Babies are the new black.

People lacking the basic intelligence required to own a spatula are producing children at an alarming rate. I know this from Facebook, and it's scaring me on many levels.

Let's back up. So far the majority of my Facebook contacts are people I don't or won't ever speak to. They're people I went to high school or elementary school with, and despite not having had a close relationship when we actually saw each other every day, many of these people have tracked me down on Facebook.

I don't know why I add people like this to my Friends List, because I couldn't care any less about what they're doing. If you're reading this right now and you are one of my Facebook Friends, know that I'm not talking about you. Or at least it's unlikely.

Anyhoodle. Out of morbid curiosity, I'll scroll through the Friends section of my Facebook Friends (and yes, I'm aware of how stupid that sentence sounds) to see who else they know, and who they married should they fail to provide the requisite Facebook wedding album. (Speaking of which, there really needs to be a moratorium placed on wedding photos featuring the couple in black and white and a single red rose in colour. Seriously.)

Don't think this means I actually do care about these people. I'm nosy, and it's a way to unfairly compare myself to others in areas that are irrelevant and self-defeating, so obviously I'm all over it.

What I've discovered is awe-inspiring, and not in a good way. Sunsets are awe-inspiring in a good way. Projectile vomiting is awe-inspiring in a bad way. This situation is the latter.

Just today I learned that a kid who used to beat the living daylights out of his girlfriend in the parking lot of my high school while his buddies egged him on has a baby girl. The girl who once suggested my best bet would be to date guys who are kind, because they'd date me out of pity is raising a little boy.

A girl who used to randomly punch other girls in the face has a baby who looks like Uncle Fester. A guy who one said gay people should be gassed is teaching his kids how to shoot.

An ex-boyfriend who was more gay than straight is now married with a son. Another ex who broke up with me because he "chose Jehovah over sin" is now raising two kids. Let's not get into what these guys say about my taste in men, alright? It was a difficult year.

These stories make me queasy enough, but I'm also left with a weird sense of panic. Where was I when all this was going on?

What was I busy doing when all of these people met somebody, married, and started dropping crotch-fruit?

Even though I have no desire to reproduce, and this is good because obviously alumni of my high school have got the repletion of the planet thing covered, I am reaching an age where I want to have a wedding. I'm not totally sold on the husband part, but a party in my honour with an open bar is long-overdue.

I've taken the path less taken, without having meant to. I've never been able to read a map, and I don't mind being different from a bunch of assholes I've always been different from.

More and more however, photo albums are popping up on my Facebook Newsfeed from Friends I really do consider friends, and their lives are taking the marriage and babies path too.

Not that I'm facing a choice, but I think I'll keep kicking it on the path I'm on. There's way less traffic over here, and my Facebook profile stays diaper-smell free.

Didn't like the Sound of Music neither.

So I'm in a staff meeting. I'm perpetually in some kind of meeting and it's all I can do just to remember why I'm there.

It's beyond me to actually change or set the course of the meetings I attend so I settle for staying awake, nodding and smiling in the appropriate places and trying to not piss anybody off. Too badly.

This staff meeting was for my department only, and I like these people. We usually have cake during the meeting so I can't really complain. Often the conversation veers into territory never before seen on an agenda such as side-effect warnings for pharmaceuticals.

As a result, we all agreed that seeking help for an erection lasting more than four hours is probably good advice. Kind of a waste, but good advice.

Next came a discussion to decide what to do for our Christmas Workshop Day. Our Christmas Workshop Day is a day we spend out of the office, with an activity geared towards convincing the senior executive that we're learning something valuable and the rest of the day likely spent drinking.

This discussion brought back memories of last year's Workshop for the team. Apparently, part of their activities were spent watching a DVD meant to be life-affirming, produced and hosted by a National Geographic photographer.

The film depicted meaningful images from around the globe, spectacular shots of nature and a narrative attempting to depict and explain the human experience.

My team is a cynical group, so their human experience wasn't exactly elevated by the screening. This happened before I joined the department, so I couldn't comment. However, it seems I didn't even have to be there.

My boss started laughing at the memory, and laughed harder when she looked over at me. She asked the group, "Can you imagine if Bambi had of been there?" Then the entire group started laughing.

"Oh Jesus. Oh my God. Bambi...watching that! Her personality! Can you imagine?"

Apparently, my tolerance for "life-affirming" is low. It seems I don't come across as somebody who would appreciate the sight of a National Geographic photographer canoeing across a pristine lake, in search of his life's purpose.

This is true.

I'm much more likely to appreciate the sight of a waiter bringing me my cheesecake, or the sight of a National Geographic photographer being forced to work in a cubicle, so far away from his life's purpose that he wakes up everyday wondering if he's fallen into a rip in the space-time continuum. But I really thought those feelings were private.

I had no idea my boss and colleagues would find the idea of me watching and enjoying some uplifting piece of self-help fluff to be so sublimely hilarious. How do they know I wouldn't enjoy that crap? Why wouldn't I enjoy utter bullshit just as much as the next person? Especially when it involves a canoe?

Am I that obvious?

The Body is Not a Wonderland

I'm a TV junkie, so September is a very big time for me. My favourite shows return to make sure I have something giving my life meaning, and new shows debut ensuring I experience diversity.

House is a favourite returning show, only now for different reasons. I used to enjoy House because I aspired to one day be so good at my job, I too could get away with actually saying whatever came to mind regardless of how socially unacceptable, much like the title character.

Now I look forward to House because of my own medical mystery to solve, and my desperate wish that there could actually be a doctor out there who can look at me and provide a diagnosis based on my left nostril and the way I carry my purse. If House can do it, why not a doctor on the island?

I'm experiencing what can best be described as Female Troubles, which translates into either symptoms experienced only in my head or a mystery so great it ranks somewhere between the true meaning of Stone Henge and crop circles - at least according to local doctors.

I won't horrify you with the details, but the problem doesn't seem to be life-threatening. Instead, it strives for and achieves disruptive, distracting, depressing and very unpleasant. It's making me very, very bitchy (read: bitchier). Compounding the problem is the nature of...well...the problem.

Having Female Troubles is not like having a sore elbow. You can complain in public about a sore elbow. You can demonstrate a sore elbow. Everybody can relate to a sore elbow. You can point to exactly where your elbow is, without ever having to don a paper dinner napkin optimistically referred to as "a blanket."

You have no idea how badly I wish the problem was with my elbow, because my doctor is baffled. He really doesn't know what is going on, and that terrifies me. When all of this started I fully expected to be told what the problem was within seconds, prescribed something to fix the problem and continue not thinking about the areas embroiled in the problem...ever.

Instead, the problem continues and I'm now worried my doctor thinks I'm crazy. I'm worried he's going to tell me to stop calling him, because there's nothing that can be done because he thinks that there isn't anything wrong. I can't prove there's anything wrong, because all he has to go on is what I'm telling him.

And I'm telling him there's something very wrong.

My last visit he seized on the last option available in modern diagnostic technology -- the urine test. My pee should reveal all. If held in a certain light, it can even reveal the name of the man I'm going to marry although if this continues that prospect is looking ever more bleak.

Testing my pee is a long-shot, and I could tell that by the way my doctor gave an exaggerated shrug while filling out the lab forms. I'm literally praying that one of the tests he ordered comes back positive, which to anybody else would be bad news but at this point I just want to know what's wrong so I can fix it.

I'm also praying something comes back positive, because providing a urine sample when you are as nervous a pee-er as I am is torture. I better not have gone through all of that effort for nothing, and believe me -- it was effort.

I'm the type of pee-er who can not pee when I know somebody is listening. I can't keep peeing through loud noises, or sub-prime conditions such as a broken door lock or time constraints.

My bladder chokes under pressure so completely, it will actually leave a note, pack its clothes, take the children and flee to its mother's house at the first sign of trouble.

Being compelled to pee into a cup is pressure so intense, I lose all feeling in my legs. I simply can not do it. Solid gold doubloons are so much more likely to fall from my body into the plastic cup than one single drop of pee.

I actually had to leave the lab with my plastic cups in a Ziploc baggie and return the samples the next day, so impossible was the task. I drank water all day and waited nine hours (!) before making another attempt in the comfort of my own bathroom. That went much better. It had to, because the only other option left was a catheter.

And now I'm waiting but I think it's useless. I don't have whatever the pee tests are supposed to reveal, and I know this. However, I don't know what IS wrong, and neither does anybody else so I used my last resort -- WebMD. Otherwise known as the place where hypochondriacs go to die...or at least confirm what they think they're dying from.

WebMD was not a good idea, because now I'm more afraid. Listed symptoms are so vague and so all-encompassing that I have officially diagnosed myself with so many rare illnesses the federal government has declared me an endangered species, which is kind of a relief because hunting season has never been good for Bambi.

And neither has visits to the doctor, which is why I need House. Only Hugh Laurie can save me now. Just please don't make me pee again.

Oil and Water

My sister accused me of only liking men who don't like me, and disliking men who like me as if this were some kind of choice I wake up in the morning and make. It's pretty much as useful as getting all up in the ocean's face just for being wet. Some things just ARE.

I offered a reasonable defense by telling her the story of my last date, and by last I don't mean recent - I mean it's the last date I'm going on because I'm pretty much done. He did seem to like me quite a bit though, and naturally I was repelled by his presence and we did save an animal from a horrible fate but that's later in the story.

You see, he wore bells.

That sentence alone should be enough of an explanation as to why I won't be seeing him again. The man wore bells tied into his shoelaces. When he walked it sounded like Santa's elves had escaped the frigging workshop and were making a decent run for it, somewhere off in the distance. It was bizarre.

I asked him as politely as I could what was up with the bells, and the only explanation he offered was that he liked them. I like the sound of rain at night but you don't see me walking around with a showercap and a watering can strapped to my head. Most days.

The plan was to stop for a coffee and go for a walk along the breakwater. In case I needed any further signs that the man with the bells and I would not be jingling together, he managed to irritate the shit out of me just by ordering cornbread.

I like cornbread as much of the next person. That's not entirely true...the truth is I don't give a rat's ass about cornbread. Order it and eat it and let's get on with it. The line-up was out the door but this guy ordered his cornbread and called the server back to the counter THREE times to make inquiries.

Was the cornbread chewy or crumbly? Did the server know?
Was the cornbread sweet, or more savoury? Was it more of a dessert style cornbread?
Was the cornbread being warmed, or heated? Because he would prefer the cornbread to be warm, but not hot...

I have never wanted to punch another living being wearing bells as much as I did in those moments. Every time he called after the server, the poor guy would have to make his way through the crowded and busy area behind the cashier, the coffee and steamer machines and some dude who was mopping.

Finally, cornbread and coffees ordered, paid for and properly warmed we were on our walk. My companion fancied himself to be quite the outdoorsman, and was pointing out the proper scientific names of seaweed, and laughing at those idiots who didn't know the difference between species of seal. Idiots like me.

Our walk is nearing an end when I spot an elderly woman near the end of the breakwater, peering down at a strange looking bird on the beach. The bird was solid black. I don't mean it's feathers were black, but everything on the bird was black. It's looked like a bird-shaped cut-out in the scenery, that's how black it was.

The old woman turned to us and asked if we knew what kind of bird that could be. My jingle-belled companion began his eighth nature lecture in as many minutes. "Why that's a cormorant, indigenous to the northern area of blah to the blah..."

Meanwhile, I kept staring at the bird-shaped hole in the universe and it dawned on me what I was seeing. The bird was covered in oil. From head to talon, dripping with oil. And then I couldn't help myself anymore so I said this:

"That's an oil-covered bird. Indigenous to oil-spills everywhere."

That actually shut up my jingle-belled friend quite nicely, so I was able to set about making some phone calls. For your reference, should you ever come across an oil-covered bird on a weekend the only thing the authorities will tell you to do is to bring the bird to them.

This posed a dilemma. What in the hell to do with an oil-covered bird? We went back to the coffee shop and I swear the server was just so thrilled we weren't back with more cornbread questions so he gave us a box and a roll of paper towels.

There was never any question of not trying to save this bird. It was so sad, and so pathetic I would not have been able to leave it there and sleep ever again. It couldn't walk properly, let alone fly. It would hold it's wings out as far as the weight of the oil would allow, take a few steps and give up. It would try to clean itself, making me think it would keel over from poisoning before we even got down to the beach.

Then came another dilemma. The paper towels were useless and we needed something to wrap the bird in to keep it quiet and calm in the box. My companion declared there was no way he was taking off his shirt, which left me, the less obvious choice to go topless.

I was wearing a new sweater with a camisole underneath. Do I strip to my camisole in public? Do I ruin my new sweater? Getting sexy in public was less of a concern than my new sweater, even though I only paid $8 for it at Ricki's but still...it was a good sweater on me goddammit. But off it came.

The guy snuck up on the bird, which was a good indication of how sick the bird had to have been if a guy wearing bells on his shoes can walk up behind it and grab a hold. The bird went into my sweater, the sweater and bird combo went into the box and we were off to the emergency animal shelter.

I held the box on my lap and the bird in my hands the entire way, stupidly thinking I could comfort the bird. Maybe it worked, because when it started thrashing I'd squeeze a little bit and it would stop.

It squeaked the entire way, as if it were pleading for a second chance. If we would just let it go, it wouldn't tell anybody and it hadn't seen our faces so there's no way it could identify us so please can't we just let it go?

We rush the bird inside the animal hospital, where some very nice ladies in scrubs took the box and bird away and promised to return with my sweater. While we waited I was asked to fill out a form, giving the particulars of who I was and where I had found the critter in distress.

I began filling it out, which pissed off my date. He felt he should be the one who got to fill out the form stating he had rescued it, because he caught it and drove the car. Seriously. So I gave him the best argument I could. My sweater, my form. He did get to sign his name on the bottom so I'm not sure why the panties in a twist.

I even listed the scientific term for the bird. Under Type of Animal: Angry Cormorant.

I never got a chance to call the clinic back to inquire after the bird, but I'm confident he's doing much better. He was thrashing pretty hard in my sweater, and any critter who is that angry will pull through out of sheer spite.

Unless of course the anger involves dating. In which case it's probably best to just give up.

The Hot Shirtless Cowboy...

This is what everybody wants to know - what happened with the Hot Shirtless Cowboy? Did we meet? Was he hot? Was he as good-looking in person? Was he shirtless? The answer to the last question is a sad no. Sad because it would have been the only time to get to see him shirtless in person, but I'm getting to that.

We met at an eating and beer-swilling establishment that would likely have allowed patrons to eat while shirtless, given how lax the place seemed to be regarding many other rules of civilized society, including the guidelines surrounding mullets, fem-mullets, mullets on infants and inbreeding.

I arrived before he did, and when I walked in the entire place went silent. It was the weirdest damn thing. If there had been a pub-style restaurant featured in the movie Deliverance, this would be that restaurant. I was afraid.

The Hot Shirtless Cowboy chose the venue, because he could walk there. Despite owning a car, motorcycle, dirtbike and horse in Ontario he was banned from driving for a little while due to some sort of multiple incidents involving speeding, dangerous driving, blah blah. I wasn't really paying attention as I was staring too hard at his pectoral muscles trying to determine whether one or both nipples were pierced. I have no idea if the horse was even part of the story or if I just made that up.

The first few moments were awkward. He was even better looking in person than his picture, and I felt...a little inadequate. A TV commercial for him would read like an ad for a sports car; sleek, manly, hard-bodied and slightly dangerous. My TV commercial would sound more like an ad for toilet paper. Pillowy soft. More to the roll. Quilted.

We loosened up though, and laughed a lot. It was going so much better than I had expected, especially given he let slip that he was getting an average of 12 messages a day from random women on the dating site where we had met. In total, and to this day I have not yet received a total of 12 messages from eligible men. I'm just sayin'. That story really had no purpose, but I really had to say it. A dozen a day. Jesus.

Anyhoo. It's going really well. He's funny, I'm funny and we're joking like we go way back. We slowly start going through the motions of leaving. From the table, to the door, to walking me to my car he mentions how we should see each other again a total of eight times. Eight.

He wants to know my schedule for the week, what are my plans for the weekend and he gives me his whole schedule for the weekend and we should totally hang out this weekend and the only time I'm busy is this time so call me any time before or after that and we should totally see each other again. Only eight times over. Eight.

I was in a very good mood. I didn't get the kind of let's do this again that means nothing -- he actually wanted to see me again. The Hot Shirtless Cowboy and the Pillowy Soft Bambi. I was in there.

It turned out I had plans that weekend, and I was very busy and then I was very busy being hungover from being so busy and didn't call the Cowboy. I didn't feel any shame in this, because he had my number too. I did try to reach him over MSN and didn't get a response back which wasn't terribly odd so I didn't think much about it.

Almost a week to the day we met I do get in touch with him. It's over MSN, because I'm lousy on the phone and I was suddenly nervous. As casually as one can while typing, I suggest we see a movie that Thursday.

Well.

I can't repeat the entire "conversation," because I'm trying to block it from memory but he was rude. Movie on Thursday? Nope. Just nope. No explanation, so I feel like an ass. I take it you're busy? Yep. Busy every day. I'm guessing he felt a momentary surge of guilt because he said he was planning on being out of town on Thursday. At a lake. With no phone or computer.

He shouldn't have bothered with an explanation because I forgot to delete him as a contact before logging off and noticed that he was actively online all day and all night Thursday - definitely in town. Then I deleted him.

This one really puzzled me. We had a good time, and it was better than I had hoped and that was my only expectation. Why go through the effort of convincing me he really wanted to see me again? Was it just practice for when he has to convince some bureaucrat to give him his license back? He really doesn't have to bother. He just has to lift his shirt to his chin and most women will lose all reason -- why the theatrics?

I felt like an idiot, but at least I could still look at him if I wanted to. Before we actually met he had added me on Facebook. I had felt at the time that he was moving a little fast, but now at least it appeared to the outside world that I had at least one hot male 'friend'. Who wasn't gay. But that wouldn't last either.

At some point, I'm not sure when, the Cowboy revoked his Facebook friendship. He was gone from my list of Facebook Friends, and just like that I had achieved yet another unprecedented low in both online dating AND social networking. There were to be new lows to come, but this ended the saga of the Hot Shirtless Cowboy, who I have no doubt is still hot and shirtless at least part of the day.

And I'm still pillowy soft with more to the roll. And I'm glad.