Everybody's Got One.

You know who I'm talking about. The person in the office who will stab you in the back. Keep quiet track of when you arrive, how long you take for lunch and how early you leave. Agree with you over issues in private and leave you flapping in the wind during meetings. She demonstrates her softer side by noticing, every day, how tired you look. And telling you.

She's the Office Bitch.

She's subtle, so if you try to call her out on anything you end up sounding crazy.

"I was just concerned you weren't getting enough sleep..."
"I know we had talked about Option B, but I didn't think we had agreed on it..."
"I just think it helps to know where everybody is..."

She's the first one to lavish welcome and attention to anybody new to the office. She stops by to see how the newbie is doing, suggests they go for coffee or lunch together and always offers her help any time. She's available for anything. Anything at all.

Everybody else avoids her like Ebola, but nobody admits it. There's no obvious reason she's not included in the office jokes, and nobody seeks her out to chat about the weekend. The newbie will avoid her too, following about the time it takes to order in new desk supplies from Grand and Toy and figure out what the code for the printer/fax is.

Unless the newbie is really young. Or lonely. Or kind. Sometimes he doesn't know any better and goes for lunch, paraded around by the Bitch like a prize. Sometimes he seems relieved he's found a friend and sometimes he seems terrified because he's not sure how he ended up being very best friends with somebody before he even knows where the bathrooms are.

Luckily the Office Bitch gets tired of the game quickly, and always tosses the newbie. The novelty wears off, and it's time to start tracking the extra moments taken on breaks or accidentally not reading critical action-item emails. Th newbie is always either relieved, or sadly baffled at the sudden loss of his new buddy.

Often, the Office Bitch has a holiday sweater for every occasion, but not always. Sometimes the mature woman dressed in a sweater with a satin applique Santa Claus is just a Grandmother/Pollyanna or joker in desperate need of a laundry day.

The Office Bitch can be separated from a woman just wearing a tacky sweater based on whether or not there is acknowledgement of the tackiness of the item. A Grandmother whose granddaughter bought her the sweater will point this out. She will chuckle at the jingly bells hanging off of her matronly boob and we'll all appreciate the sweater because of it. The Office Bitch will offer no explanation for why she's dressed like a giant rancid elf, and nobody will ask.

Often the holiday sweaters are accompanied by the following items depicted as earrings:

• Jingle bells
• Easter eggs
• Halloween pumpkins
• Cats

The Office Bitch is always a cat lover. She doesn't just have a cat at home - she has a cat-themed cubicle complete with a calendar, mug and screen saver photo album. Strangely, the scariest Office Bitch will have the cat accessories, but not necessarily own a cat at all.

Forewarned is forearmed. Don't ask her for a favour. Don't let her see you come in from lunch with shopping bags. Don't let your guard down. And whatever you do, don't put her in charge of the birthday celebrations.

Next time I'll hobble.

A friend told me today that my experiences have completely turned her off online dating forever. I'd have thought my experiences would have turned her off heterosexuality but maybe I'm just not trying hard enough.

Either that, or she has a remarkably low tolerance for pain and suffering, in which case I'm glad I didn't tell her what happened the first and last time I was set up on a blind date.

A friend told me she thought I'd be perfect for her friend Doug. Doug is his actual name - I'm doing a public service by revealing it and you can all thank me later should you find yourself attempting to flee a Corvette gracefully and without shoes, like I had to do.

Anyhoo. I spoke with Doug on the phone first, and he seemed smart and funny. We exchanged pictures, and the sight of his face didn't frighten me. So far so good. We arranged to meet, and then it went off the rails.

I agreed to meet him in front of my favourite restaurant, and I would know him because he would be waiting in his Corvette. Foolishly I wore a brand new pair of high heel sandals, and by the time I got to the restaurant my feet were bloody stumps, which is the only reason I later ended up riding in Doug's car - but again I'm getting ahead of myself.

So I'm waiting and oozing blood from my ankles. I can see a Corvette parked across the street, but I don't see a driver. Weird. I wait and bleed another moment. As I'm staring at the Corvette, I see a hand, barely visible, waving over top of the car. Doug has arrived after all, and it's a bit of a shock.

The Corvette, besides being ridiculously uncomfortable and impossible to make a grand exit from without struggling or some kind of assistance, is not a terribly tall vehicle. The average person is perfectly visible standing beside a Corvette. In fact, most people's heads and partial torsos would be visible next to a Corvette. Not Doug.

The top of Doug's head did not make it over top of the Corvette. What I'm trying to tell you without using the words munchkin, little person, garden gnome or pocket-sized is that Doug was WEE. While not officially a midget, dwarf or whatever today's politically-correct term is, Doug was a tiny little mo'fo.

Making matters appear even worse, Doug worked out like a fiend. Rather than stopping work on his upper-body when his neck began to disapear, me must have taken it as a good sign and kept right on going because he had no neck. None that I could see. His attempts to make up for his shortcomings by body-building (Ha! Get it? Shortcomings? Yeah I know. I'm stopping now.) made him appear even smaller.

Doug stood about 4'8. In barefeet I'm 5'11. The barbed-wire sandals I had on would have easily added another three inches, and I had no choice but to come to one sickening realization: I was on a date with a Cabbage Patch Kid.

The restaurant I chose was too busy, so we set off walking for another destination. Crossing the street I felt a sudden and irrational urge to take his hand for safety. When we got to his choice of restaurant my feet had been downgraded from Stable to Critical, soon to be approaching Intensive Care levels.

We ordered our food, and Doug leans across the table and puts his little hand over mine. He asks where I see us going, because he feels a very strong connection between us. I suppose any time I'm crotch level with a man there's a strong connection, but in this case I felt Doug being crotch level with me was not a good sign for the relationship. And I told him so.

Despite my feet crying out for mercy, the fact my date was making me look like a pedophile and the only thing I could find on the menu I felt like eating was chicken strips, I started off answering him in a polite, but firm manner.

I told him that I didn't feel a connection, and did not feel we would go any further. He wanted to know why not. I evaded the question, until pushed to the breaking point, leading to the following exchange:

Bambi: To be honest with you, and this is by no means your problem but it is something I'm sensitive to given I'm much taller than the average woman...I'm just not comfortable with my height around you. You're a good-looking guy, you seem nice...the problem is my own.

(Translation: The thought of sleeping with you ever creeps me the f*ck out, but I'm trying very hard to be nice given my feet will require skin grafts and your eyes are level with my boobs even though we're sitting down so can I please just eat my freaking chicken strips in peace. Thank you.)

Doug:

Doug: YOU F*CKING PRINCESS! HOW DARE YOU SPEAK TO ME LIKE THAT! HOW DARE YOU COME UP IN HERE WEARING YOUR LITTLE F*CKING DRESS AND YOUR HAIR ALL DONE AND YOU"RE A F*CKING PRINCESS WHO THINKS YOU"RE TOO GOOD FOR EVERYBODY!

I apologize for the all-caps, but he was really yelling at me. The entire restaurant can back me up on this point, because everybody else went silent so they could turn around in their chairs and really concentrate on what the couple who had escaped from the circus was going on about.

Also, I'm really not sure why my hair had to be dragged into the conversation. I'm pretty sure I brushed it that evening but I'm not convinced I did anything special enough to my hair to make deserving of special mention during Doug's 'roid rage interlude but there you have it.

Immediately he apologized, and I immediately suggested we get the bill and go our separate ways. My chicken strips were overdone anyway. He argued we could still have a nice night together(!) but I was finished.

Unfortunately, so were my feet. I really couldn't have made it all the way home and I didn't relish going barefoot for 20 blocks so when Doug apologized again, offered me a ride and suggested it was too nice a night not to take a very short ride in a convertible I had very little choice but to agree.

I fall into the vehicle, because really there's no other polite way to sit down in a car that forces your knees to rest on your eyelids. I take my shoes off, and hope I don't bleed on his floor mats. We travel approximately four blocks before stopping at a red light, and Doug turns to me with a question.

Doug: I need to ask you something.

Bambi: What's that?

Doug: Have you accepted the power and love of Jesus Christ our Saviour into your heart?

Well.

This was my cue to leave. I grabbed my shoes, opened the door and proceeded to struggle my way out of the car. All the while Doug is asking me where I'm going, and telling me to get back in the car so we could talk about it. He was born again with God, and he really felt I needed the Word.

Arms and legs flailing in desperation to extricate myself from the bucket seat, I tell him I'm a lost cause because I'm a practicing witch. I'm really not sure why I said that, but I was really wishing one of us could magically disapear and white or black magic, I didn't care which, would have been welcome.

He must have taken it to heart because as soon as I was out and the light turned green, he peeled through the intersection. I walked the rest of the way home barefoot. So great was my desire to call the friend who set me up with Doug in the first place, that I barely felt a thing.

When I finally had her on the phone, she couldn't understand what the fuss was about. She remembered he was short, but not that short...oh wait a minute...oh yeah...THAT Doug. Now it's coming back. The one time they did fool around she remembered it was kind of icky because it felt like she was making out with a toddler. Amd doesn't he have some weird thing for Jesus?

Yeah. That Doug.

Bambi, Interrupted

Apparently I've caused concern. My dating experiences (if one can call the consumption of some kind of beverage across some kind of table followed by some kind of trauma 'experiences') have led one friend to offer me a fully-paid subscription to E-Harmony and another to threaten me with shunning should I fail to have sex with another human being at some point in the next six months.

Heidi of Completely Barking Mad blog-fame offered me the E-Harmony subscription, believing that the screening process involved should at least protect me from...well...the type of men I've met so far. Or possibly myself. Heidi is both wonderfully generous and brilliant, which is why I'm able to overlook the fact her relentless optimism may actually be a mental disorder. (Hi Heidi! Love you!)

Apparently 30% of people hoping to sign on with E-Harmony are rejected. No explanation provided. I'm pretty certain once I submit answers suggesting that I like children - fried, and that I consider champagne to be a breakfast food I may also find myself in the reject pile, with no way of explaining the items I go on to purchase with Heidi's credit card.

My friend J threatened to disown me if I don't soon have a good story to share ending with the line, "...and then the headboard simply disintegrated from the constant pounding. Wish I could remember his name -- got any Advil?"

In my defense, J is in an open relationship and it's not unusual for his boyfriend to bring friends home for both of them to enjoy. Somehow, it hardly seems fair that I should have to compete in the same arena, considering my arena is located on a completely separate planet.

All of this was meant to be a lead up to a story about how it doesn't matter whether I meet somebody online, in person, pre-screened or totally cold -- ridiculousness follows. I was going to either tell the story of how I ended up having dinner with a born-again evangelical midget, or how I was kidnapped for eight hours by three rednecks in a monster truck.

(While no actual crime was committed (only because the law is rather short-sighted) I really couldn't go home for eight hours and I had to listen to Pantera amongst other indignities so in actual fact -- I believe I did suffer harm. And yes, I just included a sentence with a bracketed statement within a bracket. I am so glad my degree in Writing is working for me. Jesus.)

I couldn't decide which story I felt like telling more, and now the time has come for me to have a late-night nap, so I can be ready for the rest of my evening. At 11:00 pm, I'm going to leave my apartment, walk to Chapters, elbow small children out of the way and get in line for my copy of the new Harry Potter book. I pre-ordered, but I need to be prepared so I can avoid any delay that could keep me from getting my book at 12:01 as promised. So basically, those stories will have to wait.

(And yes folks, men still aren't knocking down my door. Try to contain your surprise.)

Confused by the running and the screaming...?

Just so nobody thinks I'm just resting on my laurels, doing nothing with the time left on my Lavalife account, I would like to introduce you to Gary*. I would also like to point out that there's no way I would ever have laurels to actually rest on.

I'm assuming 'laurels' refers to some kind of plant material, and as I am a prolific serial-killer of plants, laurels are not likely to survive that long in my care. Why anybody would rest on them, or where the saying comes from I'm not really well-educated enough to say, so we're just going to go with it.

Anyhoodle. I was suspicious of Gary from the start. His picture seemed too contrived, too plastic and his profile made him seem too wealthy. If a good-looking man is successful enough to divide his time between Florida, Arizona and Victoria developing real estate, one has to wonder what could possibly be so wrong with him that he doesn't have women attached to his fly by their teeth.

I didn't have to wonder long. We met at Starbucks for coffee, fairly early in the day. I walked in, and did a quick scan of the room hoping for recognition. Married couple. Old guy. Flaming gay guy. Skateboarder dude...and back to the flaming gay guy. Oh my dear lord -- it's the flaming gay guy.

I don't mean this in a derogatory or facetious way at all, and I don't mean to imply that all gay men are flaming but I do have to say that if Gary started waving a sequined scarf and yelling "yoo-hoo," I would not have been surprised. My gaydar did not just go off, it caught on fire and caused a rolling black-out in California.

Resigned, I figured there was no way anything would come out of this but if we could talk about shopping then the morning could be salvaged, because I really wanted to know where he got his entire outfit.

He bought my steamed milk, which will become important in a moment. We sat down to chat, and if I thought things couldn't get any stranger, I was humbled yet again.

Gary replied to all of my questions with one word answers, and asked me nothing. I began to make a game out of it, asking questions I felt would have to warrant some kind of sentence structure in response, just to see what he would do. Example:

Bambi: Tell me about living in the states as a Canadian - what was most different about the culture there?

Gary the Gay Guy: Much.

Bambi: Much? Like a lot of differences? Tell me what you noticed most?

Gary the Gay Guy: Groceries.

Groceries?? I would have kept going, but Gary was distracting my attention away from this enthralling exchange by making a big production out of his keys. He had taken them out of his pocket and was working hard to arrange them just so, jingling and jangling until he had them settled.

Then he went through quite the elaborate effort to smooth them a certain way on the table. I was mesmerized. When he had finished, he slowly pushed the keys toward me for optimum viewing. He had succeeded in displaying his Mercedes Benz key tag facing me, and all of his other keys away.

Unsure what to do or say in response, I sipped my steamed milk. Somehow I felt dragging out my giant cluster of keys only to display my auto-unlock doohickey would be kind of an insult -- especially since I know the batteries need replacing.

I suppose my non-reaction left him with little choice. He goes into his pocket again, and pulls out a clear plastic baggie, secured with an elastic band and filled with pills. Finally, he speaks.

Gary: These are my vitamins.

Now I'm baffled. Perhaps the pills he's put on the table are actually illegal. Perhaps he's trying to show me he's an ecstasy dealer, and that's really how he makes his money. Perhaps he thinks I'm going to want to buy some. I peer closely at the baggie, trying to establish whether I'm about to be swept up in some kind of drug sting.

Instead I see...vitamins. I believe I actually identified a Vitamin C Chewable. Now I'm really at a loss. I could not think of what the required response would be. Am I just not experienced enough at casual dating? Is this something that happens often that I should know about? My silence prompted Gary to speak again -- he was finally on a roll.

Gary: That's a two-day supply.

Huh. I've come to a crossroads now. I can ignore this weirdness, or I can reach into my bag, pull out my bottle of Advil, put that on the table and declare my own two-day supply. I went with ignoring the weirdness, which proved to be another mistake.

Apparently revealing his health regime and expensive car put Gary at ease, or as much ease as could be found if you're a flaming gay man on a coffee date with a woman. Gary began to talk about how he enjoyed that particular Starbucks for the atmosphere, but it was just too bad I had to go and order such an expensive drink. It's the one thing he hates about Starbucks, and I went and proved the point.

Remember when I said I ordered a steamed milk, and it would be important later? That time is now. I took my eyes off his baggie, relieved that he was cracking a joke. Only, he wasn't joking. This confused, closeted bastard with a Mercedes Benz and sunglasses on top of his head that cost more than my rent for a month was tearing a strip off of me for ordering a plain, steamed milk.

His total bill for our little date at Starbucks came to $4.41. I know, because I was standing right there. He also ordered a drink, so my contribution to this astronomical expense was somewhere in the range of a toonie. Homeless people sip more expensive beverages than what I had ordered and so -- I was done.

My date with Gary lasted 25 minutes before I fled the Starbucks, grateful for my two-day supply of pills which were about to come in a handy and grateful my particular brand of crazy is fairly well-hidden -- at least compared to Gary.

***Naturally I've changed Gary's name but I'm confident if any of you come across him on Lavalife or in real life - you'll know who he is, and you'll have have my sympathies.

Eavesdropping on Americans - Part One

Even though it feels like I'm picking on the retarded kid, I just can't help myself. They keep on talking, so I'll keep listening...

"Honey! - we need to take a picture with some real Canadians."
- overheard in front of the Empress Hotel

"Does EVERYBODY in this city smoke pot?"
- overheard in line for a Mr. Tubesteak

"That's an awfully nice government building for just this little island."
- overheard in front of the Parliament Buildings, in Victoria, the capital city of British Columbia

"The homeless people here are so clean and fresh looking!"
- overheard near dirty hippies playing bongo drums

Things left behind...

When I moved from Calgary in October and kissed my boyfriend goodbye, it was not meant to be permanent. Much like my hair colour, the situation was intended to be temporary. Although, for the record, I am a natural redhead should anybody ask. Or blonde...sometimes I get in a mood.

We had discussed and agreed that we would do the long-distance thing until he took care of some business and moved out to join me. We were prepared. I researched articles on long-distance dating and how to make it work on every lifestyle website I could find.

I would bring the most realistic suggestions home, and I genuinely thought our relationship could actually improve when apart, if we just worked at it. Two weeks after my move he phoned to say he had compromised as much as we was able and would not be moving after all.

And to think that I could have spent that time reading gossip and fashion sites instead...which is pretty much what I did the rest of the time I could have done without the interruption.

Last week he phoned to say that he was seeing somebody, and it was serious. I got the impression he was hoping I would sigh with relief and tell him that I too was seeing somebody and we had met each other's mothers and he could sleep guilt-free that night -- with somebody else.

I wasn't about to tell him I had found my perfect match and once the Witness Protection Program allows him to resurface so he can contact me we will be very happy together.

(If anybody has any other explanation for wherever it is Tyler has gone and why I haven't heard from him since our date I would love to hear it. Bastard.)

So there's that. Tonight I was lying on my bed praying for some kind of cure to the global warming crisis because it is so hot in my apartment the chicken breast I took out for dinner this morning was overdone on the counter by the time I got home.

And that's when I got angry, because my ex has a fantastic air-conditioner and I have none. Some other woman is enjoying cold air blowing where she sleeps, while I have a fan that blows hot air around the room. Granted, my fan has a remote with a flashlight which will come in handy...whenever I need a flashlight the size of a pencil point. But still.

I really, really miss that air conditioner. It was a window unit, and I could sleep under my blankets all year. It made a soothing sound that lulled me to sleep. Now some Calgary tramp who's life goal is to make it from receptionist to yummy-mummy through the power of her husband's salary is sleeping comfortably next to my old air-conditioner, where I slept for four years. And I miss him. It. The air-conditioner. A lot.

Because bathing suits aren't bad enough...

I need to buy pants. I'm not looking for pants made of plutonium. I'm not looking for haunted pants, magical pants or pants that will call me after we go out and offer to make me dinner. In short, I'm not looking for the impossible. I want pants that make if farther than my knees, cover my ass, cover my ankles and don't show my ass when I sit down. Apparently, I'm better off searching for those elusive plutonium capris.

I'm curvy. I have what my grandmother refers to as 'childbearing hips,' which are so helpful given my frozen ovaries and mistrust of anybody under four feet tall, including midgets. Right now, I can't shop in most conventional stores. I'm in the double digit size range, stuck in the purgatory between conventional stores and plus-size shops.

While I'm just looking for pants that fit, plus-size stores have other ideas. Apparently, these stores feel women want denim that is bedazzled and would never make it through an airport metal detector. If I'm a size 16, why on earth would I want bedazzled, sparkling roses riveted onto the back pockets of my jeans?

Equally mysterious is the abundance of pants with high waists and no back pockets at all, or pants where the pockets and seams are designed to make my ass actually appear bigger -- difficult to achieve so I give credit for sheer audacity.

Surely, if I know how pockets are supposed to look, designers should know too. What would it take for plus-size designers to put down their bedazzlers and quit it with the mom-jeans that give me long-bottom? And why am I forced to shop in plus size stores at all, when I'm not really a plus size? I'm just female...a female who is well-insulated.

I do have some happy news however. I invested in a pair of Lululemon capri pants and it's like having an ass transplant. They lift and separate. They firm and contour. They call me the next morning. They cost more than the GDP of some lesser known countries, and I may not make my rent for August but I'm happy. I have new pants, and an ass that appears to belong to somebody else. Somebody who's a size 12.

An Open Letter to Tourists in My City.

First of all, let me say welcome, and to compliment all of you on your fine choice of fanny-packs this season. A Louis Vuitton fanny-pack remains a fanny-pack, but you have nonetheless raised the bar. Somewhat.

Travel apparel is not why I am writing this letter however. Rather, I felt we should lay some ground rules if all of us are to enjoy the summer in this city. Please know that I want you to enjoy the summer and the city I call home. I love where I live, and I love that you all want to come here.

However, I feel now is the time to discuss some boundaries that can go a long way to ensuring I don't inadvertently (or advertently) end up kicking any of you into the inner harbour. Primarily, my biggest concern is freedom of movement. You may have noticed it is very crowded on the sidewalks as of late, and I expect this situation to continue well into September. There's just no getting around it, and therein lies my problem.

People. Friends. Tourists. Americans. When you see a young(ish) woman over six feet tall in her heels, dressed to the nines and walking in a straight line towards you at a pace that can only be described as "aggressive," then might I suggest stepping to the side for the love of all that is holy and pure?

While I appreciate all 18 members of your extended family are on holiday together for the first time in memory, is it really necessary that all 18 members form an impenetrable line across the sidewalk, like some kind of familial game of Red Rover, while Grandma sets the pace? Is it necessary? Really?

When you see a young(ish) woman dressed to the nines and walking agressively toward you, it means she is late for martinis with the gays. She needs to get through, and the appropriate response would be to allow her to do so.

An inappropriate response is to force her to walk into oncoming traffic, freeze in terror at the oncoming amazon or waste any more of her time by engaging her in a sidewalk traffic waltz.

The same protocol follows if the young(ish) woman is wearing jeans and a halter top because this means she is late meeting the heteros for an evening of dancing and trying to get laid. Conversely, if you hear clicking footsteps behind you that do not appear to be slowing to the pace you are currently keeping, I also suggest moving the hell out of the way.

As mentioned, I love my city and I understand how enjoyable the experience can be as you discover the many wonders, particularly through the eyes of your digital camera. In just one short block there is a living coin-operated mermaid who plays the accordian, some dude dressed like Darth Vader who plays the fiddle and a living statue named Plaster Man, to say nothing of the Korean guy who sings classic oldies with a very strong accent while accompanying himself on the guitar.

I particularily enjoy his rendition of 'Hey Jude,' given the improvised spoken-word chorus he tosses in the middle. "Hey Joooode! Where are you Joooode? I have been looking - I can not find you Joooode!." It is not to be missed.

However, I feel strongly that you, as tourists, are taking advantage of my good-nature and patience with regards to creating your photographic memories. You are not Annie Liebowitz. Your snapshot of your kid standing in front of a flower basket is not going on the cover of Vanity Fair, nor on the walls of a gallery.

I encourage you to wait until after your kid finishes picking his nose, but in the meantime, if there is a line-up of unfailingly polite Canadians waiting to cross the now bare patch of sidewalk between your camera and kid so that you can take your picture, then for the love of Chippendale dancers could you press the goddamned button?

In fairness, I'm not completly innocent. In exchange for some consideration on your part, I will also make an effort. Admittedly, I have not been as patient lately when waiting for you all to take photographs. In fact, many of you have likely been dismayed by a blurry shot of a very tall woman striding through your frame. I apologize for this, and while I can't promise it will never happen again, I can probably try a little harder.

I would also like to apologize for that one time I passed some gas while trying to get through a crowd of people from New Jersey. If you were the father who yelled at his son for having passed the gas -- I'm sorry. It was actually me, but in my defense I've been eating a lot more vegetables lately. Again, I can't promise it will never happen again but I can at least be less gleeful that somebody else took the blame.

Finally, and while this may seem like a contradiction, if you see me storming by don't hesitate to ask me for directions. I really do love having you all here, and I will stop to talk with you without leading you astray.

I will tell you the best places to eat, the best places to shop and if anybody ever asks, the best places to kiss in Victoria. It's looking doubtful I will ever kiss anybody again, but that's another story that neither of us have time for. Thank you for listening, and enjoy your holiday. And get out of my way!

Love ya,

Bambi

Aftermath.

This is what I wish I could say...really I do:

• My date with Tyler went fantastic. We laughed, talked, drank beer and goofed off for four hours with no awkward silences and it was all I could do to not crawl across the table and tear his clothes off.
• He kissed me goodnight and it was fantastic. I mean, of course he kissed me. That's what guys do when they're interested right?
• We agreed to see one another again, and we've been in steady contact since Friday night. Again -- that would be a given after averaging 20 hours a week online together for three weeks and me putting more effort into getting ready than I put into job interviews. Or my actual job.
• Tyler has never once ignored my MSN messages. Especially not suddenly and immediately following such a great time together.
• I've been in such a good mood for the rest of the weekend that I certainly did not spend my Canada Day evening weeping uncontrollably while watching Titanic on TV. Even during the commercials.
• At no time during the saga of Jack, Rose and a large floating ice cube did I wail the words, "I'm going to die alone." That would have been really pathetic.
• I definitely did not watch the fireworks from my living room window instead of walking five minutes to the harbour because I couldn't stand to be near 300,000 happy people yelling, "woo-hoo." The fact that 80% of those people would have appeared to be happily coupled wouldn't have bothered me either. Not at all.
• I never ate cheesecake, and have been sticking to my diet. Why wouldn't I? Everything is going so well.
• At no point today did I spend 20 minutes staring at a mirror, wondering what exactly I needed to fix first and calculating the interest on a bank loan for plastic surgery.

You know I wouldn't lie to you. The very first point is completely true. I don't think I've ever laughed so much on a date with anybody.

Every other statement should be viewed with some skepticism, but if you believe me you might want to start shopping for that cure for cellulite. It's out there, in a handy spray or moisturizing lotion. Probably right next to the deoderant that really doesn't leave marks and the maxipads that make you suddenly want to ride a white horse down a beach.

My apologies - Bambi is a little puffy and bitter today.