Can we not?

I don’t have my life together.  I realize this may come as a surprise.  For the three or so people who’ve read this blog (two of them by accident), please take a moment to let that settle.

You may be asking yourself, how could a woman who once had a date steal her vibrator NOT have her life together?  And I have no explanation for you.  What I do have however is a toothpaste stain on my shirt and a stomach clenching feeling that I left my hair straightener on this morning and it’s about to burn down my condo. 

Every day is a struggle to get by, or to at least pass as somebody who is getting by.  I think this is why the very public deaths of two very famous people last week have hit me so hard. 

First was Kate Spade.  I love everything Kate Spade has ever put her name on.  I can’t afford any of it, but I recently bought a Kate Spade leather tote for $10 at Value Village and felt like my life was finally coming together.  If only I could afford to dress in head-to-toe Kate Spade, I would look like the woman I wish I could be.  If I could maybe look the part, maybe I could be the part. I could be like her. And then Kate Spade hung herself. 

Anthony Bourdain was next.  I watched all of his shows.  Every single time Parts Unknown came on my TV screen, I would say either out loud to myself or whoever was in the room – imagine having a life like that!  Getting paid to travel and eat! It was as automatic and as necessary as announcing, “horses,” or “cows,” when driving by a field full of either. 

I knew Bourdain struggled with mental health issues, and I loved the unflinching way he wrote and spoke about his experiences.  Watching the easy way he connected with every type of person and the way he showed simple moments like slurping a perfect oyster, or sipping deliciously cheap wine on an out of the way patio bringing unadulterated joy made me believe he was a guy who outsmarted the assassin in his head.

If not the outright cure, he found workarounds* that kept him safe. If he found those workarounds, maybe I could too.  He was proof it could be done. And then he killed himself.

**For a lack of any better word, workarounds are the often silly sounding things I do to stay alive when my brain tries to kill me the hardest.

For me, there’s the 24 hour rule.  I wait 24 hours.  I give myself permission to end my life – but I have to wait 24 hours.  Maybe something will distract me, maybe my mood will change, maybe George R.R. Martin will finally announce he’s finished the latest goddamn Game of Thrones book and then I’ll have to wait even longer to read it.  Anything can happen in 24 hours.

I go somewhere public.  Do whatever it takes to not be alone. I once wandered around a Sephora store for an hour and a half, 20 minutes past closing, no bra, no make-up, no shower in 72 hours with the Sephora girls and gays looking at me like I crawled in out of a compost bucket…but I needed to be somewhere there were people.  And glitter eyeshadow, obviously.

I take stock of my messy house.  Maybe I have a small (read: large) pile of dirty undies on my bathroom floor.  Or maybe there’s liquefied veggies in my crisper that I bought with the best of intentions at a farmers market eight weeks ago.

(Ok – fine.  I bought them because the guy selling veggies at the famers market looked like a slightly grizzlier, farmier version of Chris Hemsworth.  Like, dude could have his own calendar where he just stands there holding strategically placed squash month after month.  For some reason I wanted him to think I’m the type of healthy woman who buys, and then eats vegetables.  His vegetables in particular.  Somehow, I hoped this would impress him.  Long story short, flirting is not my strong-suit and I bought an embarrassing amount of zucchini, which is really disgusting to have to pour out of a crisper.)

If I die, somebody I love would have to clean up my shit. Literally and metaphorically. On top of every other terrible thing they’d be thinking about me, like why didn’t I get help, or how I seemed so normal - they’d also be thinking I didn’t know how to use a laundry hamper and hoarded perishables in my fridge. I would have to scrub every inch of my home from top to bottom ahead of time, and I just never have that kind of energy.

(Additionally, if my family were to ever find out what’s in my bedside drawer and one non-descript black carry-on bag…my spirit will never rest.  My soul will be doomed to roam the earth in awkward, cringing embarrassment for all of eternity. )

((I only just now realized that between my housekeeping skills and sex toy collection – I can never die.  I’ve actually rendered myself completely immortal. Problem solved.))

I’m not surprised Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain did what they did, because I know how sudden and how powerful that voice in my own head telling me it’s time to die and every other vicious, horrible thing it says about my worth and value in this world can be. 

However, I am surprised their workarounds weren’t better and stronger than my own.  Or, maybe they were and they just…stopped working. 

Their suicides seem to have surprised a lot of people though, and a lot of surprised people are trotting out some pretty unsurprising platitudes. 

I wish they wouldn’t.

What they did was selfish.

Until I start seeing obituaries ripping on the deceased for being selfish enough to die of cancer, I don’t want to hear this anymore. Nobody calls people who die of cancer selfish bastards for succumbing to the disease, largely because that would strike most decent, empathetic people as insane. Calling people selfish who succumb to the way their brains are wired or damaged is just as ridiculous.  The fact this isn’t considered poor taste demonstrates there is still a profound lack of understanding about how our brains work, and how they don’t.

Life is precious.

Of course it’s fucking precious.  They knew that.  They may have even known that better than most, and it may even be partly why they did it.  It’s scary to think that me most wanting to die is actually me most wanting to live.  It’s me knowing what I should or could be experiencing and feeling versus what I’m actually able to experience. It’s me knowing that all the ways my brain is completely fucked up and malfunctioning is what stops me from doing or having the things I value most in the world.  It’s being hungry, but never able to eat.  Pain comes from not being able to feel the same joys and connectedness that other people take for granted.  Maybe they thought life was too precious to keep missing out on too.    

Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.

How does anybody who says this know that the pain other people experience is temporary?  Perhaps they’ve struggled for decades.  Maybe depression and anxiety has devoured every good thing in their life since puberty or even earlier.  How are they defining temporary?  And why is there always an assumption that whatever’s got anybody down is a temporary setback and things will improve? 

Life is not a Disney movie.  Sometimes, there isn’t a happy ending.  Not everybody finds love or is loved, there isn’t always a last-minute rescue, and small woodland creatures are actually terrible at house cleaning.  Sometimes grief is overwhelming, life is never the same, lives and people can be permanently broken and there’s no fixing any of it. 

To assume and to say otherwise without a full and complete picture of what someone may be struggling with is condescending and it’s empty.

I hate that they’re gone, and I hate that they ran out of ways and reasons to stay. 

I hate that the assassins in their heads finally won, because I’m certain they both put up a much bigger fight than anybody saw. 

I hate that the best we seem to be able to offer one another and anybody who is suffering are toll-free helplines.

We need better platitudes.  We need better options.  We all need better workarounds. 

Something's Missing

I just bought a pair of crotchless panties for no reason, and if that isn’t a sign of misplaced optimism, I don’t know what is.

I’m not having sex with anybody.  I don’t mean at this exact moment – I mean that it’s more likely I’ll get hit by lightning before I have a reason to wear these underpants.  Unless I suddenly decide my vulva needs a chance to blow in the breeze some random Tuesday, I have no need for this barely there undergarment.

It’s not as if wearing crotchless panties ahead of a likely sexual encounter is even a good idea.  That’s a lot to hit a partner with, just all of a sudden.  I feel there should be some kind of warning upfront. 

Like, “Oh hey.  Just so you know, before anything really gets started, I’m wearing underwear without a crotch.  I’m not sure why either, but let’s just calm down and get through this.”

Going crotchless sets some pretty serious expectations that aren’t likely to be met. It’s the nuclear lingerie option. 

Crotchless implies something grandiose is about to happen.  Whatever sex is about to go down needs to be epic, and that’s a lot of pressure. Masquerade masks should be involved, perhaps an artfully choreographed orgy or at the very least…one partner. 

My underwear is usually more utilitarian.  I prefer granny panties to sleep in, thongs during the day so as to avoid unfortunate lines or bunching, and I like a bit of belly coverage.  Nobody needs low-rider underpants.

I normally put some more thought into these things, but all of a sudden, while shopping for bras during a sale at La Senza, I lost my goddamn mind. 

My wardrobe overall isn’t frivolous.  As an adult, I have only two types of clothes in my closet - clothing that makes me look homeless and without hope but is so comfortable you wouldn’t even believe, and work clothes in a range of sizes. 

I used to have party clothes, slutty clothes, going out clothes, clothes for dates, clothes with sequins, going dancing clothes and vacation clothes.  Eventually, I ran out of room and had to narrow things down.  Not having space means thinking seriously about what you lose and what you add.

And I’ve now added crotchless panties. 

The word panties suggest actual material is involved – which is wrong. There is an approximate two-inch wide and six-inch long strip of pale pink lace meant to sit just below the belly button, for what I can only assume is modesty. 

Attached to the tiny strip of lace are two black, very thin elastic loops I have to carefully thread one leg into at a time.  Not that I’ve ever seized any  day by jumping into my underwear two legs at a time, but the delicacy of these tiny black straps and band aid sized lace makes me cautious. 

Once in place, there is a thin black strap on either side of my private bits and crossing over each butt cheek.  The butt cheek section is ornamental only– the straps neither lift nor separate.  For less packaging than normally exists to protect individual imported fruit at the grocery store, I paid $19.99 plus tax.    

Fortunately, I spent a good minute staring at the black plastic mannequin modeling this feat of sexy engineering so I knew exactly where everything should go before bringing them home.  One should be confident about crotchless panty mechanics, if not actual usage. 

There’s no instruction manual for just when or how to employ this type of lingerie.  It’s one of those things that if you’re straight up walking out of a store with crotchless panties and not the T-shirt bra you wandered in for, it should be assumed you know what the fuck you’re doing.

Women actually have a lot of guidance, just in case we don’t know what the fuck we’re doing in general. Creeping up constantly in my Pinterest and Facebook feeds are helpful links to articles and pointers for how aging women should be doing their makeup, getting their hair cut or dressing themselves so as to not be entirely invisible.

As I’m about to turn 42, I best pay attention.  Based on the apparent urgency driving these notices, I’m expecting very soon I’ll wake up with my face rearranged like a Picasso painting. 

If I ignore all the signs of aging and the advice on what to do about it, my left nostril WILL migrate to my hairline, and how am I supposed to know how to contour for that?

The hair on my dangerously middle-aged head is another issue I had no idea I needed to be concerned over.  Fortunately, suggested options for older women are refreshingly varied: a short bob, choppy bob, medium-short bob or layered short bob. 

When I inevitably die alone and feral cats are eating my face, a bob should be easy for them to get around. 

Clothing is trickier though, because I know I’m doing it wrong.  For example, fewer people look at me lately. 

Women will still occasionally size me up from my feet to my modestly bobbed head.  Sometimes I sense it’s a compliment and they’re wondering where I got my dress, and other times it’s likelier they’re wondering  how on earth I’m wearing those shoes with that dress, and why are my facial features all rearranged like a goddamn Picasso painting.

Men…men no longer notice me at all. It’s different than being ignored.  To be ignored, you have to be noticed in the first place.  All those beauty articles for the after 40 crowd aren’t about being sexy and attractive anymore – that window of time is apparently closed and painted over.  Instead, the messaging focuses on being completely inoffensive, standing out only as a means to avoid being hit by passing traffic.

To be certain, nobody gives a fraction of a shit about what kind of underwear I’m wearing.  

But I still do.  And the breeze is quite refreshing.

Thrill Ride

So, the other day I was sliding down a giant ice-covered hill in my car, as you do.  Don’t Fear the Reaper by Blue Oyster Cult was playing on the radio, proving beyond any rational doubt that my spirit guides, if I have them, are twats. 

I slid slowly at first, giving me time to consider my options.  If there was ever a time to grab the reigns of my own destiny, now might be the time.  Unfortunately, my choices included veering into oncoming traffic, sliding merrily into the car in front of me who also appeared to have lost all traction (for the sake of their dignity I silently hoped they were listening to another radio station at least) or heading over the cliff on my right and dropping a decent distance into a giant lake. 

Naturally, I had some concerns.  Mostly though, I was pissed about what I was wearing.  When faced with sudden death and the possibility of becoming a vengeful ghost, an ugly Christmas sweater, ill-fitting jeans and toque with giant novelty pom-pom don’t exactly lend gravitas to any after-life situation.

I’m not sure I believe in ghosts, but I like to think I’d have some say in my own image if forced to haunt the living.  If kids say my name three times into a mirror at sleepovers, I should at least try to appear terrifying.  Granted, maybe a newly middle-aged woman in an ugly Christmas sweater brandishing a bottle of wine and weeping about how she never found love would be terrifying for teenagers, so I could be on to something. 

For my friends and family, I’d be benevolent.  A comforting presence.  Invisible finder of car-keys and TV remotes.  Bringer of happy dreams.  I don’t want anybody wondering why I’m wearing such a stupid hat, should I visually manifest.

Of course, I would also have to haunt the shit out of one or two romantic interests.  I would want to be a seductive, succubus of a ghost, all flowy hair and wispy gowns.  I want heart-wrenching regret, sorrowful lust, marriages upended by my very supernatural presence, all floaty and gothic in the corner of the bedroom.  Rolling up through a wall in a green acrylic sweater with a giant embroidered reindeer would really kill the mood, and should I try to get all paranormal sexy, what if my legs are as hairy in the afterlife as they are right now?  Dear God, what then??

I slid faster down the hill, despite managing to turn my wheels to the side, trying to take my chances with the narrow snowbank on the shoulder just before cliff, gravity and freezing water.  I’ve never been good at split-second decisions, or anything in the moment. 

If I went off that cliff, I would be leaving a lot of things said too rarely.  It’s not that I never think of saying them, it’s more I think a beat too slowly.  To my Mom, Dad and sister that I love them, and please don’t look in my bedside drawer.  To my friends, that I love them too – even while sober. To the lady at the Tim Horton’s drive-thru – it’s two cream and two sweeteners.   Seriously – every morning, two of both, not one or the other. To everybody I went to high school with, that while I don’t actively hope they die in a house fire, I wouldn’t be completely devastated if they did.

For some people in my life, I have things I need to say that I’ve never, ever said.  It’s those words trapped forever in the back of my throat like strep, because of fear, or thinking there will be time.  These words are only ever small – I love you.  Thank you.  You hurt me. I’m sorry. I hate you. I need you.  It’s not the size of the words that’s scary, but enormity of impact once spoken. 

I mean, I’ve been sleeping with the same guy for eight years and have never once told him what I need to say.  I’ve thought about it, but the time never felt right.  And I was scared.  And the timing would never be right, because I’d always be scared.  So, I should say it right now, out loud, by myself in a sliding car on an icy hill, just to prove it matters.  I should finally say –

JESUS MOTHERFUCKING CHRIST.

There’s a semi spun-out, horizontal across the intersection at the bottom of the hill.  The car in front of me is turned completely sideways, still sliding, heading for the semi.  The snowbank didn’t slow me down, and I’m heading for the car in front.  Blue Oyster Cult has turned to Mariah Carey singing about all she wants for Christmas and if this is the last song I hear, I will seek revenge.

The car in front rolls to a stop with its driver’s side door inches from the passenger tires of the semi.  I could tell, because I rolled to a diagonal stop, less than two feet from the middle section of the big-rig.

 

I can see the driver of the other car, and her hands are gripping the steering wheel like she’s trying to tear it off, just like mine are. She’s wearing a crocheted animal hat with floppy ears.  Clearly, she dodged an after-life bullet, just like me. 

The semi eventually cleared away, the driver somehow making a 562-point turn.  The cars rolled to a stop all willy-nilly in the intersection, drivers still shaking like dashboard hula-girls finally got to drive away, and carry on to the rest of the highway that was sanded, salted and blessedly melted.

I called my Mom when I got home. Had a glass (read: three glasses) of wine. Shoved the ugly Christmas sweater into the back of my closet, and pulled out better clothing choices for driving in winter weather conditions.  Some might say sequins and lingerie aren’t appropriate, but they don’t know my life, and don’t know what I’ve lived through.   

Just One Reason Why I'm Single

Actual transcript of email conversation on OK Cupid – user names and actual names changed to protect whatever semblance of dignity I still cling to.

Tuesday, November 1st, 8:48 pm

HotStud6969: Hey beautiful! My name is Craig. How are you?

Thursday, November 4^th, 10:15 am

HotStud6969: You have a beautiful smile!

Sunday, November 6, 9:40 pm

HotStud6969: Do you remember me? We actually met in at a hotel way back. lol

Tuesday, November 8, 3:27 am

HotStud6969: Do you remember?

Thursday, November 10, 12:20 pm

Bambi666: Hello Craig.  Yes, I seem to remember you, although we didn’t meet at a hotel.  Meeting some random idiot off the internet at a hotel doesn’t seem like something I would do, then or now.  We met at a coffee shop.  You said you were a marine engineer, and you were in town for the night before heading off to meet a fishing boat the next morning for a few weeks of work.  You showed up for our coffee date drunk. I encouraged you to eat something, so you ordered a sandwich with ham, chicken and steak combined on a bagel. I chose to find all of this charming, probably because I liked your tattoos, and the way your chest looked under your t-shirt. I still feel shame. I gave you a lift to your hotel afterward and kissed you goodnight before driving off home.  The kiss was good, even though you tasted like Old MacDonald's Farm. Weeks later, we arranged to see one another again. We talked or texted every day for two weeks before making definitive plans. Then you stood me up, and ignored my text messages. Textbook ghosting. Months and months later, completely out of the blue, you send another message through this same garbage fire of a website. I answer, probably due in part to whatever instincts make characters in horror movies want to check the basement. You let me know you’re in town for a couple of days, and "really just wanting to bang,"  For some reason, you thought I would be the girl to help you out with that.  I politely declined.  So yes…I remember well.

Thursday, November 10, 12:25 pm

HotStud6969: So does this mean you don’t want to get a drink?

Thursday, November 10, 12:26 pm

Bambi666: Correct, Craig. I don't want to get a drink.

Please stop helping.

Advice, suggestions and observations from people I trust and occasionally random strangers on how and what I should be doing with my life are often welcome.

Wise counsel like: your hair is on fire, or the cat was drinking out of your water glass, he’s never going to divorce his wife, the five second rule doesn’t count in a bathroom even if it’s a cookie, or you can see your nipples through that T-shirt – I take it all to heart.

Without the smarter, more observant people in my life who love me enough to make me put down the bathroom cookie – I’m not sure where I’d be.  You know, apart from hairless with my nipples showing.

However, there are some nuggets of advice that are both ubiquitous and useful as asbestos tampons. Yes, it seems they could be absorbent…but at what cost? 

The following “helpful” suggestions are the asbestos tampons of wise counsel – better in theory and needing to be stopped.

Have you thought about volunteering?

Inevitably, this is the very first response when I say I’m having trouble meeting people in my new city. 

What I’m really saying is that I’m lonely, and could use some more social connections.  

What I’m not saying is, I’m lonely, and giving up my precious free time outside of full-time paid work to perform hours of unpaid work could be the solution I’m looking for.  Yet, that seems to be what people hear. 

Look...I’ve worked in non-profits for the majority of my career spanning close to 20 years, which seems impossible given my preference for believing I’m only 29. Volunteers are amazing.  They are the backbone and unsung heroes of every community and after managing incredible teams of volunteers for my entire career and as a newly discovered old person, I can honestly say I’m grateful and in awe of their generosity.

What I can’t say however, is why people think volunteering is a fast-track to building a social life or support structure.   

Naturally, it depends on the volunteer opening.  If I were a different person with wholesome interests like gardening, or Jesus or helping children, maybe my passions would align with more volunteer opportunities.  As it stands I’m a morally questionable, child-hating serial killer of plants, so suitable volunteer activities are…limited.

It seems anybody asking this question has this idea of volunteering as some sort of social jamboree, where bonds are formed over shared altruism and large groups of chatty, fun people agree to go to lunch and hang out after performing set hours of unpaid work. 

It also seems anybody asking if I’ve ever thought about volunteering has never actually volunteered.

If they ever had, they might know that once I submit a lengthy application to volunteer, a criminal records check, a resume and three professional references I’m most likely to be put in a room by myself to seal envelopes, sort donations, tidy storerooms or if I’ve sat through an evening or weekend orientation, I might get to work answering the phone.  Or, because many non-profit agencies are so cash-strapped they can no longer afford physical headquarters, I might be making calls or stuffing envelopes alone in my own home.

These are all needed and necessary activities, but not a single one of them is likely to lead to me making a desperately needed local friend who can help me prevent fire-related hair loss, or convince me he’s REALLY not going to ever leave his wife.

Speaking of all things fire-related, if volunteers are needed in the creation of next year’s charitable Firefighter’s Calendar however…I’ll do it, even though it goes against everything I just said.  I won’t enjoy it – I put this out there only because I’m a good person, deep inside. Like, really deep inside.  And because I care.  About fire-related things. 

You should join a gym!

Also said most often as advice on how to meet new people. And they’re right – I really SHOULD join a gym, if only because when I punch them in their clown hole, I don’t want to pull a muscle.

Gyms are not typically social places.  People want to get in, get out and enjoy an hour or two just for themselves, by themselves.  I get that. When I’m at a gym I don’t want to talk to people.  I’m there to regret every carbohydrate I’ve ever eaten, pray I don’t fart in yoga class and wonder if my crotch is sweating more on average than anybody else’s and if so, why.  I don’t think I’m alone in this – it’s one reason everybody is wearing headphones.  

You should date against your type.

Soooo…if I want a guy who makes me laugh, I should look for someone with no discernible sense of humour at all? If I like a man who’s intelligent and can carry on a conversation, I should give it up for a dude with the IQ of patio furniture? If a guy with confidence and a bit of swagger has always flipped my skirt up, maybe I should keep my damned skirt down and go for more of a dish-rag? Maybe a guy who’s terrible in bed? Or a guy with a micro-penis? Maybe no penis at all? Maybe a woman?

I’m frequently indecisive, it’s true.  I recently spent 20 minutes in a Wal-Mart aisle trying to decide on peanut butter.  I have a favourite brand of toilet paper, but buy whatever mascara is on sale – proof perhaps that I’m naturally more discerning about what comes near my va-jay.  It’s often the only thing I’m sure about. 

I hope that when friends tell me I should look for the opposite of my type, they’re really saying that I should look for somebody who doesn’t cause me pain. Somebody better. Anybody who isn’t the guy I currently pine for. Or any guy I’ve ever pined for.

But that’s not what I hear.

I hear friends telling me my standards are too high.  That whatever virtues I seek in a partner, no matter how reasonable or valued those qualities may be, even in their own relationships – they’re above my station.  That I’m not deserving of the same joys or the same attractions that form the foundations of other relationships without question. That there's something about me that just isn't good enough, so I have to settle - not just compromise, because whatever it is I want, I’m not going to get. 

Can we at least agree he could be good in bed though…?  Just let me have one small standard. 

It’ll happen when you’re not looking for it!

I like to imagine this little gem being used for anything other than wanting to find a romantic partner. 

If I’m hungry, nobody would say food will come to me only when I’m not looking.  It might be because I get dangerously hangry when food-deprived and people are afraid to confront me or even make eye contact, but it’s highly unlikely I’d be lying there, belly bloated with starvation, flies around my eyes, and some idiot suggesting if I just stop wanting food, food will appear.

Maybe I need to find a new job.  It’s generally understood that not looking for a new job if needing a new job is a terrible way to find a new job.  And yet, if I say I’d really like to not be single anymore, there’s a veritable Greek chorus (of mostly smug marrieds) preaching that the best way to find a partner is to not look for one at all.

On the plus side, at least they’re not telling me to join a gym.

Miss me?

It’s been a long time since I’ve written anything, and there’s quite a bit I could cover.  There’s the time I lost my job due to physical unattractiveness, my one and only marriage proposal (revoked), the last several years I spent saving lives, my online stalker and the time I reluctantly had my house cleaned by a naked woman.  Obviously, I’ve been busy. 

However, due to popular demand – I’m back.  And by popular demand I mean one person vehemently complaining (hi CH!) and she was likely drunk on pina coladas at the time.  So, this is for her.

This past year I took every single motivational quote I’ve ever saved in Pinterest much too closely to heart and moved away from everything I’ve ever loved in pursuit of a better career, or at least a great deal of distance between me and an emotionally abusive boss. 

While I am working in a higher-paying job that is less likely to kill me both figuratively and literally than my last, I’m considering an entirely new side career – providing advice to idiot men on online dating sites. 

Yes, I’m online dating again, an attempt to be more outgoing only marginally more satisfying than relying daily on the staff at the Tim Horton’s drive-through for what is often my only social interaction. 

This potential side-career is conflicting.  Partly because I’m not sure men would have the good sense to realize when they’re in need of help, and partly because I wouldn’t want to eliminate fair warning for other women.

I also wouldn’t want to pick on individuals – we’re all just doing our best, dammit. Instead, I would focus on particularly egregious…groups.  Like right now, as below.

The One-Nipple Wonders

Hi! It was nice to see you making an effort with your profile and getting creative! The shirtless bathroom mirror pic has been overdone to death, and I appreciate your effort to pivot boldly toward something different – holding up your shirt to expose just one nipple.

It intrigues me. It makes me think.  Is there something special about that particular nipple? Does it do…something? Do you even have a matching set, or are you just really proud of the one on the right?

It’s tasteful.  In my long, harrowing and filled with suffering online dating experience, men who post pics showing both nipples are too abrupt. Right away, they’re sending messages like, NSA? DTF? Or using actual words, wanna fuck?

Women like a bit of nuance. Does he just want NSA? Or is it 50/50?  With two nipples I’m sure of where I stand, but by coyly only showing one nipple – I’m thrown off my game.

And I like it…but only if it does something special.

The Proud Fathers

Oh heeey. Oh, look at that! So many cute photos of you and all your children! Seriously, how many children are in these photos? What are you, some kind of cult leader? Who has this many kids all under the age of five?? Never mind – you’re virile! 

There’s probably not even that many children, but I can’t tell them apart very well.  My eyes just kind of glaze over and then I get distracted wondering if I remembered to take my pill.  Did I? Pretty sure I did.  God I hope I did. 

I see now it says right there in your write-up – three kids.  They’re your biggest priority, blah blah, can’t live without them, blah, love spending time with them…blah.

Look. I get the impression you strongly feel these kids are a selling feature. Why else would your kids’ faces be appearing anywhere on a dating app? Unlike single mothers who are often put on the defensive about their children, you seem to feel women will love this shit.

Maybe some do.  And then there are those of us whose ovaries are cold, blackened and dead like our souls. Kidding! They’re not actually cold.  That would be physically uncomfortable.

Not every woman wants children.  Some women don’t want their own children, and they surely as fuck will not want somebody else’s, so quit it with this shit.

However, if you wanted to show me pictures of you cuddling puppies, I’ll be over here taking off my clothes.

The Wild Ones

Hello there! Congratulations on displaying a profile picture that shows your face and not immediately asking if I’d be up for a threesome.  These are sad, desperate times we live in but enjoy the accolades nonetheless.

Your photo didn’t make my skin crawl so let’s see what we have in common! I see that your interests include, “hanging out,” and “Netflix.”

Ummm…

Dude.

This is default existing for most people fortunate enough to live in North America.  It’s like saying your hobbies include respiration and digesting food.  Everybody does these things all of the time. 

Nobody needs to talk about it.

This is your chance to make yourself sound exciting.  Woo me a little. I park really far away from the mall when I go shopping so I say my interests include hiking.  See how this works?  

If you can’t even pretend to be interesting, there’s very little hope you’ll ever achieve actual interesting. 

Find a motherfucking hobby.

The Pollies

Jesus Christ.  Yes, I know what polyamorous means, thanks for asking. It’s not condescending at all that you would double-check to make sure I know what it means, because it is a long word with a shit-ton of vowels, so it’s possible I’d never heard of it and basic illiteracy prevented me from answering your first three messages. Or fear of vowels. 

No other possible reason.

How delightful your “wonderful loving primary partner” is totally OK with you seeking “fun options!” When I do set out to be an option for somebody separate from their wonderful and loving primary partner, my biggest priority would be making sure she was happy too. You’d be happy, she’d be happy and I’d be a fun option. Polyamory is awesome!

Yes, I’ve actually read about polyamory, separate from simply knowing what it means.  It’s not condescending at all that you would assume I’m making assumptions based on something I don’t understand and this lack of understanding prevented me from answering now four messages in a row.

I’m glad it’s working for you, and I especially hope it’s working for your “primary partner.” I hope she’s getting hers.  I can’t think of a single reason why she’d need some sort of break from you otherwise, so I hope this arrangement works wonders for you both.  Only, it never worked out for me.

Holy shit, what did I just say?? Why yes, I know all about polyamory after being the fun option for close to ten years if you round up.  And it hurt me.  It hurts me still. 

Find another fucking  fun option and don’t message me again.

Things I Have Learned in 2013 - Part 1

To be clear, I learned some important new things in late 2012, but was too preoccupied eating everything that wasn't nailed down over Christmas, then coming down with the flu, then watching approximately 18 hours of the Shawshank Redemption since it was playing on multiple TV channels over several days, then spilling ginger ale on my goddamned iPhone in a fever induced flail, which I don't recommend ever doing, then missing New Year's Eve because I was still embedded in my couch, clutching a bucket, and watching the last half of the Shawshank Redemption.  Again.

In short, I was busy.  Due to my catching the flu, a few things I learned late in 2012 have only been fully considered in 2013, now that I'm no longer sprawled on death's doormat. 

So in no particular order...

Bitches be crazy.

Starting with my Naturopath, who I just fired.  From September to December, I paid her office a considerable amount of money.  I desperately need and want to lose weight, and she was adamant she could help me. 

She placed me on a very strict dietary program, which she swore was tailored for my needs, and a virtual silver bullet for weight loss in the "metabolically resistant."

The diet proved to be a bullet alright, only not for weight loss.  At an excessively curvaceous 5'11 tall, I was getting by on 300-400 calories a day - only by December I had stopped getting by at all. 

I'd feel dizzy and sick at the gym, and instead of steadily increasing weights and repetitions, my stupidly hot personal trainer recorded several days where I actually regressed. 

Going to the gym began to feel like punishment for the teaspoon of peanut butter I'd been unable to stop myself from guiltily shoving into my mouth the night before, instead of an activity I once enjoyed. My mood was tanking. I'd feel sick instead of hungry all the time, and sicker still when I wolfed down whatever half-servings I was permitted.

When I complained that the inflexibility of the program didn't seem sustainable, or that I missed having a social life, or that I could no longer afford the "medical food" prescribed as an integral part of the weight loss program and conveniently available for purchase at her office, she would call into question my commitment to my health. If I wasn't ready or willing to make the sacrifices, then I wasn't ready to lose the weight. 

However, she realized a little compromise might have to be made, especially ahead of the holiday season.  The program was perfectly sustainable, and I could even have dessert if I wanted to on occasion. 

For example, if I wanted to have half of a nanaimo bar, all I'd have to do is spend an hour at the gym working it off the next day, and there would be no issue.

If that wasn't enough sweets for me, I could even indulge in some chocolate!  She suggested a brand of organic dark chocolate, made locally on one of the gulf islands.  Each small bar is six squares, and once a week, I could treat myself and have two squares of chocolate.

One half of a nanaimo bar. A whole two squares of chocolate.  Once a week.

This is when I realized - bitch is crazy.

Fat shame me, starve me, make me measure my lettuce and expect me to work out every day on less caloric energy than stored in a single Tic-Tac, and as long as I have hope that I will fit into smaller pants before I hit menopause, I will keep going.

Mess with everything I hold sacred about dessert however, and I will strike you down.

When is half a nanaimo bar ever classified as a full dessert??  If the size of the dessert in question measures smaller than the average amount of delicious goodness I might accidentally drop down my cleavage while eating a normal serving - it's not dessert.

Also, I don't care how organic, expensive, or dark and rich two squares of chocolate might be.  I don't care that the chocolate was made on a gulf island, likely chanted over by hippies and stirred with a unicorn horn given how pricey this particular brand is to buy - two squares a week is less than the amount of chocolate I might accidentally absorb through my skin while walking by a Purdy's on a hot summer day. 

So in other words, fuck you Naturopath. 

I stopped the diet, and started eating like a normal person again through Christmas.  As of last week, I've cut down my sugar and carbs, and we'll see what happens when I weigh myself next.  I may weep, or I may be pleasantly surprised - but at least I'm no longer sick and dizzy.

I'm averaging triple the daily calories I was eating in the months before Christmas, and in the last week alone, my stupidly hot personal trainer has seen enough improvement in my strength and balance that he's revamping my whole program. 

(He's really pumped, because apparently we now get to do "a lot more fun things!" Somehow, I sense the fun things he's picturing us doing together are likely drastically different than the fun things I'm always picturing us doing together, but he's sweet nonetheless for being so excited at my sudden and drastic progress.) 

Starving myself cut down my strength, but it did very little to cut back my weight.  In nearly four months on the program, I lost only nine pounds.  Near the end, my weight had actually started to creep back up. 

Despite sticking obsessively to the plan, I started gaining a half to a full pound a week - results the Naturopath attributed to the extra teaspoon or two of peanut butter I admitted to eating a week, just to stop my hands from shaking.

I'm not giving up my efforts to be healthier, and I'm not crazy for trying.  I was crazy however, for thinking I could do it without food.  And if anybody would like to split a dessert some time - get your own, or I will stab your goddamned hand with a fork.