Even when it goes well...

Another coffee date, another Starbucks. I like to choose a different Starbucks location each time I'm meeting someone new, so that the baristas don't remember me and begin some kind of office pool as to when my date will go off the rails. Almost immediately is becoming a safe bet, for those adverse to risk.

This particular date wasn't off to a great start either. For one, Cam* lied about his height. Not enough for me to label him as "wee," but enough to make me regret my choice of shoes very deeply, and therefore regret not being at home in stretchy pants watching "Cops."

I also noticed Cam was very hipster. Uber hipster perhaps. Hipster in a way that meant I got to compare how his skinny jeans fit him so much better than my skinny jeans. I've always felt, and I still do, that men and women on a date should not be wearing the same cut of denim, especially when the dude is pulling it off and the woman...not so much.

He had the pointy calf leather loafers. The black pea coat. The metal studded glittering belt. The retro, ironic T-shirt. The funky black toque with a brim serving no purpose at all. The hoop earrings in both ears. The obscure symbol necklace. Sweet Lord.

I didn't get any more excited when he walked in, saw me sitting at the table, held up a finger in the universal symbol of, "one moment," and proceeded to the counter to order a $7 macchiatto.

I was waiting to order until he arrived, and not because I was expecting him to pay for me. It seemed the polite thing to do at the time, but I was afraid to say anything to him from the table for fear he would give me the universal symbol for "hush," and I'd be forced to strangle him with his studded belt.

Finally we both had an over-priced beverage. Cam suggests we take a drive to the water because he couldn't "handle the Starbucks culture." It's hard to argue a statement with no context or meaning, so off to the water we went. And things improved.

Cam was funny. He was smart. He had gorgeous blue eyes and stupidly long eyelashes. He was a little bit off-beat and quirky and I had no idea what he'd say next. He was an artist - painting and photography. We sat looking at the water, went for a walk...things were going surprisingly well.

His trendy little pea coat wasn't very warm and I felt weird just sitting in the car so I suggested we find some place warm to carry on the conversation. That some place turned out to be his apartment, which wasn't exactly what I was thinking but that's hard to argue when we're suddenly in the parking lot of his apartment building.

He had the typical starving artist apartment...artsy. Still laughing and talking, we settled on the couch and decided we should watch some TV together.

Things were going well enough I began to imagine how it would be introducing him to my friends. I know this is a weird thing to do, but I figure it's less weird than immediately picturing our wedding so I let myself daydream.

"Everybody - this is Cam. Cam's an artist. He made me that painting I have on the wall of my living room. Yes, the one with the skulls. All of his paintings have skulls - he's very deep."

"So what did you think of Cam? I know - he's cute isn't he? What do you mean is he gay?? Of course he's not gay...well I know he looks like he could be but I think it's just the belt...no I'm sure of it...he's not...don't even try hitting on him to prove it. Bitch."

Overall...I was not horribly disappointed with how the evening was going. I was even less disappointed when I noticed Cam was doing all kinds of cute covert-but-not-really guy maneuvers to get closer to me on the couch. This pleased me.

I was even more pleased when he kissed me, and I think this is where the train and the rails parted company. It had been so long since I'd had a guy kiss me on a date that I actually wanted to kiss that I must have stopped paying attention. And I really should have paid attention.

After less than two minutes of kissing, I opened my eyes, glanced downward and was forced to ask the following profound, and relationship-altering question:

"Um...Why are you naked?"

I don't know how it happened. You'd think I would have heard the jangling of the glittery belt coming apart, the unzipping of the fly, and I don't know about him but my skinny jeans take some effort to get down off my hips -- but I wasn't paying attention.

(I also blame Chef Gordon Ramsey. A Hell's Kitchen repeat was playing on TV and Chef was yelling at everybody, as he does, and I think this might have muffled anything important going on. Like my date suddenly being naked.)

In case you were skimming this post - Cam was naked. Penis. Full-frontally nuded. Penis. Waving at me. Penis.

Now what is the etiquette in this situation? Somebody has made a serious dating faux-pas, and yet it seemed impolite to point this out. And so I asked politely why he was naked instead.

Just as politely, Cam answered that he thought things were going in a certain direction. Considering the improbability of my fantasy involving having a guy to drag out to outings with my friends who wasn't under some sort of contractual obligation, I couldn't begrudge Cam's fantasy that two minutes of kissing might make a girl want to see him naked.

For the record, the kissing wasn't that amazing either. It was OK given the novelty factor, but it wasn't THAT kind of kiss. The kind of kiss where you lose feeling in your legs and that's OK because who needs legs when you have lips and oh my god but did my panties just dissolve? Yeah. It wasn't that kind of kiss.

There is no easy way to tell a guy that the direction he was sensing is wrong. He was going south, I was heading north. In different cities. During different years. And so he put it away.

We cuddled awkwardly. He had plans for later that evening so neither of us seemed saddened the evening had come to an end. He drove me back to Starbucks, and we said good-bye.

Surprisingly...no kiss.

The only way I just can't lose...

There are three of us in my office on WeightWatchers. Today was weigh-in day for everybody, and I felt confident because I'd had a good week.

I did not cheat. Not once. I exercised -- more than once. I dutifully recorded everything that went into my mouth. If there had been a category for toothpaste I would have written that down too, just to be sure.

My two friends cheated several times through the week and neither of them exercised. And today we have the verdict...

Friend Number One: -4 pounds
Friend Number Two: - 5 pounds
Bambi: -0

As in 0 pounds lost. As in I'm the exact same weight I was when I was still eating whatever the hell I wanted and not exercising.

I took off my socks and underwear, thinking that perhaps my socks and underwear could be particularly heavy and stood on the scale again. Nothing.

I tied my hair back and took off the ring I forgot to take off before going to bed last night and tried again. Nothing.

The first week's results should give some kind of incentive to keep going. I've turned down dinners and drinks with friends so I could stick to the plan. I have half of my favourite dessert sitting in my fridge and I haven't touched it in a week. I'm sure it's not even good anymore but that's not the point.

The point is there is no more disappointing feeling in the world than trying so hard and not seeing that number on the scale go down.

I know I'm supposed to love myself for who I am and blah BLAH...but I love myself so much better when I can fit into my clothes. All of my clothes.

Next week I'm going to make sure and shave my legs before stepping on the scale. It's all I know to do for next time.

The free samples were worth it.

Lately I've been having some womanly issues which culminated in me shaking a doctor by the lapels and demanding she give me either a very strong pill, a blood transfusion, a uterine transplant or a bath plug with comfort-grip applicator. She opted to prescribe me a very strong dose of hormones, which has done nothing to fix the problem.

It doesn't matter though, because I don't believe the purpose of those pills was ever to stop the period infinitas, as it's known in Latin. Instead, the ensuing emotional imbalance was meant to distract me from the original problem, because it's hard to be concerned with blood loss when you're simultaneously laughing, crying and strangling the life out of a coat rack for looking at you funny.

In this state, two days after my shocking and sad real-life encounter with my Telephone Boyfriend, I found myself in Costco. I think I was seeking the kind of comfort that can only come from knowing I won't run out of toilet paper until the 2010 Olympics.

I finished my shopping, a grueling experience in which I rammed three people's shopping carts on purpose and had a teary moment in the book section after stumbling upon a cook book on cooking for couples. And I still had my period, going on week 5. It was really the perfect storm.

Because it was a Saturday, everybody on Vancouver Island was also shopping at Costco. Shut-ins, federally protected witnesses, missing persons -- everybody was shopping, and in line behind me as I got to the cashier.

I handed over my Costco card. The cashier swiped my card, and then went very still and quiet. She leaves the till, and comes back with a manager. He swipes my card, purses his lips, blows out his cheeks, and asks me if I have another card.

It doesn't matter whether it's a Visa, a debit card or a Costco card. When your card gets declined for any reason, it's devastating. You are the lowest life form on the planet. And that's what was happening.

My Costco card was under my ex-boyfriend's name. There was nothing underhanded in me continuing to use the card after we broke up. Like a considerate and civilized person, I asked him if there would be any problem with me using that card and he told me no, there would be no problem.

Flash forward to me standing at the front of the line with fifty-seven increasingly hostile people waiting behind me. The manager informs me that Jack-Ass Incorporated (not the actual name of my ex-boyfriend's company but perhaps it should be), had requested my name be removed from the account.

Perhaps in explanation, the manager went on to give me the name of the woman who had been added in my place, probably hoping this would somehow calm the dangerous looking splotches appearing on my face.

It did not. I couldn't explain that I wasn't a disgruntled former employee of Jack-Ass Incorporated, which is how I'm sure it appears when your name is dropped from a corporate membership.

Nor could I explain that my name shouldn't be dropped and replaced by some other bitch because I was with the Jack-Ass when he was mean, when he drank, when he was nearly bankrupt and had no time for me.

She's with him now that he's sober, softened, relaxed and wealthy. At the very least I should claim the free Costco membership. I earned the right to wholesale prices goddammit.

You would think I also earned a phone call or an email from Jack-Ass Incorporated, letting me know I would need to purchase a new membership the next time I went to Costco.

This small slap in the face, combined with my hormonal imbalance, added to my depression over recent events, mixed with having some manager unwittingly telling me my ex's new girlfriend's name, and discovering she has a soap opera name like Tiffany Brooke Carrington, caused me to lose my shit in Costco.

The line-up for new memberships and customer service stretched out the door, given that it was a Saturday and everybody within a 100 mile radius had an unwanted Christmas gift to return at exactly the same time.

I started to cry. I'm not even ashamed. I didn't burst into great hitching sobs or anything, but I snivelled once. My one hand flew to my mouth and the other hand shoved my glasses onto my head so I could knuckle my eyes dry. It was a very brief crack, but apparently the Costco manager saw Armageddon.

"Wait right here! I'll fix this!" And then the manager ran, and I literally mean he ran, legs and arms pumping, to get a membership form from customer service. He was back within seconds, after ordering the cashier to start ringing through my items so I didn't have to wait any longer.

After paying for my new membership with my order, he directed me to what he called "a quiet spot" so I could fill out my membership form, and he again asked me to "Wait right here! I'll get you past the line!"

And he did. He took me past a crowd the size of the average pilgrimage to Mecca and snapped what is possibly the worst photo ever taken of me in my entire life for my new card, but really I was in no position to demand a retake.

He reassured me the entire walk over to the camera that I didn't have to worry about my shopping cart, because nobody would ever steal my groceries, perhaps out of concern that my head would start leaking again at the possibility.

He walked me back to my cart, and I thanked him. His panic, and kindness was really rather touching. He said I was most welcome, and that it was a new day. I was now "the master of my own card."

Indeed I am. I'm the master of nothing else, but I can rock my own Costco card. It's a small step, but right now I'll take anything.

The Losing Battle

A blessing and a curse to my annual New Year's resolution to lose 30 pounds is that everybody else has a similar resolution, and those who don't have at one time gained or lost weight so basically everybody I come in contact with has some advice for me.

My closest working neighbor is no exception. Over the years he's lost at least half a person in weight, he's kept it off and the diet he follows is so pure and organic his aura alone can heal acne.

I don't doubt the dude is in seriously good shape. He's actually expressed concern that his metabolism is too fast, and he has to be careful to limit some physical activities while adding some unhealthy foods so that he doesn't slim down into thin air. Just standing up twice a day can make his pants looser.

He's achieved this state through what I'm referring to as the Small Woodland Creature diet. He doesn't eat small woodland creatures, but he eats like a squirrel, assuming a squirrel will occasionally suck back a can of tuna or skinless chicken breast.

Throughout the day, he'll eat nuts, berries and other "pure" foods. Foods should be eaten in a certain order, and he takes supplements and other nutrients in tasty powder form.

He claims to fall ill if he eats any junk, and he can supposedly taste the granules of sugar should he allow himself a dessert and he finds it disgusting.

There is no question he's healthy and lean. His body is a calibrated machine, so finely tuned he probably vibrates in the presence of low noises. On the other hand, I'm constipated despite eating enough fibre to allow a normal person to poo on command. I acknowledge he and I are on a different path.

However.

I really like food. By food, I don't strictly mean items containing nutrients. By that rationale, tree bark is food. I expect my food to taste good, smell good, and in the absence of any relationship, I expect food to replace happiness and sex. I also like food with icing.

I don't expect my food to be limited to whatever is growing alongside a wooded path. To me, that's garnish. Not food.

My co-worker and I have argued over the meaning and purpose of food. To him, food is strictly fuel. While I admit food is an excellent preventative measure against starvation, it should also be a pleasure. Perhaps not all of the time, or as often as I would prefer, but the majority of meals should pass as enjoyable.

He's winning this argument even as I type. He has visible abs and I have a distended belly. My digestive system may betray me, but dessert never has. I'll always prefer my nuts and berries atop of my cheesecake.

Happy Freaking New Year.

I'm in a list making mood.

I always make lists in January, optimistically believing that if I write down what I want to achieve in the New Year, those written words will be so powerful, I'll have no choice but to achieve everything on that list.

I'll go on to a guest spot on Oprah, in which I discuss the secret of using bullet points instead of dashes as a way to bolster empowerment. Fame and fortune ensues.

The top of the list always starts with, "Lose 30 pounds." Of course by February I've usually eaten the list out of hunger so momentum gets lost. This year's list is no different, but I'm making more of an effort to diversify.

A friend described how a friend of hers has started a scrapbook for her New Year's goals. She's added headings to each blank page, so that if she doesn't pull through she's left with a pathetic empty scrapbook. No memories, just wasted headlines. Tying together self-shame with the opportunity to use a glitter stick is brilliant.

In the meantime, I've compiled a few other lists...

Things That Did NOT Happen Over the Holidays That Are Totally Surprising to Everybody Including Me:

• Bursting into flames immediately upon entering a Catholic Church for Midnight Mass
• Breaking any part of my body while skating on a frozen lake or hiking over ice in Jasper
• Permanent ass numbness as a result of performing above activities without long johns
• Hangovers

Things That Happened That Are Totally Not Surprising to Anybody Else But Shocked the F*ck Out Of Me Just the Same:

• Discovering the hard way that my Telephone Boyfriend was hesitant to meet because the picture he sent me was of somebody else entirely. Somebody attractive.
• Finding out that opening the door and seeing your Telephone Boyfriend is not the really cute guy you were expecting as per his picture, but instead somebody you've never seen before in your life can be considered a cardio workout, providing your heart plummeting to your knees is doctor recommended.
• Realizing that as much as I may think I like a guy's personality, if he physically reminds me in any way of the Dad from The Family Guy then nakedness is never going to happen, because I'm shallow. And sane.
• A man can log over 100 hours talking to a woman, and still not tell the truth once.
• Acknowledging sadness over the ending of something that never actually started with somebody that doesn't actually exist is a new personal low, for which no possible therapy is available.

And that is how my telephone relationship ended. Badly, quickly and at my doorstep. I invited him in for a bit, mostly so I could study his features and confirm I wasn't losing my mind or vision. I wasn't.

When I suggested things weren't going to work out, he was resigned. Naturally he didn't have to ask why, and when I tried to tell him he became rather upset. Apparently he had kept telling me it would be better if we could just keep it on the phone, but I didn't listen. In those moments, I felt strangely sorry for him...which may be the only reason he's still alive.

I'm trying not to be bitter over this, because I'm hoping if I continue on my current dating trajectory I'll end up with a book deal. Granted, I'll still die alone surrounded by whatever small furry creatures I end up substituting for cats, but at least my obituary will read, "published author," shortly after the phrase, "survived by no one."

Happy New Year Everybody!