Ah-men.

Every Christmas Eve I take a great risk to my personal safety and attend Catholic Midnight Mass with my Dad. The risk I'm taking is that one of these years I'm going to burst into flames upon walking through the front doors.

Saying I'm a lapsed Catholic isn't nearly adequate enough. This implies that me not being a good Catholic girl is somehow due to carelessness, as if I left my faith lying around the house somewhere and I can't quite remember where I put it.

One simply doesn't cease being Catholic - it's more of a long, slow recovery process. Recovered Catholics are lucky if all they escape with is a sense of paralyzing guilt and shame. The not so lucky get the guilt and shame and a purveying sense that God is still watching them personally, all of the time.

As God and I have been feuding since 1998, I know I'm being watched and messed with on a regular basis. Should it all turn out to be true and I find myself locked outside of the pearly gates (likely due to some sort of ridiculous turn of events involving a blind date, a tainted cheeseball and a flame-thrower), then God is going to have to step outside so that we can have a very serious conversation -- topics will include why good people die, my lack of metabolism and love life, and if Jesus and Mary are so fantastic then why do they only appear on toast or mildewed ceilings belonging to people in the southern U.S. states.

Every day I add new topics for discussion, but for another year I just wanted to not draw attention to myself by either spontaneously combusting upon entry or having my head spin around while the choir warbled through Angels We Have Heard On High.

Ironically, the choir is always terrible enough to make me take the lord's name in vain at least 72 times before the mass even starts, thereby undoing all the goodwill I hope to buy myself just by showing up.

I try to affect a look of piety, or at the very least, wakefulness. During every Mass the priest asks the congregation to reflect on and ask forgiveness for our sins which always makes me uncomfortable. Having broken at least four commandments on the drive over to the church, I get panicky when I run out out of time to properly reflect let alone beg.

To make things worse, I sin throughout Midnight Mass. Without anything better to do, my mind wanders and somehow it never wanders into thoughts of how I can better help the homeless or if only there was a way I could live with lepers in India. Jesus no.

Having achieved a look I hope will pass as pious I started to think about when the next time I'll see the firefighter might be, and how much fun we can...and Oh. My. God. I'm in church! How sick and twisted can I be?

I try to straighten myself out and pay attention again but then the choir starts warbling which makes me think about suffering which makes me wonder if things will work themselves out with Alex and that's when I know I should just give up and accept the fact that if I was born centuries earlier I would have surely been burned as a witch. And so I feel guilty, and therefore a little less lapsed.

When I was little I took going to church very seriously. I made it as far as taking my first communion, and let me tell you, had I known that was likely going to be the last time in this life I'd be photographed in a white dress and veil I probably would have milked that moment for all it was worth.

I'm not sure when it all changed. I know my most basic personal beliefs are at odds with the doctrine of the Catholic church. I'm pro-choice, pro-gay marriage, pro-me, pro-birth-control, pro-women, pro-married-fire-fighters-and-their-adventurous-wives. By rights, I should have been ex-communicated a long time ago.

Instead, I go to church once a year and it makes my Dad happy. I even take communion while I'm there. (The least the Church can do is provide a snack). Besides, there's nothing wrong with being in a state of holy grace for a few hours a year - God knows I wear it off fast.

An Open Holiday Letter

To Whom It May Concern,

If you're reading this letter, some sort of unspeakable tragedy must have occurred. Please know that while I may be entirely responsible for whatever terrible events have led to this moment...none of it is my fault.

First off, I can't control the weather. If you've discovered this letter somewhere on my frozen corpse, just how in the hell was I supposed to know that God would be dumping several feet of snow on Vancouver Island? I'm sure it surprised everybody, not least of all me, who was probably just trying to get to the mall in some poorly considered shoes.

If you've just pulled me out of a snowbank, then I thank you for finding me and telling my story. I also thank you for not announcing to the world that I was found frozen with a hole in my underpants. My mother warned me to always make sure my underwear was without holes in case of an accident. I suppose if you found me in a snowbank, an accident occurred.

In my defense, I was very busy in the weeks leading up to the holidays and I never got around to doing laundry. Besides, if you're pulling me out of a snowbank and my underwear is showing then my pants were also poorly considered and you really ought to be just overwhelmed with sorrow at my predicament instead of being all judgy about who's wearing what. Asshole.

It's quite possible I survived the elements, and you've discovered this letter somewhere at the scene of a terrible crime, the details of which are still sketchy. All that may be known at the time this letter is discovered is that so far I had spent four days snowbound in a small house with my parents and somewhat deaf 82 year-old Scottish grandmother. My very flatulent grandmother.

Terrible things go through one's mind after four days of conversations between one's Mother and Grandmother that sound like this:

Mother: What did you say Mom?
Grandmother: What?
Mother: What?
Grandmother: Aye?
Mother: Yes?
Grandmother: What?
Mother: What?
Grandmother:

To be honest, I was in a bad mood when I arrived. For days - weeks actually - I'd been feeling angsty. That's right - angsty. I'm sure it's a word. If it isn't, do you really want to argue with me at this point? Yeah. That's what I thought.

I'd feel hungry, go to the kitchen and not feel like eating. I'd feel lonely, call somebody and not want to talk. I'd feel bored and not want to move. Worse, I'd cry at stupid things. E-Harmony commercials, the candy aisle at the grocery store, my laundry hamper...all brought me to tears for some reason or another. Angsty.

Alex made me angsty. Still in love with this guy and feeling helpless because it's just not working. My diet plan was working better, which should really tell you something. I didn't know why, and I didn't know what to do about it. I was looking forward to a break, when I didn't have to wonder where he was or why I wasn't hearing from him - something that had become a bit of a hobby.

I suppose if you're reading this letter you may be wondering just who in the hell Alex is and why this guy would be so important. I wish I could tell you right now, but I'm probably seated in the backseat of a squad car and being advised by my lawyer not to say a word. I'll have to explain later - when I'm not so angsty. Or falsely accused.

Anyhoo. The holiday was to be a nice break, but apparently I don't stop being angsty just because I get on a bus for three hours through the snow, with no heat, seated next to some chick who spent the first hour and a half baby talking with her boyfriend on her cell phone, and the next hour and a half sleeping on my shoulder. The second hour and a half was actually preferable. Besides, it's not like I could get upset. I'd been told I'm very physically comfortable with pillow-like qualities.

Perhaps I wouldn't have noticed the changes to my parents living room decor if I wasn't feeling so delicate. Spaces normally filled with framed photos of my sister and I had been replaced by framed photos of babies. Somebody elses babies. Babies of family friends who are my age, who got married, and are now spawning. Duly noted.

Perhaps one of the lowest moments came when I discovered my Dad discovered how to search online using previous sites visited. There was a rather awkward silence as my Dad scrolled looking for something and came upon E-Harmony.

E-Harmony...? What in the...?? Oh...

Nothing says Happy Holidays like Dad discovering his daughter has an E-Harmony profile while a Scottish grandmother belches upstairs. I suppose it could have been worse, and I could have been surfing porn.

If you're reading this letter, I'm sorry for whatever terrible scene you must have come across to find it. It may have began with a certain family member insisting that we watch a Christmas movie starring Shannon Doherty, but I can't be certain anymore.

Regardless of what happened, I love my family though and I'm happy to be snowed in here of all places, angsty or not. But let's put our bets on angsty.

Merry Christmas everybody! And please call my lawyer.

Bambi

S.O.S.

Victoria got almost six inches of snow over the weekend, and the temperature is hovering around -2. In other words, we've been dealing with the apocalypse. The looting and arson seems to have subsided, but the curfew will be in place for another few days at least.

People in this city seriously lose their minds when white stuff falls from the sky. I left my staff Christmas party early when I saw the snow piling up outside the windows. I knew it was only a matter of time before the crowd panicked and began drawing names for the first people to be cannibalized in the name of the greater good.

My progress home was seriously impeded by two city buses sprawled across the main street into town, resting comfortably against several parked cars. It took some maneuvering for me to steer up the slight incline, into the oncoming lane and around the buses to keep on my way. Luckily I had a small peanut gallery of drunken men standing on the sidewalk, taking bets as to whether I would make it.

Odds were against me apparently, but they didn't know I drove a white '93 Corsica named Lucille for five years in Calgary without snow tires and without an accident.

Had this been Calgary, I would have had some redneck in a Hummer behind me honking his horn and bursting blood vessels in his brain while I wasted his precious time waiting until there were no cars in the oncoming lane. A drunken peanut gallery shouting discouragement was really rather a nice change.

As I slowly drove to safety, I could hear the peanut gallery in collective appreciation. "Holy shit! She made it!" By this time, there was four inches of snow on the ground.

The second day into the apocalypse, I met some friends for brunch after an hour and a half of phone calls trying to determine whether it was safe to be outside, as there was a windchill factor.

Nobody was sure what the windchill factor was exactly, but several people were convinced that whatever it was, it wasn't safe. We made it to brunch alive, and congratulating ourselves on being hardy enough to walk through snow.

We spent the rest of the day at a friends place watching zombie movies and drinking hot chocolate and wine. Nothing says the holidays like zombie movies. Late into the night we wanted to order pizza, and this is where the problems began. There was no pizza available for delivery in Victoria.

Some pizza places didn't answer the phone. Others answered but said they weren't delivering at all, and some hung up when we asked. Our favourite pizza place said the wait for a delivered pizza was three hours, because they only had two drivers and one was missing. The pizza place was hopeful the missing driver would show up some time, perhaps during the thaw.

Without pizza until spring and or when the deep freeze lifted, I figured I better leave quickly once again. I was watching zombie movies with three skinny gay boys, and if anybody was going to be sacrificed for food it would definitely be me.

In fact, one of my friends had been hugging me all day saying how huggable my curves made me - that I felt like a really great body pillow. This did not bode well for my chances, but it was actually kind of flattering. At least the extra fluff feels nice for others.

It was deemed unsafe for me to walk, and unsafe for anybody to drive me because we were all drunk and somewhat afraid of the undead. I tried to call a cab. I called five different cab companies, and not one answered the phone. Holiday zombies or not, I was walking home.

I was made to promise to call as soon as I walked in the door, and I'm not sure whether the concern was me falling into a snowbank and not being rescued or me freezing to death despite the evidence that I had enough body fat to make me very huggable and therefore more resistant to cold.

The -2 degree deep freeze continues, and I'm not sure how much longer my city can survive. If you get this message, please send snow plows, because we have none. Send food too, because I'm hungry. And also, send men. They won't help with the crisis, but we just don't have enough to go around.

The Real Decision, 2008

I had some thinking to do. What to do with the firefighter and his wife? They were still being very lovely and had emailed me to let me know "they" would love to see me again -- no pressure.

(I would also like to point out that it's been a pathetic amount of time since a date went so well there was so much interest in a second round. Seriously. Even the guy who rode a unicycle and spoke with a lisp wasn't crazy about seeing me again, so you kind of have to wonder. The fact that a man and woman could both agree on me felt a little like redemption.)

There was indeed pressure though, because every time I heard a firetruck on it's way to an emergency I got a little frisky imagining my particular firefighter in action. I have enough hang-ups without adding a Pavlovian reaction to sirens, so I had to act.

When contemplating potentially terrible behaviour I've found it helps to get a broad cross-section of opinion. I formed a panel of people I felt could advise me on whether I was on a slippery slope to eternal damnation and or a guest spot on Jerry Springer, or whether entering into this kind of relationship is a perfectly acceptable way to kill time between now and whenever my next attempt at a conventional relationship turns into a gong-show.

(I'm nothing if not realistic. Predictable, and realistic.)

Should my behaviour lead to eternal damnation it's important to know this now, so that any one of my friends who gets there before me can save me a seat near the dance floor. If I'm going to be on Springer, I want to lose a couple of pounds first so time really was of the essence.

The last girl they had this arrangement with stayed "with" them for two years. They all became very close, and considered her a very close friend. She even went camping with them in the summers, and strangely enough my only negative reaction to this news involved the thought of camping.

She left the arrangement when she became involved in a serious relationship and moved away to be with the new guy. This couple doesn't know it, but if I agree to try them out I might be with them a lot longer than they bargained for given my other romantic prospects, or complete lack thereof.

My panel of experts were forthright. The gay guy was disappointed there would only be two other people involved because he was hoping I had been contemplating something "genuinely" kinky, and three in a bed apparently no longer qualifies.

The friend who appears extremely conservative at first glance was very excited for me because every threesome she's ever had has been awesome, leaving to me to question...who are these people??

My flamboyantly kinky friend suggested I give her their number should I lose my nerve and my devoutly religious friend is probably still praying for me as I write this.

This was as helpful as you can imagine, which is to say, not helpful at all. I went back to the firefighter with a few obstacles I figured would render making any decision irrelevant.

I reiterated I would not touch her, and I told him if I was even to think about going any further they would both have to be tested for STDs, expecting that this would be too much hassle and I would have an out.

And dammit if they weren't absolutely wonderful and accommodating. My safety, comfort and well-being is a huge priority, and they would make an appointment at the clinic right away. And they get it...I'm not into girls. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

So...well...what the hell. There has to be some fringe benefits to being single and the last of my friends to find true love, or even a reasonable facsimile. I've never done anything crazy in my life and my comfort zone normally expands only to the end of my nose and back so why not step outside the zone?

And so I did. I told them yes. And I'm so glad. Glad like I have never been glad before. Glad in multiples. Yes, that kind of glad.

These wonderfully depraved people are on to something.

Bambi Meets the Wife

So where was I...? Oh yes. My first ever first date with a man and his wife. A firefighter and his wife. You know - nothing unusual at all. Totally normal...if we happened to be polygamist Mormons.

However, we weren't polygamist Mormons as far as I knew so I was very, very nervous. Who should I be trying to impress? If I wore something revealing would she think I was trying to seduce her husband? Was I not trying to seduce her husband? Do I pay more attention to her or him? And were these people mentally ill?

Overall, I don't think I've ever been as nervous before any date as I was walking into that pub and looking for a man and woman both wearing something red. As it turns out, I don't think I've ever been as shocked as to what happened next.

They were wonderful.

It was probably the best first date I'd had in a long time. The FF was even better looking than his pictures. She was lovely. They were friendly, and funny and we all got along like old friends. Holy crap.

I had walked in expecting both of them to be perverts, liars or psychopaths or some combination of the three, and I prepared accordingly. I'm not entirely sure what I was planning on doing with the pepper spray in my bag or even which way I was supposed to aim the nozzle, but dammit...I was ready. I had also expected him to be taller...but that was asking a little much I suppose.

Once we finished off a plate of nachos we got down to business. Why in the hell was I there? What were they after? As everybody at the surrounding tables can attest, this couple was very open and to the point. I know everybody in the immediate area can tell you all about the conversation, because every single person went completely silent to eavesdrop.

I can't really blame them, because if I heard one woman asking another woman, "Are you really OK with me sleeping with your husband?" I suppose I'd shut-up and listen too. As everybody in the upstairs section heard, this couple was looking for a third person to hang out with, spend time with and take home to bed on a regular basis.

If at all possible, the surrounding silence became more deafening when I explained that although she was absolutely lovely, I would not be having sex with the wife. If I swung that way, she would totally be my type but really I was just interested in her husband.

The peanut gallery gasped in surprise when both the firefighter and his lovely wife said that would be perfectly alright. In fact, the last girl they had this arrangement with felt the same way and she was "with" them for two years.

Two dirty old men at the next table over actually moved their chairs closer when they described that sometimes the wife would be there, in the room, if and when I was with him. Sometimes she wouldn't be but most of the time she'd be there.

Doing what exactly? I believe at this point the band actually stopped playing and the table of four behind us who had been ready to leave decided to stay and order another round. As I might have suspected, the wife would not be in the room quietly reading a magazine in the corner with her back to the bed. Oh no. And because this couple was extremely forthright, an entire section of one local drinking establishment is now so much clearer on what three naked people could potentially do to each other at the same time.

I wasn't bothered by this for any moral reasons, but what immediately concerned me was how self-conscious that scenario could make me. I can barely type with somebody looking over my shoulder - I couldn't imagine what could go wrong if I was doing something more...involved.

Would I actually consider this? The entire time I could only sneak glances at him. I spoke mainly to her, partly because it seemed the polite thing to be doing rather than draping myself over her husband and partly because...well...he was so damned attractive.

For years friends have said that I fall for the "bad boys," and while this isn't entirely untrue it's never been quite right. I've figured out what the problem is with the men I'm attracted to, and my friends have it wrong. I don't see a guy kicking a puppy and decide that he's the one for me. I don't write to men in prison or long for a man who can't legally enter the US.

I want a man who's good to me, who loves his mother and has never been tasered, unless of course it was part of his military or police academy training. However, I have noticed that men with an overabundance of testosterone are like catnip.

Perhaps I'm deficient in this area, and I seek out the hormone my body needs. Much like feeling tired due to a lack of vitamin D in the winter, or craving whatever vitamin is contained in those two-bite brownies, I fall for men whose testosterone levels cancel out a good part of whatever hormone it is that's responsible for common sense.

Naturally, a guy who makes his living driving through red lights and running into buildings that are on fire would qualify as being particularly gifted in testosterone. And naturally, I wanted to hump his leg. It's hard to look somebody in the eyes when all you can notice is the outline of his muscles under his t-shirt and his wife is sitting right across from him talking about what kinds of things they like to do in bed. Good Lord.

None of this seemed even remotely strange. Frankly I was more shocked by the realization that both of them were doing their very best to impress me. I had been so nervous about what to say or do, and as it turns out all I had to do was show up. There was no need for me to seduce or impress anybody, they were knocking themselves out to prove to me that they were worthy.

The evening ended with me walking them to their truck so I could meet their dog. (Don't worry - it was just to meet and pet the dog, because I love dogs. The dog would not be involved in any potential activities between the three of us - this was not why I met their dog.) We hugged good-bye, they asked me what I thought about what they were wanting, and I walked myself home. I had a decision to make.

Holy crap! It's an update! Now with 100% more firefighter!

Let's recap the last few months to bring everybody up to speed...

I continue my medical odyssey in which various doctors tell me there's a serious problem, there's no problem, there's a problem and it's in my head, and I won't be able to see a specialist until 2009 which is a huge problem. I fall madly in love. I begin an online graduate program as some kind of personal rebellion against spare time. My Mom is diagnosed with a rare form of cancer in her eye and the earth stops moving. My Mom has surgery, her eye is removed and she dresses as a pirate for Halloween. No really, she does. My Dad develops kidney stones as a result of the stress and ends up in the hospital at the same time my Mom was readmitted for complications. My Mom and Dad are both released from the hospital under the provision they go nowhere without an ambulance following behind, especially if my Mom is driving. I perform the Thriller dance in front of a large audience for Halloween. Medical scans come back clear for my Mom. And that nearly brings us to today.

I know what both of you are thinking - the title of this post said something about a firefighter, and dammit that's why you're still reading. (Never say I don't know my audience.) I'm not in love with the FF, but falling in love with somebody else led me to a date with the FF that was so bizarre, I managed to outdo myself.

(Let's keep in mind I've been on dates with men who have at one point picked up the waitress, rode unicycles, worn bells on their shoes, stripped naked during the first kiss, stolen my vibrator and helped me rescue a bird -- which would have been awesome had this all been the same guy, or the same date. And still, I've outdone myself.)

I was upset over Alex.* Alex is the guy I'm in love with and being upset over Alex is an almost weekly occurrence, directly proportionate to the times I'm deliriously happy over Alex and therefore so annoying to my friends that I'm not allowed to talk about him for more than five minutes a time. Seriously.

(Bambi in love is like a melodramatic 12 year-old girl with a split-personality and Tourrette's Syndrome. I'm either crying or laughing, and I can't stop interrupting conversations to talk about Alex. I even annoy myself. God.)

So a few weeks ago I was nearly devastated over Alex. He hadn't called me, we hadn't spoken in weeks, which was the longest we had gone without speaking like, ever, and I really wanted to call him but I was afraid to because the whole world could end if I called and left a message and he didn't call me back and then I'd have to stop telling myself he's just busy or suffering from amnesia brought on by saving orphans and puppies and I just really wanted to talk to him because I love the sound of his voice and what if he didn't like me anymore and for the love of God is every song that comes on the radio so f*cking sad I could cry? See. I told you. Annoying!

I had to do something to pull myself out of the spiral before I became pathetic (read: more pathetic.) My sister has lovingly recommended, or loaned several self-help books that are supposed to help me not be such a loser. Books with titles like, "It's Called a Break-up Because It's Broken," or "He's Just Not That Into You," or "Put Down That Chocolate Bar You Pathetic Loser," which I just made up.

These books are not actually useful in the heat of wretchedness, or any other time for that matter. Although - the hard-cover edition of "He's Just Not That Into You," does a fantastic job of killing spiders. I did actually read the first chapter of "It's Called a Break-up," when my ex broke things off but stopped when I realized I was more relieved than sad and could be using that time to drink out of the carton or leave the house without having to tell anybody where I was going at long last. Jesus - was that ever a digression.

Back to the FF. Self-help books weren't going to help. Chocolate wasn't going to help. Checking to make sure the phone had a dial tone was definitely not going to help, and neither was lying on the floor imagining how Alex would feel when he was finally freed from his captors, able to reach a phone, only to call and find out I'd joined a nunnery.

I needed a distraction, and so I did something I've never done in my life. I answered an ad on Craigslist. The man seeking woman ad was witty, intriguing, smart and with a hint of dirty. There was no picture, but all I wanted was a little tiny bit of excitement, so it didn't matter. Just a distraction - nothing more.

He answered my answer. We talked online for the next four hours, and when he sent me a picture of himself in his firefighters uniform, leaning against the fire-truck I seriously thought that God himself had taken pity on me and perhaps this was a holy peace offering given that God and I have been feuding since 1996.

I love a man in uniform - you have no idea. There are reasons for this, not least is having watched the movie Top Gun at a pivotal stage of puberty. Cops, firefighters, military - loin-tingling. I draw the line at bell-hops and mall security guards - I'm fixated, but not delusional.

The FF was indeed witty, smart and really very dirty. And from his photos he looked like sex on shoes so things were going a little too well. Three hours into our conversation the following night I told him I was surprised he was single, and that's when he told me he wasn't single at all. He was married - but his wife was totally OK with this, and in fact, she wanted to meet me too.

I'll give you a moment to let that sink in. I needed a moment too.

Are we good? Alright then...

Her name was Jen, and Jen was really excited that her husband had found somebody he found so intriguing. He and Jen had a great relationship - so great, a third person could make it even better. He...they....were not looking for a one time threesome partner - he wanted somebody to go to drinks with, movies, dinner...and then do other things with. And she was fine with all this, and would I at least meet them both for a drink?

Readers, and by readers I mean both of you, and by both of you I may actually not mean anybody at all because I haven't posted in so long but at any rate...what choice did I have? If I write a book, this chapter would have to be included. I had to go, if not for the curiosity that was about to strike me dead, then for the purposes of literary research.

We made a date. If you think your average first date/meeting is nerve-wracking, try figuring out who it is you're supposed to be dressing to impress. And so I went...and what happened next is an entirely new post.

Ha! You'll both have to stay tuned till tomorrow.

Preoccupation.

For someone who spends as much time as I currently do preoccupied with my nether regions, you'd think I'd be having a much better time in life. I'm not though, and neither are any of the doctors who can't diagnose me, won't diagnose me or believe that the symptoms I'm describing are all in my head.

I know the difference though. My fantasy relationship with gold-medal winner Michael Phelps is indeed, all in my head. The near constant pain in the crotchal region is not. And yes, crotchal is now officially a word.

For almost a year now I've been experiencing daily pain in places too impolite to mention in public. On a good day the pain consists of a dull ache, like I was kicked in the crotch by a donkey. On a bad day it feels like I'm wearing barbed-wire underpants two sizes too tight. Nobody can tell me why, or what I can do to make it go away.

It's starting to take a toll. For one, I have no outlet to complain. While I've done some research online and found that there is a condition in existence that translates into constant pain, and doctors have no idea what to do about it or how to help the women experiencing it, this is not a problem that lends itself to charity walks or ribbon pins.

Tell somebody you have breast cancer or MS or tennis elbow and you get some sympathy. Tell somebody your vagina feels like it's on fire and you get...well...I'm not even sure because I have yet to just tell the truth when somebody at work asks me how I'm doing.

I'm not counting on pledge forms for an annual, "Charity Walk for People With Inexplicably Painful Vaginas," so I'm having to look for help on my own. (Although if this walk were to happen - what colour would the T-shirts be?)

There are several theories as to why I'm experiencing these difficulties, but each theory ends with the doctor shrugging his or her shoulders as if to say, "I'm as stumped as you are. Glad it's you and not me honey."

The most popular theory involves my pubic symphysis bone having separated, causing nerve damage and injury to the surrounding soft tissue. This is a great theory, but nobody can tell me what to do about it. Now that my bone has separated...should it try counselling? How will my pubic bone divide the assets? Who gets the house? And for the love of God - what now??

I spent more than $200 on a chiropractor hoping that if my back was in place my pelvis would smarten up and get back together. I spent an additional $35 on a torturous belt I was to wear every hour of every day.

The belt was to be cinched tight around my lower hips, with rubber pieces on either side ensuring I didn't move. The chiropractor assured me the belt could not be seen underneath my clothes, as she had to wear one after the birth of her ninth child or whatever. She may have less than nine children but I had stopped paying attention when I realized I couldn't sit down properly in the belt.

My chiropractor is a size zero, despite having 17 children or whatever. I'm sure the belt did not show under her clothes because she has no actual flesh. I, on the other hand, am slightly more well-endowed in the pudge department. Having this damnable belt cinched around my hips didn't just give me muffin top, it gave me Big Mac top. The cinching gave me a whole extra bun in the middle.

I threw the belt on my floor after one day of squeezing myself like a sausage link and I haven't put it back on since.

My pubic symphysis bone separating is just one theory, but no doctor is willing to refer me to an orthopedic surgeon, neurologist, gynecologist or any other kind of 'ologist' who might be able to help. At this point if a zoologist stepped forward with a theory I'd gladly sit down and listen.

The constant pain has made me tired, and very, very irritable. And I mean more irritable than usual. The uncertainty surrounding what the problem is has made me fearful and anxious and the frustration after having confounded so many supposedly medical professionals has made me bitter...but as always, there's a silver lining.

I've been told I need to avoid sex. Sex makes the pain worse, and so certain positions should be avoided if I'm to try it at all. This isn't the silver lining. This is not turning out to be difficult, but it's not the bright spot in an otherwise dark little trip.

The bright spot came when the last doctor I saw suggested that from now on if I want to be with a guy he just has to be good at oral sex. In case I was unaware, she went on to explain that a lot of women prefer it anyway, so for me it's my best option.

This is still not the silver lining. Oral sex has never been what gets me out of bed in the morning, but if I have to look on the bright side it's what I'm going to get to inscribe on a MedicAlert bracelet should this continue.

Never mind penicillin allergy or diabetes - if I'm to be revived off the floor then the instructions as to what to do with me are going to be much more explicit.

That time of year again...

It's tourist season in Victoria. This means that on any given day I'm less than three tire rotations away from getting out of my vehicle and beating a Clydesdale horse to death with my bare hands, while a carriage full of horrified Japanese people snap pictures with their camera phones.

Getting stuck behind the slow-moving horses and carriages while on my way home and needing to pee is one thing, but it's the tourists themselves that can really push me over the edge. Particularly the tourists who arrive by cruise ship.

Perhaps it's dropping anchor alongside an island that gives these visitors a feeling of needing to conquer the local primitives. They haven't arrived in a city - they're at a destination, and they will photograph the sights regardless of whether you might be trying to walk, run, drive or just make it past the crowd taking pictures of the shrubs outside of your apartment door.

Cruise ship tourists are a different breed altogether.

I was feeling slightly bad for my fits of rage over these cruisers invading my neighborhood so I stopped and offered to take a picture for a very attractive guy and his grandmother with the ocean in the background. He was very tall, and his grandmother was very short so they were laughing and having difficulties taking a self-portrait.

After noticing the situation my good nature, and libido, led me to offer my services. They were very happy I could take a picture of them both and within seconds I had done my good deed and handed back the camera.

I was just about to strike up a conversation when the young guy dipped the little old lady backward and they began making-out. If I had ever doubted that the cruise ships drop off some bizarre fanny-packed disasters straight into my neighborhood, I never will again.

They annoy me, they overcrowd me and they need to stop taking pictures of random flowers. But I have to say...there is one little old lady in a pink polyester pantsuit who's surely back aboard some floating monstrosity right now, who is my new personal hero. She's welcome back to my city any time - just as long as she tells me how she does it..

The Neighbor

I have some bathroom related issues that I'm fairly well-known for. I don't like others hearing me pee, so in the early stages of any relationship I come close to kidney failure because I will hold it rather than let a guy hear me pee, regardless of how intimate we might have been together just minutes earlier. And it goes without saying that I would sooner actually explode than face the prospect of...well...I can't even say it. If number one is an issue than number two is off the agenda entirely.

Surprisingly, I'm fine with actually sitting in a public bathroom stall unlike some people I know. I won't hover or waste valuable time draping the toilet with a protective tissue barrier. If I can't visibly see it, then I don't want to worry about it. Also, I just don't have the strength in my quads to hover over a toilet and clutch my purse in my lap at the same time, but brava to those who do.

The other bathroom related issues I have are currently being tested on a weekly basis. Unlike the bathrooms in the last office I worked in, our washrooms are not unpleasant. There are six bathroom stalls with automatic flushers and all is usually right with the world. I will always choose a stall at one far end or another -- it's just what I do.

And at least once a week, some other woman will enter the washroom and take the stall right next to mine. She has four eligible toilets to choose from that do not put her in close enough proximity to tap my toe with hers, and yet if I'm in there, she wants to be near me. This bothers me.

Even though I can't actually see her feet, I know it's the same person, every time. I know this because of the humming, and the speed in which she does her business. She's got to wear pants with velcro because she starts peeing no sooner than the stall door is closed and locked. It's as if she had no clothes on to bother with at all, but that just can't be right.

She pees like she's part of a relay race. It happens fast. The only way I think she can pee any faster is if it were in capsule form. It's brief, but powerful and throughout the entire disintegration of her bladder she hums. Just one note. This disturbs me.

And then she's gone. As the toilets are autoflush she storms out of the stall as quickly as she arrives and just leaves, not even bothering to make sure it flushes. And she never washes her hands.

There I am, minding my own business as quietly as I possibly can when suddenly I'm hijacked by some kind of humming/peeing/personal space invading/personal hygiene avoiding bandit.

She's never there longer than I am so I can't wait around to see who she is. I can never see her shoes and I can't recognize her voice in her oddly meditative humming.

We're never finished at the same time because I pee at a normal rate of speed and usually have some sort of fastening devices to contend with at the end.

Every time it happens I'm slightly shaken. Which probably makes me as weird as she is.

E-Harmony Sucks

The commercials finally got to me, and I had to admit that sleeping with the guy who stole my vibrator has been an ill-advised decision. Regardless of why, I signed up for E-Harmony. And it sucks.

For all those who wonder what magic E-Harmony weaves to match people based on a billion points of compatibility, I can now tell you. The survey you have to fill out takes just enough time to make you wonder when you'll regret losing those precious minutes you'll never get back.

The questions are probing, and by probing I literally mean you'll feel like your underpants have crawled way up your ass. For example:

The people I enjoy spending time with most are:

• Friends and family
• The corpses I've most recently buried in my yard
• Anybody who will talk to me
• Whoever it is who slides my food through the slot in the door

So it's really not difficult to ace the survey is what I'm saying. Assuming everybody else can out-think the survey, it's not difficult to get matches regardless of who you are.

Once a 'match' has been made, you get an email telling you that a computer program feels you would be highly compatible with a 41 year old, 5'6, retail sales clerk in Brampton, Ontario who has two beautiful children.

Let's assume you're a 32 year old, 5'11, professional in Victoria BC who would want children only to harvest their organs. However, you do both enjoy spending time with friends and family so who knows? Maybe you two crazy kids might just make it!

Occasionally you'll get an email congratulating you that a match has requested communication. E-Harmony is stricter than the Amish when it comes to allowing open communication between the sexes. You simply can not begin emailing back and forth.

If you want to communicate with one of your matches you have to send them five even more probing questions that they answer and send back. I'm not sure what happens after that because I haven't been able to figure that out.

I have figured out that there is a particular type of man who finds me most alluring. He is bald. He is much older. He is short. He has at least 2.5 children and I make more money than he does. Based on the E-Harmony matches who want to probe me further - this is my kind of man.

I hate you E-Harmony.

And then things got weird. No really.

I'm at such a loss to even explain this latest situation that I've included a Q&A section at the end of my post. I've been asked the same questions over and over again, and I struggle with how to answer every time so perhaps this will finally lead to clarification.

It began well enough, but then the bar wasn't set very high. My last date had fled through a back exit immediately after looking at me, so the fact PB* and I had made it to sitting on a patio together drinking sangria was a victory.

PB was cute. Better than cute actually. I had to listen to more stories about his lacrosse team and the finer points of riding motocross than were really necessary, but all the same I found myself feeling very...warm.

Hard body, slow smile...this was a manly man. This was a guy who could throttle an attacking grizzly bear with one hand while pleasuring a woman with the other and dammit...I wanted to be that woman. Less than an hour later -- I was, romance and or exchanging of last names be damned. Let's not judge.

I maintained some small amount of decorum and refused to have sex with him outright. While this doesn't necessarily qualify me for an award, it probably should given what he looked like with his shirt off. Being the enterprising and enthusiastic date he'd already proven himself to be, he asked me if I had any toys.

(And if you don't know what kind of toys I'm talking about you should probably stop reading right now and just wait until I post again.)

Being a single girl, of course I did. It stood to reason that my manly man would enjoy power tools and we both enjoyed very much. Some time later, it was time for PB to go.

He was so sweet. It was late and he insisted he didn't need the light on because it might hurt my eyes, and I should just stay in bed. He tucked me in and kissed me once more before letting himself out.

I allowed myself a few moments of laying there in happy bliss before getting up to officially get ready for bed, and put away my clothes and everything else that had been left on the floor.

This included my vibrator, which was now gone.

PB (as in Perverted Bastard) had stolen my vibrator.

At first I refused to believe it. I crawled all around the floor. I checked under every nook and cranny, all the while knowing that the missing item was not exactly the proverbial needle in a haystack. It's not something that can just blend in with the surroundings, and I knew it wasn't blending. It was gone.

When your date steals your vibrator, it's a natural time to reevaluate your choices and your chosen path in life. After confirming that my wallet and the panties I had so hastily removed just a few hours earlier were all present and accounted for, there was nothing left to do but to sit down and write the most bizarre message over MSN I've ever had to compose. After all, it's not like I could file a police report.

Knowing the message would be waiting on PB's computer when he got home, this is what I wrote:

"PB - I can't believe I'm even having to write this message, but did you seriously steal from me? You sick fuck. That is really fucking sick."

Then I went to bed, and lay awake for most of the night feeling violated. The breach in vibrator security was traumatizing.

The next day, PB responds to my message with, "What are you talking about????"

And so began one of the most bizarre exchanges in MSN history. I explained that my vibrator was missing. It wasn't where I left it and it wasn't anywhere in my bedroom. Unless the Bermuda Triangle was actually located right next to my bed and I had never before noticed the squadrons of small aircraft being sucked into the mysterious vortex in my bedroom, my vibrator had left the building and I had no other option but to assume he took it.

He denied taking it, and asked me if I had looked under the bed. Since I sleep on two mattresses sitting atop a box spring sitting on the floor like I'm the princess and the goddamned pea, I assured him it was not under the bed.

And this is when it gets weird. PB carries on asking me how my day was like I hadn't just accused him of walking out of my apartment with my personal massage device tucked away hidden in his clothing.

At a loss, we carried on a normal conversation in which he told me how much he liked me and wanted to see me again. And I surprised myself by telling him I wanted to see him again too, and even more shocking - I did really want to see him again. I liked him. He stole my vibrator. But I liked him. Jesus.

As a friend pointed out, if he hadn't taken it he would assume I was one crazy bitch and he wouldn't want to see me again. This wasn't the case. Me accusing him was perfectly normal and we were making plans to get together again.

It's not like I was going to make the same mistakes again...not all of them at least. I told PB that even though I liked him and enjoyed our last evening together we would have to scale things back and take things slower. He agreed this would be fine, because he really liked me and he "had sparks with me." He could be patient. The next time we got together, our clothes just fell off again.

Still, I refused to go any further than softcore. This time however, when he got up to leave I jumped up and turned on all of the lights, blinding both of us but reassuring me that all of my belongings would stay where I had intended. I followed him out and when I hugged him good-bye I patted him down as best I could.

Now I knew I had a problem. I liked this guy enough to abandon all reason. Just hearing his voice caused the angel on my one shoulder and the devil on the other to start licking one another.

We set another date for last night, and we were going to have a little chat about the way things were heading, unbeknownst to him. Specifically, I was going to chat and he was going to inwardly groan as I suggested that perhaps we could see a movie some time instead of attacking each other like rabid raccoons, only that never happened. PB stood me up.

He was going to come by at 8:00. At 7:15 I get a message saying he's just getting ready and he'll see me at 8:00, and he didn't show up. His cell phone was turned off, and I haven't heard from him since. I'm a little baffled.

And so, without any further ado, should you have the same questions everybody else has been asking, I'll attempt to help out.

Q. He stole your vibrator? Seriously?? What the fuck!

A. What the fuck indeed. He did seriously steal it. It's been over a week and it's not turned up. This is not an item that should normally require any kind of anti-theft device with a locator option like when you lose your car in a parking lot and can hit a button to make the car's horn beep...this is a freaking vibrator. Although if I could make it beep I would have tried that.

Q. Why would you want to see him again? He stole your vibrator for Christ's sake! How is that OK?

A. To be fair, that's actually two questions, but nonetheless...I want to see him again because there was just something about him. Chemistry. Absolutely mindless, oh dear God I want you right now chemistry which I didn't experience for a single minute in my last relationship. I had forgotten what that was like, and now I remember why it's a bad idea.

Q. If you marry him can I tell this story at your wedding?

A. If you tell this story at my wedding can I stab you in the neck with my fork? That's what I thought.

Q. Please tell me you're not going to forgive him for standing you up.

A. Not at all. Unless his excuse involves an ambulance ride or time spent lying broken and bleeding in a ditch, we're done. But in that case...I'm really going to need a new toy.

But will it be fuel-efficient...?

As I've mentioned in a previous post, my new chin is going to be ridiculously expensive and therefore spectacular. My new chin will be hounded by paparazzi and linked romantically to Prince Harry, causing great scandal in Britain.

Photographed by Annie Leibowitz and featured in a PSA ad campaign my chin will single-handedly reverse the effects of global warming, and male pattern baldness. That's how spectacular my new chin ought to be, given some of the costs provided at my most recent appointment with the orthodontist.

He started by showing me x-rays of my jaw, which is apparently so malformed it's a wonder I can chew food. My teeth don't line up, one side of my jaw is higher and one jaw-joint is a completely different shape than the other. The bones in my face look like they came from a mismatched set. I could see how some sort of action may be required.

Next he outlined my options. Since my lower jaw sits too far back, one option could be to move my top teeth back. Cheaper, and no surgery. I was nodding slowly until he said this option may cause my nose to appear larger. Sweet blessed Jesus. On to option two.

Option two is what I was expecting. Braces for two years, surgery after a year and I enter my 23rd awkward stage in a row. He showed me a computer enhanced photo of how my profile will look once the surgery is over and it was fascinating.

My nose, and this may just be wishful thinking, but my nose looked just a smidge...just a teensy bit...smaller. My face looked slightly more...balanced. It wouldn't be so noticeable to everybody else, but I couldn't stop looking at the computer screen.

The doctor thinks I may actually need two surgeries to align my jaw perfectly, which won't be happening. It gets done in one shot or I live on smoothies for the rest of my life. I may still need skin grafts on my gums, but if I have to pay for those then I'm putting it off until the bottom half of my skull falls into my lap through the gaping spaces where my gums used to be. Like I said, my new chin is going to be expensive.

$1200 upfront for the braces. $225 every month afterward for two years. $4000-$5000 on top for that new chin smell. Crikey.

I know I have to go through with it, it's just a matter of when. The doctor advised I may want to consider timing my braces carefully. Will I have wedding photos coming up? A big holiday perhaps? No to both, and my new chin is likely to keep it that way.

Just me and the Oompa-Loompas.

I've been looking pretty good lately. I haven't lost any more weight and I'm hovering in that purgatory between normal sizes and plus sizes which is making shopping for anything a cringe-worthy experience, so I don't have Weightwatchers to thank for my new boost in confidence.

My most favourite moments are when some little girl the size of my right leg knocks on the change room door to make sure I haven't died in there and asks if I need any other sizes. I would love to say yes, but I know perfectly well that the pants I can't close around my ass are the largest size in the store and to ask for anything larger would lead to a very awkward moment. Thank Goddess I'm so tall because if I was any shorter I'd have the shape and consistency of a cream puff pastry.

And yet, three people have stopped me today to tell me how good I'm looking so let's hear it for harmful UV rays! Yes, I've been taking my life into my own hands and tanning. I am naturally rather pale, and by rather pale I mean vampiric, so at first the staff at my tanning salon seemed hesitant to take my money and stick me in a bed for fear of lawsuits and or explosions but I've been surprising everyone.

For the first time ever, I have some colour in my face which has led several people to tell me I'm looking 'well-rested.' In actual fact I haven't been sleeping very well due to lying awake worrying about my chin, my back, my pelvic region, my finances, my parents, my home, my future and whether or not my next door neighbor can hear me pee, as I can hear him pee through the apartment wall between our bathrooms, which is disconcerting.

I can see how people start tanning indoors and then not know when to stop. It's warm and relaxing and for the entire duration of your session you're not expected to do anything but just lie there. This doesn't excuse the women who tan themselves into Chicken McNuggets but I think I'm vain enough to escape that fate.

My only concern so far is the white stripe I've developed down either side of my body, making me look like the world's lightest and largest Oreo cookie. I'm trying to remedy this, and it's reminding me why people say they're "working" on their tans. It is actual work.

My goal in exposing myself to skin cancer is to cover up my inability to lose substantive amounts of weight. Much like in a house, if you're unhappy with the walls, you paint them. I'm painting my rear end, and it's working wonders.

Hit and run.

I'm a cynical optimist. For example, when I go on holiday I pack at least three emergency items for every fun item in my suitcase. One bathing suit equals one package of Imodium, one can of Solarcaine and a defibrillator.

In my dating life, this means I expect nothing good to come out of anybody I meet...but I shave my legs anyway. I expect the worst but am secretly crushed when it happens making me both the first to say, "I told you so!" and "I had no idea that could happen!" at the same time.

This works well for me. I go about triumph and disaster with all bases covered until something so unexpected happens, both the cynic and the optimist in me are awed into mutual silence.

Like on Sunday morning. A new date, same Starbucks near my place. Jay was funny, smart and his picture looked good. We had even spent a few hours on the phone so I was confident the conversation would be easy.

I arrived a little early so I went in and got my standard date drink. Large enough for me to nurse if I'm having a good time, small enough for me to finish quickly should he have bells on his shoes, hit on the coffee barrista or appear riding a unicycle - basically should he demonstrate any of the unfavourable dating characteristics to which I've become so accustomed.

Jay came in while I was waiting for my drink, and I had a hard time recognizing him because I had to mentally add 10 years to the picture he sent me. He squinted his eyes at me but I wasn't entirely sure. I went outside to wait for him on the patio. If it was him he could come find me, and sure enough he did, moments later.

He walked up and introduced himself, and then went back in for his drink. It was a beautiful sunny day and I suddenly felt optimistic. A nice patio, a good drink, some good conversation...it wouldn't be so bad.

And it wouldn't have been so bad had Jay not left through the back exit, never to return. After the first five minutes I felt badly that a massive line up must have gathered spontaneously and he was stuck in it. After 10 minutes I wondered just what in the hell kind of caffeinated concoction he had ordered. After 15 minutes I felt like an idiot.

I waited around for another 10 just in case he was stuck in the bathroom. He wasn't. Bewildered, I made my way home.

I've been stood up before. I've been left waiting when a guy doesn't show up at all, no explanation or apologies. I've been on dates where the guy showed up but it would have been better if he hadn't. This was an altogether new experience.

A few hours later Jay sends me a message that went exactly like this:

Bambi - I'm sorry I had to leave. I could see right away that we weren't going to be compatible -- a no class exit. I'm just so tired of either being rejected or having to do the rejecting. It's so frustrating!! I wish we could just find what we want!! Time is marching on for both of us.

I would like to clarify that at no time did Starbucks catch on fire or need to be evacuated for any other reason during the half hour or so I sat on the patio. Jay did not "have" to leave. I would also like to clarify that more than one exclamation mark is never, ever appropriate.

Also, Jay is a f*ckwit.

The declaration that time is indeed marching on was really the frosting on the fruitloop. Until that point, I was unaware that I was about to max out any sort of time limit. Born without a biological clock, I feel no particular urgency to meet and marry or procreate other than a nagging fear that much like pierced ears, if I don't use it it's going to grow over.

This should be the end of the story, but it's not. Jay has since been in touch, wanting to make friendly chit-chat. Flirting with me even. I suggested that since I was so hideous he had to flee the scene, he really shouldn't bother sending me any more messages. No really - don't bother.

He said I wasn't hideous, but he knew it wouldn't work out long-term and he sensed that was what I wanted and it wouldn't have been fair for him to stay. I'd tell you what I answered but I blacked out after my head repeatedly hit the keyboard.

He went on to say how he felt a good connection with me and wanted that again. I told him he had his chance and then I went to bed. This morning I logged on to MSN only to get this belated message from Jay:

We both know we need one another.

Um. Apart from the sheer entertainment value his crazy is now providing me, I'm not entirely convinced I need him. And so I reply:

Wow. I need a guy who left a first impression so rude, and so without class that it's mind-boggling? Really??

So my cynical and optimistic sides are now clutching one another like two former strangers brought together by trauma. Why couldn't he just have been riding a damned unicycle like a normal person?

Subject to inspection.

There are a number of reasons why I did it. Good friends of mine had been doing it and I felt left behind. I'm out of the running for a husband and children aren't my sport so I thought I could compete in this one arena.

Although my dating life is still enough of a disaster to warrant some sort of special mention by CNN's Anderson Cooper, it's stopped bothering me -- for today at least. My $10,000 chin was a bit of a concern but that sort of money coming out of my pocket seems too abstract an idea to really rattle me, so perhaps I felt a slippery slope between a $10,000 chin and spending like I'm J.Lo.

And so I got pre-approved for a mortgage.

Seriously. Some mortgage broker found some lending institution stupid enough to give me more than a quarter of a million dollars. Obviously neither the broker nor the lending institution are aware I own purses with the price tags still on them, or that I only recently remembered I had money coming out of my account for a gym I haven't driven past in more than a year, or that I always over tip because I can't do percentages in my head. Essentially, I should not be a candidate for a mortgage.

Once pre-approved I felt I needed to act. It was only a matter of time before somebody took a closer look at my credit history and revoked my approval. I called up a realtor that same afternoon and by God I was going for the ultimate shopping high.

Real estate is interesting in Victoria. Industry insiders have special terminology they use to describe the local housing market, and I've since picked up their 'lingo,' and am now in the know, so bear with with me should you not understand the real estate jargon unique to this city. In short, the market in Victoria is so fucking fucked up it's not even fucking funny so...fuck!

I understand why many people would want to live here. I understand why Asian and American investors want to buy here and I understand why oldsters who spent the better part of their lives freezing their dangling parts off in the prairies want to retire here. I understand why developers build only 'luxury' condos or townhouses and I understand I am not their target market.

I understand that there are people out there who make enough money to consider the majority of homes starting at $600,000 to be perfectly reasonable, but what I don't understand is just what in the fuck I'm supposed to do. (See? You're already catching on to Victoria real estate lingo too!)

Too poor to ever think about owning a house in this city, I'm shopping for an entry-level condo/apartment that will not require me to use a food bank to feed myself. Therein lies the problem. No such property exists.

Every decent property is just slightly out of my reach. I either can't afford it at all, or can barely afford it which actually feels worse. I don't want to give my entire life over to my mortgage. I don't want to have to save money to buy a chocolate bar and I don't want to panic should I run out of deodorant and not be able to buy more because I chose to eat that day.

My salary must be just slightly lower than so many others because the competition for over-priced entry-level condos is fierce. Other people are buying these places with prejudice. My realtor would tell me he had eight properties to show me and the following morning six would be sold. There was no time to think.

I fell in love with an apartment only to find out there was an accepted offer on the place even as I stood in the living room contemplating where my furniture would go. I agonized over putting an offer on a condo with water views even though the fridge was in the dining room and the balcony tilted. I took note of simple ways to make an apartment appear 'designer' in a small two-bedroom that gave me flea bites.

Finally I stopped by an open house for a large one-bedroom in my preferred neighborhood while out for a walk one afternoon, and everything started happening very fast. It was out of my price range but the owner was desperate to sell.

My realtor went to see the place and declared it a superb value and I would never find an apartment that large, in such a fine building, in such a prestigious neighborhood ever again. He suggested a low-ball offer that would stretch my budget to near breaking and I said that could work even though I can't figure out percentages in my head and really just wanted to get off the phone so I could go for lunch.

After work I found myself at my realtor's office because I couldn't figure out how not to be there. The next thing I knew I was signing my initials here, here, here, there, up here, down there, here and now here. I had no idea how I came to be signing anything. When I was finished, my realtor said, "Congratulations, you just spent a quarter of a million dollars." Then I passed out.

The seller had until 9:00 that night to accept my offer of 17,000k below the asking price. I arrived home at 6:00, sat down on the edge of my couch and rocked myself back and forth until 9:30 when the phone rang.

Words can not describe my terror. Strangely, I was so much more afraid my offer would be accepted. When my realtor said the price had been rejected I just about fell to my knees. I could buy chocolate bars again! I could afford deodorant! I was going to live!

The seller had countered with a figure way beyond me. My agent wanted to counter with 2000k more than my original offer, despite my original offer having long ago left my comfort zone without even leaving a note. It was a good value in a great neighborhood and I could think about it overnight.

There was no more thinking for me. The next day I refused to counter and I refused to stand firm on my initial offer. My real estate agent sounded incredulous that I would back away and has not spoken to me since.

My real estate agent can just kiss the ass I spent an evening clenching in terror. I've had guys I'm much more attached to never call me again after considerably more pleasurable experiences than being shown around a few condos so if he thinks I'm going to feel badly...he obviously doesn't read this blog.

Something blue.

Weddings are emotional for me. They're emotional for many as evidenced by the sniffling and weeping that took place during the ceremony I was at over the weekend, but those folks get emotional because they're warm-hearted decent people. People who are different from me.

I get emotional at weddings because I'm a jealous, bitter, resentful bitch. Owning up to being a bitter and resentful bitch is not new, but realizing my jealousy over my friend being so very happy is a totally new achievement in bad behaviour.

It's also frightening, because it means I actually want to get married. I was with somebody for four years and he called me his wife. I felt no joy in the designation. His mother called me her daughter-in-law and that made me happier because I loved his mom, but I hedged when she talked about when we would make it official. The thought of the rest of my life being like the four years previous made me cry.

As I have yet to see a bridal magazine featuring a woman weeping in the fetal position on the cover I assumed my attitude wasn't going to make for a fairy tale wedding. It didn't occur to me until very recently that perhaps I wasn't against marriage in general; just marriage to the wrong person.

I'm actually more pro-wedding than marriage. Above all, I really want to have a wedding. I haven't thought through the actual marriage to follow but I want the party and the surrounding hoopla.

I want all of my friends and family in one room and I want to know we've all come together to celebrate the far-fetched yet joyous occasion of me finding a guy I like, who presumably liked me enough to call me back at some point for a second date. This would be the best I could really hope for, so we'd likely have an annulment the next day but at least I will have had a wedding.

The wedding that took place this weekend was for the daughter of very close family friends. She's younger than I am which of course inspired all kinds of talk about when "my turn" would come. Sadly, this phrase wasn't used in reference to when my table would get to approach the buffet line.

Because this girl is so close to my family, this wedding hurt my heart a little for other reasons. I got to see what my parents would be like at my wedding or my sister's wedding because we think of this girl as one of ours.

My Dad can shake his booty like you wouldn't believe (especially if it's Elvis) and a circle actually formed around him and the mother of the bride on the dance floor. My Mom fussed over the arrangements and decor like the resulting pictures would be hanging in her living room and for all I know they will be - for lack of any other forthcoming wedding photos.

After several hours of eating, drinking and dancing including the humiliating tradition known as the Chicken Dance, it was time for that other exercise in wedding humiliation known as the Bouquet Toss.

About ten lovely young women and assorted spinsters gathered in a tight knot behind the bride, actually jostling one another for position. Naturally I stood three feet taller in my heels than the other girls so I stood in the back of the crowd with my arms folded.

I couldn't be a poor sport and sit out the Toss but I couldn't bring myself to push and shove and get into position like a starter pistol was about to go off either. I went with more of a martyred approach to participation.

The bride faked-out the crowd several times, inspiring anguished cries from the jostling single white females. Just before she tossed it for real, she looked at me over her shoulder and grinned. And I knew.

The bouquet was coming straight for my head.

Sure enough, she purposely threw it high. I had a split second to contemplate ducking to avoid having a tulip embedded in my eyeball but I reflexively curled my fingers tight around the flower petals and snatched the bouquet out of the air.

The other women gathered on that dance floor whipped around and glared at me like I had done something wrong. I felt they looked at me as if they knew this hallowed tradition/superstition had gone to terrible waste -- like the bouquet should have been tossed to somebody with a chance at fulfilling the prophecy.

The crowd dispersed and I went to the bride. I knew I should at least thank her for her optimism. While she doesn't know my current dating situation, or profound lack of situation she must have made at least one revealing observation.

As we hugged she whispered, "That was for your parents."

Do not tell me to keep my chin up.

Out of all the parts of my body that bother me on a daily basis - the nose my ex declared too big for my face, my back which continues to cause me pain, the mysterious female problems that have my doctor so baffled he's in danger of becoming a workplace shooting statistic should he tell me it must all be in my head one more time, my peasant legs too thick to fit into boots, my cowlick right in the middle of my forehead preventing me from ever having trendy bangs, my small boobs so out of proportion with my broad back my bras look like two eye patches attached to a ziptreck line, my cankles, my childbearing hips, my thighs - a fire hazard in corduroy pants and my inability to tan...none of these 'flaws' is going to cost me $10,000.

My chin - the least offensive part of my entire body - will.

Chin may actually be a misnomer. I have a small area underneath my bottom lip, but I wouldn't go so far as to call it a chin. Therein lies the problem. I've always had a very pronounced overbite, and for the most part I've accepted this. I have a hell of a time not looking double-chinned in photographs but if my eyes are open and I don't look plus-size a picture of me with a double-chin is really a minor inconvenience.

My overbite has meant I sometimes have to chew food differently than other people and think very carefully about putting my hair back for fear my face looks a little unbalanced but other than that I was fine with it. I've even grown to like the way it makes my lips appear just a little more pouty.

Over the years though, I've had to pay more attention to my jaw in general. It pops and cracks. Sometimes when I'm chewing it feels like pop-rocks candy in my cheeks. Chewing a stick of gum makes my face ache and every so often my jaw gets stuck out of place, causing me a moment of hand-flapping panic for fear this will be the time it won't go back.

A few years ago I saw an orthodontist in Calgary. He cupped his hand under my chin-like area, tilted my head back and forth and declared my problems didn't look obvious.

If he was to treat me, it wouldn't solve any of my complaints but it would fix my 'minor deformity.' The treatment would be cosmetic at best. I paid the man $80 for this in-depth assessment and put it out of my head until a couple of weeks ago.

My newly acquired BC dentist referred me to an orthodontist after looking at my x-rays. I figured I'd been around this block and while I appreciated my dentist's concern I thought I knew what was coming. Unlike the guy in Calgary though, this orthodontist put my slightly malformed head through the paces.

I chewed for him, I bit, I yawned, I stretched my mouth, I ground my teeth, I wiggled my jaw all with his gloved fingers buried somewhere in my cheekbones. The official diagnosis - big trouble.

Apparently I'm losing bone. I don't know where it's going, but it's being ground out of my cheeks. This bone isn't surplus as I had hoped, so if I continue to lose it I'll have to have it replaced. I offered part of the bone in my nose in hopes that I could perhaps solve two problems in one shot but it seems the bone they would put back into my peanut head would be from cadavers.

Bone from dead people in my face aside, continued bone loss may lead to excruciating pain and replacing the bone is no guaranteed fix. Since my back and pelvis have cornered the market on excruciating pain lately, this just won't do.

It seems as if my jaw problems are also causing my gums to disappear. For many years, dentists and hygienists have told me I'm brushing too hard and eroding my gums. I struggled with brushing any lighter without giving up and simply waving the toothbrush in front of my face in elaborate pantomime, and still hygienists threatened me with thoughts of skin-grafts and nerve damage should I continue brushing my teeth so obviously with steel wool.

The orthodontist chuckled to himself and asked me how many times I've been told I need to change how I brush my teeth. Gums are disappearing aren't they? He said this like he was letting me in on a very good joke. The joke is, my jaw is so misaligned it's causing my gums to pack up and go home to wherever they came from in the first place.

It was time to talk solutions, but there weren't many options to talk about. There's only one option - braces followed by surgery to break my jaw and move it to where it's supposed to be.

At first, the surgery part didn't phase me. I sat there considering how successful my dating life currently is and how much it can only improve with solid metal braces catching the sunlight. I asked if it was possible I could have clear braces and he said it may be possible, but this could affect the cost.

The cost. I didn't even get to worrying over the cost until a couple of days later. I know my benefits will pay for half of the braces, bringing the expense down to a mere partial down payment on a condo but I was rather confused about the surgery, so I phoned the orthodontist's office.

It would seem the surgery will cost me an entire down payment on a condo, as it's considered cosmetic. It doesn't matter that bone is falling out of my head and my gums are sinking like Atlantis, jaw surgery is not covered unless I have a cleft-palate or something that sounded like inter-facial disorder.

I seized upon this thought. Inter-facial disorder - I was pretty sure they could put me down for that...couldn't they? The receptionist assured me I did not have this disorder. Was she sure? Yes she was sure. If I had it I would be seriously deformed. How deformed is seriously deformed? We would be unable to have this conversation. I see.

All told, I'll be paying out approximately $10,000 for a facial flaw I was pretty sure I could live with. Everything else that causes me pain or anxiety will still be there, with the exception of my doctor who may not make it through my next appointment. I won't have an MBA or a condo, but by God...I'll have a chin.