE: RE: RE: I TOLE YOU SO

Oh I 'member... OK, so it's not so innocent...nothing wrong with testing the strength of a marriage (ed's note: sez you)...you're doing them a favour. Just don't get preggers (hee hee). At least not yet.

To: Juno

From: RCC

Sent: 12 Nov 2008 21:17

SUBJECT: I RUVE HIM

I can't believe you just hee hee'd at that. Your hormones must really be doing a number...

To: RCC

From: Juno

Sent: 12 Nov 2008 21:19

Subject: RE: I RUVE HIM

Maybe...or maybe I'm a freak of nature...both very plausible explanations.

To: Juno

From: RCC

Sent: 12 Nov 2008 21: 22

Subject: RE: RE: I RUVE HIM

True dat sista.

PS. I REALLY RUVE HIM.

PPS. I think it would be really funny if, for the rest of our lives, every bit of life guidance you give me ends with the proviso, "Just don't get preggers!"

To: RCC

From: Juno

Sent: 12 Nov 2008 21:26

Subject: RE: RE: RE: I RUVE HIM

Done, done and done. I think it is good sound advice...in ALL SITUATIONS. There are no exceptions (unless you are trying to get preggers but even then I think my advice would be not get preggers).

Westside Workout Woes

2008-06-02T22:31:00.001-07:00

So I've just moved to the West Side. I don't know the area that well, and when I left the house tonight to go for my nightly run, it was a little too dark for me to be venturing down unfamiliar streets without feeling uncomfortable. So, I opted to do a little Crossfit workout called "The Susan" (all Crossfit workouts are named after chicks): Run 300 metres, 10 squats, 10 pushups, 10 rounds. I sprinted to the end of my block and back to my lawn for the squats and pushups.

I had just finished a round of squats and was basically on all fours on the grass about to do my pushups when a cute guy, about my age, approached, with a box of cider under his arm.

"Those are some good squats," he observed. I laughed uncomfortably, and he hastily added, "No, no-I'm a Certified Personal Trainer. Those really are good squats! You didn't let your knees get over your toes, that's good! Most people do squats wrong." I tried to be polite, and got up from all fours. He introduced himself and I begrudgingly shook his hand. I don't usually introduce myself to people while working out and clad from head to toe in running gear, with no makeup on and my hair pulled back, so I was a little reluctant to continue the conversation, but Trainer Guy would not be deterred.

"Err, thanks," I said. "I really have been working on them" (Which is true. I have). "I'm doing a Crossfit workout at the moment," I added, hoping he'd get the metaphorical "do not disturb" sign I was hanging and vamoose.

"Oh yeah, like interval training? So what's next?" He shifted his cider box under his other arm.

I gave up at that point. He wasn't going away.

"Ummm, pushups," I said.

Trainer Guy then proceeded to get down on the grass beside me and give me a lesson in keeping my wrists in the "neutral" position. He also said that, as a recently certified trainer, he really wanted to "practice his client interaction" and would I be interested in doing a workout with him, no charge of course. He just needed to practice with "real" clients. Of course. He just needed my phone number. So he could call me. To set up the workout time. Of course.

After winkling my number out of me, Trainer Guy insisted I do a couple of pushups for him before he left so he could comment on my technique. At this point I was giggling uncontrollably out of sheer discomfort. Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, it did.

ANOTHER guy, cute, mid 30's, who had just parked his car and was walking into my building, stopped to see what all the laughing was about.

"I just met this guy and he wants me to do pushups for him," I muttered.

"Oh really?" said the Friendly Neighbour, intrigued. "Well, let's see you do one!"

Hope makes us do crazy things. And I fervently hoped that if I did a couple of pushups, both Trainer Guy and the Friendly Neighbour would be satisfied. I really, deep down, in the bottom of my heart, wished for this. So I got down on all fours again to attempt another few pushups, Trainer Guy barking instructions on wrist placement at me and lecturing on the perils of stress fractures. Friendly Neighbour stood and watched and said, "Oh, good for you! Way to go!" After about three pushups, I snapped.

"This is really weird, guys, I don't know you and you're sitting here watching me do pushups! I need you to let me get back to my workout now!" Trainer Guy backed off immediately, but not before handing me a cold cider from his case, for "after the workout."

Friendly Neighbour continued to be friendly.

"I'm going to work out now," he said. "At Fitness World. You should come with me. We should workout together. If your boyfriend or husband doesn't mind. Did you just move into the building? What's your name? What floor are you living on? How do you like it so far?"

At this point, I'd really had enough.

"I have to get back to my workout," I said firmly, and ran down the block. I literally ran away from the man.

It's don't know whether it's alarming or satisfying to say I actually had to run away to fend off gentleman callers. All I know is maybe I should do pushups in public more often.

The Adventures of Tall & Short

2008-05-28T20:59:00.001-07:00

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.

The One That Got Away

2008-05-27T15:13:00.000-07:00

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.

Street Smut

2008-05-01T21:51:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-01T21:41:00.000-07:00

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.

"What Are We?"

2008-04-24T11:41:00.000-07:00

Or some variation of that. I heard the words coming out of my mouth and I felt sick. And yet I couldn't help myself.

And I'd played it so cool until then. I never called. I didn't ask to see him. I regaled him with stories of my exploits in a carefree, "ohmygosh, my life is just too too busy to care just about you, don't you see, dahling?" kind of way.

I'll admit I was ignoring the symptoms for awhile. I felt vaguely uneasy when we'd say goodbye and I'd want to call after him and say, "Come back! I'm not done with you yet!" I refused to give in to the impulse, but I should have known when my brain was even contemplating such action that I was due for a relapse. When resisting initiating public displays of affection became superhuman, I knew it was too late to do anything about it. It was back. She was back. The return of Needy Girl.

I thought maybe recognizing I had a problem was the first step towards rehabilitation. More dates! More men! I counselled myself. "I am fabulous. I am successful. I don't have TIME to fall for someone right now and I'm having way more fun playing the field." Ginger counselled me. "Look at your shoes. They are beauteous. Their wonder must be shared with the world. More. Men." Our work husband (yes he has multiple work-wives, welcome to the office equivalent of Bountiful, BC) was firm with me: "Don't. Ask. What. You. Are."

"There's nothing that'll send a guy running for the hills more than asking what you are. Just go with the flow, RCC. It is what it is."

OK. It is what it is. It is what it is. I repeated it like a mantra. And yet, the other night, my resolve crumbled. It was like having an out-of-body experience as I heard myself start the Conversation, not wanting to but feeling absolutely compelled to make the effort. Horrified on the inside. Giggly and insecure on the outside.

And guess what? He ran for the hills. Well, not really. But I waved enough Needy Girl flags and danced around the "What Are We?" subject for just long enough that if he knows what's good for him he'll stay away for awhile. As for my part I'll have to be extra-ultra-casual to overcompensate. "What? Tommorrow? Sorry, honey, I've got plans! How about next Wednesday?" I'll need to put myself into serious training mode (perhaps we'll have to go back to the three-dates-in-one-day obstacle course) to get myself back in shape. I am NOT Needy Girl. I do not fall for one guy, certainly not this quickly and certainly not without a few trips to Italy thrown in to sweeten the deal. I play the field. I am fabulous. I get what I want, when I want it, from who I want. I don't ask what we are, I DEFINE what we are.

I was commiserating with a guy friend last night. Ranting to him, actually. Appalled at how quickly one guy out of many great guys had me acting like Needy Girl, as if my fabulous turquoise leather boots were just, like, not anything at all. "I am chased, I don't chase," I babbled. "I lay the ground rules. I play the field. I am strong. I am the hunter. I'm not soft, and I don't. fall." There was much sympathetic silence, followed by the following gem of an observation:

"Face up to who you are, Cookie, " he said. "You're mostly mermaid. And maybe, 1/20th wolf."

The Unbloggables.

2008-04-12T21:45:00.001-07:00

So, I'm struggling. Have had several interesting encounters with the menfolk in past weeks, but somehow feel that I'd be wrong to blog them.

Why?

What makes someone, or some incident, unbloggable?

It certainly ain't a matter of ratings...I've blogged R rated and worse.

Is it a matter of...emotional attachment? Or that I care if they read it, and feel betrayed, that I've shared something that was meant to be secret, between us? Or that I'm afraid there was nothing romantic in the encounter for them, and that if I blog it I'm showing my hand, so to speak, showing that I felt that there definitely was something romantic about it, for me? And somehow make myself vulnerable?

Le sigh.

I'm supposed to be hell on high heels. Why do I feel like the men are doing all the walking?

Perverse Pleasures of the Single Girl: #1

2008-03-27T21:57:00.001-07:00

Visiting your ex-boyfriend's wedding registry online to see what people haven't bought him and his new wife.

Problem: when someone buys him that fucking $500 KitchenAid mixer that you basically HAVE to get married to get, the one that you just can't justify for your little galley kitchen in your studio apartment. You know. The Couples Mixer.
Bitches.

Dirty Bruises

2008-03-27T21:05:00.001-07:00

So I have a friend who tells me she enjoys a little nip now and then. Not like, a-little-swig-from-a-bottle-of-Smirnoff nip, but an "ooh, you bit me, how saucy!" type nip. Actually, more like, a "please bite me, I really like it" nip. After enjoying a little weekend romp in which some lust-more-than-love-biting may or may not have taken place, our friend had a visit to the doctor for her regular checkup and her annual EKG, which required her to get semi-naked, which she did, without thinking about some of the more interesting, purply-blue bruises she might have, with and without teethmarks, as a souvenir of the weekend's festivities. Here's how it went down. Try not to laugh as much as I did:

The nurse is somewhat quiet as she attaches electrodes to my friend's chest, except there is some heavy sighing and worried lip biting. My friend thought maybe the nurse was just having a hard time connecting all the electrical wires. Then, the nurse says abruptly, "Will you excuse me for a minute?!" My friend doesn't think anything of it and lies there lazily staring at the fluorescent light tube in the ceiling and the various birth control posters on the wall, waiting for the nurse to come back, trying to pretend she isn't in the least bit uncomfortable to be wearing a paper dress.

The nurse arrives back with the doctor in tow, and in a low voice, starts pointing out some of the naughty bruises. The doctor takes my friend's hand, and she stares down intently and determinedly into her face.

"Now, I'm concerned about some of these bruises," the doctor said. "Are you...are you...self-harming?"

My friend was mortified. She hadn't even thought about what her little habit might look like to an outsider. And she was also kind of appalled that she seemed like the type of person that both the nurse and the doctor thought MIGHT self-harm. But what was she supposed to say?! "No, no, I just like it when my lovers bite me?" Probably that's what she should have said, but somehow, she couldn't bring herself to disclose this to her doctor. I mean, the doctor has already seen her vagina on a pretty regular basis, so you'd think she'd be okay with discussing a little bruising, but no. She just couldn't do it.

"Um...NO...I...um, no, no self-harming," my friend said lamely, staring at the doctor with eyes that were simply begging the doctor not to ask the next natural question. Please, please, just let it go.

"So...someone else did this to you?" the doctor asked, even more concerned.

My friend was now beet red AND black and blue. "Yes," she mumbled.

She and the doctor stared at each other for another minute or so. No words passed, but woman-to-woman, the doctor got the idea.

"And," she said, trying to think of what to say next, "...you...WANTED them to?"

"Yes," said my friend, feeling a wild desire to laugh and cover her face with her paper dress at the same time.

"OKAAAAAY, then!" said the doctor cheerfully. "I guess we should think about getting you some iron if you're bruising that easily! Carry on, nurse!"

A little lesson for all of us out there. If you're into any kind of nastiness that could be disfiguring, best be taking your supplements.

The Return of High Bids

2008-03-23T18:37:00.000-07:00

Very relieved to report that I just had coffee date #2 with Sound Guy. I had literally wrote off Sound Guy THIS MORNING; last Sunday (read: 3 days post our first coffee date and attempted Inukshuk ascent) I had talked to him on the phone, he appeared to have put up his wall of reserve again, and shot me down when I kind of hinted that perhaps we should hang out that night...maybe my hints were too oblique, but I'm not good at the direct asking-guys-out thing yet. Following the Sunday Night Shootdown, I had talked to him a couple times on MSN, always at my instigation, to lacklustre response. This morning he came online and I wished him a happy Bunny Day (it's Easter Sunday), and after a brief chat which involved me asking him questions and him providing terse replies, he signed off.

"Oh, that is IT," I grumbled to myself. "If HE wants to talk to me, he can CALL me." I resolved at that point not to initiate any further contact with Sound Guy. I admit I was feeling a little bruised about it, because I had thought we had hit it off so well the last time we met, and I was more than a little freaked out that my date-perception was so off that here I was thinking I'd hear from him the next day and he really wasn't interested in talking to me again.

Anyways, went out and about and got home around 3:30, when, wouldn't you know it, Sound Guy signs in to MSN and immediately sends me a link to a You Tube video he thought I would find funny. I casually asked him what time he was going to an Easter dinner he had mentioned earlier, and then, boom! He was asking me if I wanted to do coffee and was at my house in 20 minutes. Yay. Vindication. My date-radar isn't as wonky as I had come to accept it might be.

Anyways, coffee again, good chat again. I said I was happy he had gotten back in touch and revealed that I had felt a little bit rejected the last few times we talked so he got the message that he needed to make a little bit more of an effort if he was interested (and I think it made it clear that I was interested?) When Sound Guy dropped me off at home, we were still talking a mile a minute, and he made a point of saying he had a funny story that he would tell me "the next time I call you, or see you in person" which totally commits him to seeing me again now. Wizard.

When is Lunch More than a Lunch?

2008-03-23T17:48:00.000-07:00

Here's one from my Lunch Buddy:

So L.B. was at a conference a few weeks ago and sat next to a delightful woman who he hit it off with right away. He thought she was fun and smart but tells me she was immediately written off in a romantic sense because: a) L.B.'s girlfriend was moving in that week, and b) she was too tall. Being 5 foot nothing myself, I took great delight in that last reason. "But was she cute?" I persisted. "Totally irrelevant," said L.B. "I couldn't even TELL you if she was. She was just tall." Hee. Because she totally didn't register on the dating radar, L.B. kind of, sort of neglected to mention that he had a girlfriend.

At the end of the conference L.B. and Tall Girl exchanged business cards, and L.B. suggested they do lunch sometime. Tall Girl agreed, and sure enough, the next week, she called L.B. and they made lunch plans.

Now, Lunch went fine. Tall Girl and L.B. still had lots to talk about, it was a good lunch, they split the bill, and they left. As far as Lunches go, it was a good one. I resisted from being a jealous lunch buddy at this point and asking if she Lunched better than I did.

However, L.B. was now panicking. When he got back to the office, there was a "thanks for lunch, I had a really good time" email from Tall Girl. "We SPLIT the bill," he said to me worriedly. "I didn't even pay. Do you think she wants to date me?"

Sadly, L.B. has indeed gotten himself into quite a predicament. You don't sit next to, laugh-and-joke-for-hours, then lunch with, a girl, and not mention that, oh yeah, you have a girlfriend. It may be that Tall Girl isn't interested in him all in this sense, but he hasn't been fully forthcoming, so the issue hasn't even been, uh, tabled. Now we had to decide how to bring it up at this late juncture without L.B. seeming like he thought he was the shit and of course she wanted to date him, or that the initial lunch invitation had been a date at all. He still wanted to Lunch with Tall Girl, just not date her.

"I'm just going to phone her and tell her," he said. "Noooo," I countered. "That makes you seem arrogant, and her answer, no matter what, will be 'How dare you, who said I was interested in dating you?'" And it DOES seem arrogant. She may really only be interested in Lunch. L.B. wasn't so sure. He suggested perhaps making another lunch date and gratuitously "we"-ing her with girlfriend comments until she got the picture. I also felt this was out of line, as while this sends the immediate message to Tall Girl that she is being shot down on the dating front, it could again provoke the overly defensive "fuck you, who said I wanted to date you?" reaction. She needed to be able to recover from the rejection, whether necessary or not, in private. No, I decided. It had to be the offhand mention of the girlfriend in a friendly, "we should do lunch again" email, so that Tall Girl could lick any rejection wounds in private, and have time to muster her "of course, we're just Lunch Buddies, that's totally what I was after anyway" face before the next Lunch.

But I'm feeling L.B. on the "when is lunch just lunch" front? It's so easy to know when there's an immediate disclosure of, oh, I don't know, a marriage, for example. So lesson learned: please casually (it has to be casual) reveal your status way before Lunch, but don't make too too big a deal about it, okay? Sometimes Lunch is just lunch.

Adventures in Blind Dating: Ginger and George

2008-03-15T22:02:00.000-07:00

Here is a story recounted from friend and comrade-at-arms in the dating game, Ginger:

George seemed like a nice guy, on the phone. He said he was educated; he was talkative and engaging, a little odd at times, but nothing that sent up red flags, and Ginger and George agreed to meet for a semi-blind date.

George came to Ginger's house to 'pick' her up. When he arrived he was covered from head to toe, was absolutely dripping, in sweat. He explained that he didn't have a car, so he had walked from Richmond to downtown Vancouver. George was afraid he was going to be late, so he ran the last few kilometers. Interesting, Ginger mused; she thought there were buses from Richmond... but she was willing to overlook George's obvious lack of public transport savvy.

George and Ginger walked to Cactus Club. On the way, George informed Ginger that he was currently between jobs. He was an actor but hadn't had a job for 3 years - no problem though, because he was going to school. Higher education. That is why he lives at home. With his parents.

George also let Ginger know that he never graduated from high school, and that the "higher education" he is currently engaged in is to obtain his high school equivalency. Any red flags yet, Ginger?!

George and Ginger arrived at at Cactus Club and George decided he didn't like the table they were at, so he asked to be moved. Then George wanted to talk about previous relationships. Ginger gave him the short version of hers, at which time she asked for his. Interesting - he has none - in fact he has never dated a girl for more than 2 weeks.

George wanted some food. He wanted it now. In fact, George beckoned for the waitress (by snapping his fingers), ordered for Ginger as well....then told the waitress he would be timing her and each minute it took represented a dollar off her tip. He then slapped her on the ass... yes slapped her on the ass, and told her to go.

So George pissed off the Cactus Club manager. The manager came over to the table to deal with George and George wasn't going to stand down. In fact, George thought this was an opportune moment to take a swing at the Cactus Club manager. Within seconds, all male staff members at Cactus were swarming George. George was thrown out (literally) from Cactus Club....

So Ginger grabbed his jacket and went outside to tell him to &*%# off. When Ginger passed him his jacket he said, "I am sorry that happened.... they really are ^&%$s here. But I think we have a real connection and it would be awful to let these &*%^$ ruin it". At that point, George saw a side of Ginger that she didn't even know existed...

Handshakes.

2008-03-13T00:05:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago I was contacted by Foreign Film Director, in town shooting a feature, which is currently in pre-production, leaving FFD with a little too much time on his hands and I guess bored and looking for trouble with some local girls. Didn't really have any magnetism in his first messages, but I played the classic "this is what I'm into" game with FFD to get him warmed up. As Rob Gordon says in "High Fidelity," who you are isn't nearly as important and who and what you're into. I sufficiently impressed FFD with my name-dropping of movies and directors (thank you arty ex-boyfriends!) that he suggested we meet up for a pre-date...if we liked each other on pre-date, well, we'd go see a film or something. FFD doesn't see films with just anybody, you see.

FFD was almost half an hour late and I was left reading the Georgia Straight at the coffeehouse waiting for him...but he is to be forgiven, being, of course, an FFD. To meet FFD I decided to play it sufficiently arty, in skinny jeans and a vintage-ish rocker tee that says "Love Sucks." Oooh. Indie. It turned out that FFD was really just lost. He called looking for directions and I ended up having to go out onto the street to wave him in.

I learned pretty quickly that FFD doesn't really care to talk about much but: a) his movie, b) his last movie, and c) his career. But you know what? That's kind of OK when talking about that stuff means talking about the celebrities he knows, (because we all know I love to talk celebrity trash) and when he is totally admiring of my savant-like knowledge of celebrities, movie trivia, and the like. We managed to make it through a good hour just playing the "Have you seen?"/"You should see"/"I just saw" game. I told him I'd almost brought him this DVD of a great Argentine heist flick that I love, but assumed he would have seen it. He hadn't and I was choked that I hadn't brought it and made his head explode with my cool quirkiness.

During a lull in the conversation, I suggested FFD and I visit Independent Flixx, a great local vid shop, and that he "educate me." Pick three films I just HAVE to see, I said. So we perused the aisles of Independent Flixx for a good half hour, picking up titles to show each other. FFD found it a little hard to stump me (what can I say? I HAVE seen alot of films), but we settled on three: "Chopper," "Mean Creek," and "Junebug." Then I commanded that FFD walk me home, and we strolled in that direction, laughing and chattering (well, ME chattering, him making sarcastic quips when necessary) the whole way.

I mentioned that I was dying to go to Vegas and get married to someone, ANYone, just for the story. He agreed to do it pretty quickly, and was totally sold when I promised him a free divorce (when your best buddy is a divorce lawyer, this is a perk). I was debating whether I was going to ask him up, and informed him when we got to my place that I was going to give him a couple of the DVDs we'd been talking about. He played it cool, and agreed.

FFD loved my apartment, asking jokingly for the tour: "Cool kitchen." Couple of steps. "Cool living room." A few more. "Cool bathroom." He beelined for my bookshelves, agreed with my assessment that I have some shit DVDs in my collection, but deferred to my pretty great collection of books. "Cool books." "Thanks." "Cool T-shirt." "Thanks."

"You're really cool," he said admiringly (yes, he really said "cool" this many times), straightening up from the shelf and walking towards me. "Thanks," I said. "We could be friends," he pronounced. "We COULD," I agreed. "We should have a secret handshake," he suggested.

"Cool," I said, with a sense of irony which was totally lost on FFD. He immediately began devising one, like those Schoolhouse Rock handshakes that involve 10-15 complicated steps. I was laughing as he tried to teach me each step: high five, the slide, the palm slap, etc. It became more and more convoluted and impossible to remember. As we neared the end, he threw in some new aspects.

"Now we hug," he commanded. We hugged.

"We kiss like the French do," he said, and kissed me on each cheek.

Well, you can see where this is going, I think.

Pretty soon our handshake had turned into alot more than a handshake. On the couch.

"I hadn't really planned on this, " I confessed to FFD at one point as we came up for air. "Really." And I hadn't. I figured we'd trade DVDs and leave the, uh, handshakes to another date. "I'm not usually this easy," I said. Clearly I was lying, but whatever.

"Neither am I," he said, laughing. "But it feels right, somehow."

And it did. And it was.

FFD wasn't big on sticking around, post-handshake, though, which surprised me. He seemed like a much more cuddly, let-me-stay-the-night type guy. Pillow talk consisted of (surprise!) talk about his movie, which I patiently accepted, and then he was out. I fully expected to see him again.

It's been a week now, though, and no sign of the FFD, other than a response to my morning-after email when I said I'd enjoyed meeting him...and the other stuff. He responded with "Ditto-don't work too hard..." I've sent him an email since, to update him on something in MY life that we had talked about, but I didn't get a response-probably because it wasn't related to his casting problems, or location scouting, or script re-writes. Do I sound bitter? I'm not, just shaking my head at how FFD totally played to the stereotype of the self-involved film industry insider.

So-an intriguing mis-read of FFD on my part. I didn't pass the pre-date audition to attend a film, I guess. I had thought he was into me for more than a handshake-he DID say he thought we could be friends. Further, I didn't think that he'd be the type to feel sheepish about things maybe going a little too far for a first date, (although we're adults, so who cares about these things really) but that might be what's going on, too? Oh well. I'm hardly devastated. His work would always come first. But the handshake was smooth.

High Bids

2008-03-12T23:33:00.000-07:00

Met Sound Guy for coffee tonight. Sound Guy works on various movies and TV shows in...surprise, sound! I have an image of him in my head with microphones in holsters, like a cowboy. After some promising email chats on LL (Sound Guy knows good grammar), we connected by phone last week and had some good talks after a terrible warm-up call where we were both to shy to really think of things to say. Our conversations have run the gamut from high school friends, to views on marriage, to weird work stories. Sound Guy is definitely a good listener-after a really bad day at work two days ago, the only person I wanted to tell was him, and found myself picking up the phone to call him...maybe because he sounds kind. However, he is a little more shy and reserved than me, which can make for some awkward silences when I finally run out of things to say. I was a little worried that it would be the same in person.

Hadn't planned on going out tonight at all...in fact, I cancelled a date with Main Street Hipster (Sorry MSH-I still want to meet you and your Helmut Lang jeans) because I just wasn't feeling it. However, got home and logged on to MSN and Sound Guy was online and into meeting up. I agreed on the condition that I could have a nap first (it was a long day) and we arranged for him to come downtown and meet me. No dress-up as per Funny Boy this time: jeans, t-shirt and Cons were the order of the day. This was going to be ultra casual.

We met on the corner of my street, and walked down to a coffee house on Denman. I bought; he had been nice enough to drive in from East Van so I wouldn't have to take a bus to meet him somewhere. Sound Guy played it real cool when I offered to buy, which girls always appreciate. He was ready to pay, but didn't fight me when I insisted. That's always the sign of a self-assured guy.

Right away, we were able to make easy conversation; Sound Guy is much more gregarious and articulate in person, and told me a surreal story about working on a movie set with a chimp named Bernie who took a shine to him and his feet. His slang runs along the same lines as mine, which made us laugh: both of us pepper our conversation with alot of "rad," "totally," and "good times." We probably called each other "dude" more than we addressed each other by name. Sound Guy said his new favorite is "wizard," which is curiously used in a derogatory manner (ie, "stop being so wizardly, dude"), and "high bids." I needed an in-depth lesson in high bids, which Sound Guy gave me post-coffee, when we went for a walk down to English Bay to pay our regards to the Inukshuk. Apparently, high bids can be used in the context of "that's cool." For instance:

Friend: Hey, RCC, what are you up to tonight?

Me: Oh, you know. Going out with Johnny Depp and Colin Farrell. They're in town, saw them at Villa de Lupo last night, we're hitting the scene.

Friend: High bids!

Or, alternatively, Friend could say approvingly, "That's a high bid."

I'm still not sure how this one really works in practice, but I'll report back.

We walked in the dark and talked, about music, favorite live shows we'd both been to (Radiohead and Coldplay numbering among our favorites), music we've been listening to (Sia!), random tidbits about work and life, and Spiderman Underoos (don't ask). Sound Guy has a great sense of humour and seems game for anything. I jokingly offered him two bucks to have a shower at 10:00 at night at one of those outdoor showers in English Bay, and he seriously considered it, as long as he could wear his jacket and put the hood up. I also offered him two bucks to try and climb the Inukshuk...which seemed like an easier sell until we realized it was covered with all sorts of slimy anti-graffiti stuff to stop people like us from climbing it.

After a stroll, lots of laughter, and easy chat, found myself back at my door with Sound Guy, at which Sound Guy told me I was "pretty rad." I blushed and said, "Awww, thanks-you're not so bad yourself!" I hope he knows I meant "You're rad, too."

Sound Guy happens to love cats (bonus) and I tried unsuccessfully to get my Raincoast Kitty to come to the window to say hello, but she wouldn't, which gave me the excuse to ask him up...however, this guy was quality and I wasn't going to let him get away too easily by asking him in too fast (he seemed like a guy who would be put off by that) so it was a quick hello and Raincoast Kitty and I walked him to the door, where we had a big hug and I told him how much I enjoyed hanging out. He said he'd had fun too, and we called it a night. Hope to see him again soon. That'd be a high bid.

Magnetism Will Get You Everywhere

2008-03-09T22:53:00.000-07:00

Last weekend I met Funny Boy for a drink. He approached me via IM on LavaLife saying, "Sweet Jesus, it's true! I heard your kind existed-the quirky, arty, smart girl-but have never encountered one in person!"

Well.

It was a good opening. After a few minutes of flirty online banter, he had asked for my phone number (rather quickly by LavaLife standards, I thought, but I wasn't put-off enough to refuse him), and informed me that he would be calling me in 15 minutes. Very precise. I was hopeless to resist. Within a few minutes he had reduced me to Submissive Girl, strangely unfamiliar territory. Sure enough, within 15 minutes he was on the phone, calling from his car.

"I'm thinking Thursday after work," F.B. announced. No "I'm-just-calling-to-get-to-know-you" facade, this man meant business. "What time can you get off work? 6? Will you need to go home and shower first?" Now, this may seem all to be the over-eagerness of a desperate man, happy to have reached a real woman. But no. The whole overtone of the conversation was this odd mix of two overly witty people trying to outshine each other...him giving the distinct impression that I should be so lucky that he would want to meet, and me trying desperately to regain my strong, independent woman foothold after being knocked out of my high heels by his ultra-confident, alpha-male attitude. Grasping at straws, I said I'd have to check my office calendar and get back to him on Monday. "Fine, fine," he said. "I'll talk to you then." Click. So not interested in chatter.

About two hours later, he phoned back. "I wouldn't normally call again," he said. "But my night tonight has just cleared up-do you want to do a drink tonight? Let's do a drink tonight." I agreed (as much as I could agree as much as just accept), and we decided on a place in our neighbourhood, a somewhat trendy eurobar with sassy staff, and a comfortably cool vibe. I put on my slinky-yet-indie American Apparel pencil skirt, flatironed the hell out of my bangs, and put on a cool pair of grey leather open-toe heels with a distinctly retro vibe. F.B. had requested "No Uggs or Crocs, please." As if.

I arrived earlier than F.B. and sat at that bar, ordering a bottle of Pellegrino. "You look hot," said the bartender (a woman) admiringly. "You're on a date, aren't you?" I nodded. "How did you know?" "It's easy," she said. "You look hot, and you ordered Pellegrino. Dead giveaway." I laughed. At that point, F.B. came in and I got a chance to size him up in person.

I'm all for using whatever means possible to meet people in this stand-offish city, but the challenge of the online dating is that, much like buying a Jimmy Choo bag off Ebay, you don't know what you're buying until it shows up. F.B. was slightly older, balder and slightly shorter than I had expected, but well put-together, which, being a fashion whore, I always appreciate. Good pants, well fitting blazer, a pocket square, no less. A little quirky, a little trendy. Wire-rim glasses. It was all good. The bar was definitely his local, as the staff greeted him by name when he walked in the door. We moved to a table and had a few drinks, and a rather one-track conversation.

You see, F.B. has a consulting business that revolves around telling women why they don't succeed in dating men...a single-man to single-woman interpreter or translator if you will. And it was clear that dating, sex, men, and women are his passion (pardon the pun). There have been lecture tours, talk of a reality show. It became clear I was on a date with the Dating Doctor. And he saw right through me.

He caught on pretty quickly that I was the independent, strong woman who was dying to be put in her place-tired of being the dominant, bossy decision-maker in my professional life and needing someone else to take control every once in a while. And he was more than willing to play the gorilla, as he put it. He drew some of my previous dating war stories out of me, and quickly deconstructed all of them, poking holes in my logic when I dismissed miserable experiences under the guise of "the guy was obviously crazy," and basically pulling the rug out from underneath me, in all respects.

After a couple of drinks and a good but unsettling chat that bordered on suggestive but never seemed flirty, there was a pause in the conversation. F.B. reached for the bill, clearly drawing this portion of the evening to a close. "We'll split it," I said. "Good," said F.B., clearly in Gorilla mode. "I get tired of paying." Before I had time to digest this, he was looking at me intently.

"I think you should come home with me now," he said simply. Firmly. Silence. I didn't even really have time to think before I heard myself saying, "Okay." Up until that point, I hadn't even decided whether I found F.B. attractive. He certainly wasn't what I would normally be attracted to, but the Gorilla attitude was irresistible.

Needless to say, F.B. got the girl. And was definitely alpha-male all the way. There was no battle of the sexes going on here-he was clearly the boss and I was to obey (kinky!). But here's the lesson, guys: alpha-male doesn't mean rude, and it doesn't mean horndog. It means being assertive, being blunt, saying what you want, but being courteous, and being totally focused on your partner as much as on yourself. F.B. was totally respectful, considerate, and made the classy day-after "I had a wonderful time" call. Sure, he hasn't called again, and I don't expect him to-that's not what the night was about. But the man had game, and you need to have the game if you expect to play.

Let the Blogging Begin.

2008-03-09T22:37:00.000-07:00

It's a couples' city, Vancouver. More than any city I've lived in, Vancouverites of un certain age seem to have a laser-like focus on settling down: couple up, buy a condo, buy a dog, buy a barbecue (necessarily in that order), make couple-y friends, have some kids, retire.

Yawn.

So what does the single girl do? Wait for her girlfriends to benevolently bestow their presence upon her when their boyfriend's out of town for the weekend or hitting the golf course for the afternoon? Hope the cute boy from the office elevator will finally speak to her today? Nope. Elevator Boy suffers from Vancouver Syndrome: don't approach, don't be approachable, look down and mind your own business. If you make eye contact, look away immediately, and never, ever, smile.

So, I'm embarking on a one-girl revolution. I'm in my late twenties and refuse to submit to the pressure to couple up (yet). I also refuse to accept the cool haughtiness of Vancouver singles. I'm determined to date the hell out of this city. I'm going to talk to Elevator Boy, whether he talks back or not. Stay tuned to see how I get on...