And the fat lady expected to sing exits stage left in confusion...

I don't even know what to say anymore. I'm trying to be strong, and for a little while I was winning the battle of the sexes...until I discovered I was never actually enlisted.

Things with Darcy were tenuously hopeful after he initially dropped off the face of the globe following our first date. He'd get in touch with me on his own accord, we'd chat, flirt and avoid making any plans. At least a pattern was established.

This past Saturday morning was more of the same. Finally he asked me when I was going to invite him over and I told him I had no plans that night if he wanted to get together. What follows is the actual transcript of our conversation:

Bambi: i've got nothing going on tonight - maybe we could get together

(Notice how I make it sound as if this may be only as good an option as say, my laundry...or watching yet another episode of America's Most Wanted to see if I know anybody profiled? Smooth hey?)

Darcy: That sounds really good. maybe get some eats??movie??something fun??

(Notice the overuse of question marks. I'm not saying it means anything - it's just annoying.)

Bambi: sure - i'm up for whatever

(Notice how cool and laid back I was trying to come across? I was actually dancing around my living room in a very not cool way. There was no music playing.)

Darcy: What's your number? I'll give you a call we'll figure out what we're doing...

(Notice the beginnings of the oral contract we are about to negotiate? This will be important later.)

Bambi: 555-BMBI

(Notice that's not actually my number - this is the only part that isn't true.)

Darcy: Cool. What time should I phone? What time will you be home?

(Notice I thought this was really considerate of him to ask and it made me trust in him completely. If he was going to be one of those f*ckwits who says they'll call and then don't then surely why would he go through the trouble of asking when I'd be home? I mean...surely?)

Bambi: about 3-ish. anytime after that should be good.

Darcy: K - I'll call you then.

Bambi: great - talk soon.

I'm sorry to have to fill this post with a transcript, but I need some sort of validation that I'm not actually crazy because...

The f*ckwit didn't call.

And whenever this happens, I don't care who you are -- you're waiting. I will fully admit to waiting. I took the phone into the bathroom with me when I went pee, just in case it rang. That's right. I brought it with me. That's how intently I was waiting.

By Saturday evening I had accepted he wasn't going to call and I marked the occasion by going out and sharing three bottles of wine with a friend only to end up dancing atop a speaker at the end of the night. And yes, I am 31 years old. And single. Hard to believe isn't it?

I waited to hear on Sunday whether Darcy had succumbed to a particularly fast-moving form of flesh-eating disease, or been swallowed up by a particularly fast-moving crevasse at one of his construction sites. Basically, I waited to hear if he was dead - because that could be acceptable.

Monday I prepared to write him off. I sent him the following email:

Darcy -

Thanks for not calling – if you had I wouldn’t have ended up toasting the city lights with champagne and a bunch of people I hadn’t seen in a while on Saturday – so that turned out relatively awesome. At the same time...not calling was rude and disrespectful. So rude, I'm not even sure flowers, 20 pairs of new shoes, or a weekend at the Wickaninnish Inn would make up for it.

Bambi

I was happy having the last word. The last word felt really good. And if he changed his mind maybe I'd get a weekend at the Wickaninnish. It was truly a win-win.

Tuesday I heard nothing from Darcy, and I patted myself on the back for being a witty woman scorned at least. Darcy had not spoken - it was done.

And then came 20 minutes ago. I'm sitting here, at my desk, pretending to be working. Darcy comes online and says this:

"I am so, so sorry I didn't call you Saturday Bambi. I have no excuse."

My mouth falls open and I debate whether to answer. Yeah right. As if I'll give up the last word now.

"I'm glad you're not bothering with an excuse. I wouldn't have bought an alien abduction story."

I expect this to be the end of the conversation, and I'm happy with it but oh no -- Darcy also likes to have the last word.

"I'm just sorry I turned out to be so ignorant."

Ignoring the obvious catty answers, I went with a compromise.

"That makes two of us then. But thanks for the apology."

"You're welcome."

Sneaky bastard. I couldn't let him sneak it in there like that.

"Take care of yourself then Darcy. You're an interesting guy."

Holy shit! I actually gave him the kiss of death -- take care of yourself! I told him to fuck off! Oh my God that felt good! Oh my God what did I just do??

"You're an interesting girl too. I've just been so swamped. I've been so busy. I'll say hi soon."

Um. Did I not just tell him to go away?? Did I not just say kiss-off?? What is he doing?? Why am I using extra question marks now??

"Keep in touch. I know what it's like when things get busy."

Why am I telling him to keep in touch? Do I seriously not know any better?

Apparently not.

The fat lady is still inhaling...

1903 - Helen Keller completes "The Story of My Life," a book now heralded as a masterpiece, despite a mild case of total blindness and somewhat complete inability to hear a thing.

1929 - Virginia Woolf publishes "A Room of One's Own," an essay defining the distinctive struggle of the woman artist, despite a mild case of insufferability. And suicidal tendencies.

2008 - Bambi sends an email.

In terms of historical importance, it may be a long time before my own contribution is recognized. I would argue though, that my email is no less courageous.

Tuesday, I sent an email to Darcy. This went against my nature. My instinct was to do absolutely nothing and chalk the whole experience up to whatever genetic mistake rendered me heterosexual.

Luckily I have a friend who is much bolder than I am, and upon hearing that Darcy also makes a stupid amount of money in addition to being everything else I described she declared that the situation was not to be taken lightly. Something more was called for.

I swear to God more planning went into this email than went into the war in Iraq. I stayed away from MSN in preparation and rejected several drafts. My email was four lines long.

It was also cheeky, funny, light-hearted, and fairly bold. In it I asked that Darcy let me know when he was ready for a second date. Not if - but when.

The next day I had an email back. He thought my email was very funny. Apparently he's sorry. He's been so busy, moving and building houses and trying to get roofs on before it rains and etc. but he'll get in touch when he has more time.

I didn't reply, and I stayed offline.

Last night I broke down, went online again and Darcy finally gets in touch with me. We have a very flirty chat that way for over an hour. I'm just as shocked as both of you.

You'd think I would be happy now wouldn't you? You'd think I'd be feeling more secure? You'd think at least part of my brain cells would have spontaneously regenerated? Wouldn't you?

Um...no. You see, we still don't have plans to actually see one another again. The conversation never went that way at all, despite me willing it to go that way until my hair and teeth hurt.

I'm very aware of a fourth work of brilliance titled, "He's Just Not That Into You." I've read the first couple of chapters surreptiously in Chapters, and believe the authors may be onto something.

I'm just refusing to apply their logic to my particular scenario. Yet. Despite the novelty, I rather like being hopeful.

Situation: normal.

Friday Afternoon

I notice Darcy is online. I send him a message saying, "I had a great time last night - thanks again." He replies with a message saying, "So did I!!! We'll have to do it again soon!!!" Darcy is a big fan of the unnecessary exclamation point, which I am willing to overlook.

It seems as if something more is called for. "We'll have to do it again soon...what are you doing this weekend?" should be the natural finish, but nothing more is forthcoming. Fine. Even though I hate myself for it, I reply that maybe we could do something this weekend.

Darcy replies sure, he was working until 6 on Saturday, heading up-island for a bit on Sunday -- maybe later on Sunday??? Darcy is also fond of the unnecessary question mark. This is a new and inexplicably ominous development.

After a little more chit-chat Darcy has to go because he's going to have a nap. I wish him a good rest, and say good-bye.

Excuses I am able to make on Darcy's behalf:

• He's a guy and therefore less concerned with details than I am -- perhaps in his mind this actually constitutes plans.
• Although a lesser person may find it slightly insulting that he would rather nap than talk to me, he's probably very tired. His job is demanding and he did have quite a bit to drink when we were out the night before.
• Everything. Is. Just. Fine. I'm being paranoid. He was really into me, and I'm being silly.

Despite appearing to be online Friday night, I don't hear from him. Out of frustration and the need to make it look like I have better things to do, I make it appear as if I'm offline. That will sure show him.

Instead of going out and doing anything productive however, I rent La Vie En Rose and spend the last half hour of the movie sobbing my eyes out and eating peanut butter off a spoon. I can't hardly believe I'm still single.

(Also, they should just hand Marion Cotillard the Oscar like, right now. I was covered in tears, snot and peanut butter and completely unable to wipe my face for fear of missing a single sub-title. That has to be worth something.)

Saturday Night

It's after 6:00 and Darcy is back from work. I know this because I'm answering some emails when I see him come online. I wait. I'm sure he'll say hello this time. I watch Cops and make some dinner. No message. I watch a second episode of Cops and eat the portion of my dinner meant for leftovers on Sunday. No message. I turn off my computer.

Excuses I am able to make on Darcy's behalf, again:

• He's exhausted from work, and just doesn't feel like talking.
• Maybe it just looks as if he's online, and is actually making dinner, taking a bath or being held hostage.
• Since we spoke briefly on Friday, he may not see the point in talking on Saturday. It's not like we have to talk everyday or anything...although we just about did before we actually met, but whatever.
• He went to work without a hardhat and suffered a blow to the head, causing selective amnesia.

Staying home and moping around would be pathetic and lame, when I could be out meeting somebody -- anybody else. I stay home and watch Superbad. As soon as it's professionally viable I'm renaming myself McLovin.

Sunday Morning

Today is the day Darcy suggested could work, emphasized with question marks of course. He's supposed to be going up-island, but it's still morning and he's online and so am I.

He's not making breakfast or in the bath or being held hostage because by coincidence, I notice he's online and checking his email within the dating site we connected on. He's obviously in the same room as his computer. I'm agonizing over what to do. Do I send him a message? What if it comes off as desperate?

Desperate be damned. I'm sending a message...but what to say? 'Hello,' seems too formal. 'Hi there' is too dorky. 'Hey' is too abrupt...Christ on a cracker. Good to see my Writing Degree is proving so useful.

I settle for 'Hey there.' It's a strong enough greeting to require some kind of acknowledgement while still seeming casual. I hit SEND and wait.

And wait. I make some tea. Toast an english muffin. Slather english muffin in peanut butter. Add banana slices to counteract the calories in the peanut butter, because everybody knows that's how it works.

Eat the muffin. Drink the tea. Check on my computer. Darcy is now offline. He saw my carefully crafted greeting, and didn't respond.

Excuses I'm able to make this time on Darcy's behalf:

• None. I got nothing. Absolutely nothing.

It is now Sunday evening. I check my email on Plenty of Fish, and can see that Darcy is online there again -- which is odd because he's not online on MSN. Interesting.

Thursday night I would have considered it crazy to think Darcy would block my address on MSN. Now I'm convinced he has.

Darcy is almost always online in the evenings. For him to be online in one place and not MSN is weird. Perhaps my choice of 'Hey there,' really was too forward.

This afternoon I was worrying about the logistics of hiring somebody good with a machete to take swift action with my fingers, toes, elbows, nose or anything else I could use to type with should I be tempted to send another message to Darcy at any point this week. It appears this problem is now moot, since I may not have the opportunity again anyway.

So now I'm left with the inevitable question. What in the f*ck happened????

Some possible explanations for just what in the f*ck happened:

• The ridiculous amount of Advil I take in a day caused me to hallucinate the entire date. (Although this doesn't explain how I came to be in possession of a card signed by a guy named Darcy... that would be really eerie if I hallucinated the entire thing.) Maybe I just hallucinated the good parts.
• He did have quite a bit to drink, as he took a taxi and I drove. Maybe he's an alcoholic and our entire date was spent in a blackout.
• Darcy decided he was going to show one woman the most amazing Valentine's Day of her entire life to atone for some sort of prior romantic sin. Job well done! He can now get into Hallmark Heaven.
• He was mocking me the entire time. Instead of meaning every nice thing he said to me, he was making fun of me.
• When he kissed me he didn't like the way I kissed back. Maybe I wasn't on my best game, thrown off by his command of hair stroking and lip-sucking. It's been a while since I've had a really good kiss after all.
• God hates me more than I previously thought. I'd been thinking our ongoing feud was based on some sort of grudging respect, but obviously this is not the case. Prick.

So for those worried I'd have nothing to write about if I was actually happy and in love with a guy in love with me...you naiive bitches. Bambi is back - I never left. Situation normal.

The Morning After.

I don't know how to say this. Don't know how to explain. All I can do is recommend you be sitting down, or at least within falling distance of a soft surface.

If you're eating something, please finish swallowing before reading what I'm about to say.

(I only have approximately two readers - it would be terribly sad for me if either of you choked to death from shock.)

Here goes.

Last night, I had a date for Valentine's Day. And it was awesome.

The fact I had a date at all for Valentine's Day is a happy accident in itself, but the date going so well I've been grinning like an idiot for 12 hours now is bordering on miraculous. Never mind the Virgin Mary appearing on a piece of toast in Arkansas - this is the real holy deal.

He didn't take his pants down. He didn't pick up the waitress. He was who he said he was and he sounded like a man and not a cartoon. He doesn't aspire to work in fast food. He wasn't wearing bells on his shoes. For those of you keeping score, I've experienced all of the above.

Instead, Darcy brought me chocolates and a card.

He carried on an intelligent conversation and was interested in everything I said.

He told me I was fascinating.

He was freaking hot.

He told me I was beautiful, and he couldn't take his eyes off me. And I really didn't see him look anywhere else, come to think of it.

He told me to open the card near the end of the night because the card was so much more true now then when he bought it. Considering this was our first time meeting - that was actually very sweet.

He asked me if he could kiss me at the end of the night and when he did I couldn't remember where I parked my car for a good five minutes.

Maybe he laid it on a little thick, but I don't care. I've been on an attention-starved diet and I needed a good helping of romantic calories. But like any time I suddently switch up my diet, I'm having some trouble with digestion.

Let's step back for a moment. Darcy and I had been chatting online for a few weeks. I wasn't expecting to ever get to meet him, since he seemed skittish about making any arrangements.

This past Monday however, Darcy asks me out for drinks on Wednesday. I was busy on Wednesday, so he asked me when I was next available. I said Thursday, honestly not thinking at all about Thursday being Valentine's Day. I'm sure he didn't think about it either.

It didn't even occur to me that I had unknowingly secured myself a Valentine's Day date until Tuesday night, and then I felt awful. I was afraid he would think I tricked him into that particular day, and I felt awful that I had inadvertently put so much pressure on this poor guy.

Not so awful that I suggested cancelling however. I'm not an idiot.

He admitted he did feel a little blindsighted by it, but was completely relieved once he saw me and we ended up laughing about it. So that's how I landed a Valentine's date by accident.

But back to my digestive issues. I'm thrilled with how the date went, but now the trouble begins. I want to see him again, naturally. He seemed certain that we would. I asked him point-blank if I would see him again and he said, "Of course."

This was just after he kissed me and I really wasn't thinking straight. In fact, if I had been pulled over on my way home I probably would have appeared drunk. It was all I could do to form a sentence, and any more definitive planning was hopeless. So we have no plans for a second date.

I would like plans. I would like an email. I would like a message of some kind. I would like it if I didn't have such a fantastic time because having no hope is actually less unnerving. I would like it if I lost the urge to grab everybody I see just to gush unintelligibly about cards and chocolates and kissing.

I would like it if I could stop grinning for two minutes.

Even when it goes well...part two.

Starbucks again. My feelings regarding this date had been swinging between mildly optimistic (ex. I'll brush my teeth before leaving the house) and really not excited at all (ex. Brush? Anything?)

One the one hand Sid* came across as very intelligent. He rode a motorcycle. He was tall. On the other hand, during one online chat he revealed that he used to get around town on a unicycle and had camped at a nudist campground.

Incidentally, he also rode the unicycle around the nudist campground which was not, and will never be, an image I needed. I sensed I may be dealing with somebody a little more quirky than I would like.

The unicycle revelation especially threw me off. I want my men to drive motorcycles, fighter jets, fire trucks or some combination of the three. I like my men manly. It would also be nice if they drove a truck too, in case I ever move or want to shop at IKEA. Personally I don't think these things are asking too much.

I weighed the motorcycle verses unicycle and decided I would give him a chance to redeem himself for ever making me picture a naked guy with a single wheel and a pole sticking out of his ass. Hence, another evening at Starbucks.

For the first time in a very long time, I walked in and I liked what I saw. He was...hot. I was instantly glad I had brushed my teeth afterall in an uncharacteristic burst of optimism. I hurried over to the table, with a huge smile on my face.

And then he spoke, and I stopped dead.

There is no other way to describe what I was hearing without reverting to a movie reference. If you haven't seen these movies the rest of this posting will make no sense to you and I apologize right now for not being talented enough to describe it on my own, and you may as well stop reading. Sorry again, have a great day, and check back later.

Alright then. Have you seen 'Ice Age' and or 'Ice Age 2?' Those really cute movies with the prehistoric squirrel and the nuts and Woolly Mammoth/Everybody Loves Raymond Guy and Dennis Leary as the Sabre-Toothed Tiger and...that really funny sloth? Sid the Sloth? With the high-pitched voice and terrible lisp? With that voice that's automatically funny as long as it's in a cartoon and not coming out of your coffee-date? Yeah.

At first I thought he was joking. He had asked me if I wanted to get a coffee and I stood there, head cocked, wondering whether I should laugh and whether he was really so nervous he had to resort to making funny voices. When he repeated the question and the voice still didn't match the hot guy it was coming from, my heart sank a little.

It sank because I knew two things for certain. First, I am actually a shallow bitch and there is no point in hiding it. Secondly, I am going to hell. For reasons why, see the first point.

The barista started to smirk when he ordered his drink because 'macchiato' did not sound right at all when he said it. It was going to be a long evening.

As long as he wasn't talking, I would swoon a little. As soon as he spoke, I would picture the furry little sloth from 'Ice Age,' which is a real romance killer.

Naturally, Sid liked me quite a bit. He wanted to take my hand, he wanted to walk me to my car and he wanted to see me again. Dammit.

I debated the next couple of days. He was nice. He was cute. I could introduce him to my friends as long as he didn't say a word. It could work. I wouldn't want him talking to me either, but some of the most exciting relationships I've had involved almost no conversation so it's not impossible.

We made arrangements for a second date.

Perhaps his voice would not be as jarring if I could just get used to it. Getting used to it shouldn't have been a problem, as Sid really liked to talk. And talk. And then a deep breath...and talk. Even though he was dominating the conversation, I remained completely incredulous.

I could barely even process that his topics of conversation held no interest for me, and he hadn't asked me a single question about myself. An hour into our second date and he still hadn't a clue what I did for a living.

I was so mortified by his cartoon voice and my shallow refusal to give him a fair chance because of it that I was failing to notice he wasn't right in so many other ways.

Until he told me about quitting his current job in forestry. I asked him what he was planning to do now, and he told me he was wanting something lighter, with less stress. He had a plan. Quizno's was hiring.

For the last time, I stared at him like he was joking. I know that toasted tastes better, but this was crossing a line. This time, I had to ask whether he was joking. He was not. Quizno's needs people - what's wrong with Quizno's?

And so the date ended there. Not because he sounded like a pre-historic cartoon sloth. Not because he spent 20 minutes explaining the difference between various paints used on road signs. Not even because he showed up to the date driving a frigging scooter and not a motorcycle. Oh no. The date ended because he couldn't afford me, and I was really pissed off that he would even think he could.

I am a shallow bitch. No point in hiding it.

Aspartame is really bad for you.

Creative writing genius that I am, you may be wondering what it is I'm doing when I'm not posting for your entertainment. The truth is, I've been spending a lot of time on my back.

Don't get excited. Have you not read my previous posts? I'm not spending time on my back for fun or for profit, instead I've been lying on my floor like a giant carpet starfish because of a sprained back. Not only do I have the sex life of an octogenarian, but the physical prowess to match.

I can trace my newly found inability to bend all the way back to my first months in Calgary. I was crossing the frozen tundra of my apartment building's parking lot when the sky overhead and the ice beneath my feet suddenly reversed. It happened very fast, and I came down in a V-shape, landing on my tailbone.

Naturally I scrambled to my feet because God forbid anybody see me, and made it all the way to the outside door of the building before passing out cold on the stairs. I'm not sure how long I was laying there for, but it's a good thing nobody came along. Being Calgary, anybody passing by would probably have thrown pennies at my head and yelled at me to get a job.

It took a few months before I didn't hurt any more, but unbeknownst to me I had done some serious damage. It's now taken a few years, but that old injury has caused my lower back to take out a restraining order against every other part of my body.

So I lie on the carpet, or sometimes on my loveseat with my legs hanging over the side. I'm sure this isn't recommended but it's the only way I can watch The Family Guy. This can't possibly be what every creative genius does between postings, but I've established a pattern and there's no reason to change.

I've been doing other exciting things too. Last night I was lying on my loveseat and eating a WeightWatchers endorsed frozen thingie on a stick. The package implied it was ice cream.

Normally I'm a huge fan of food served on a stick. Put almost anything on a stick and it tastes better for some reason. Anything but the frozen thingie I was now eating and trying to think of as dessert.

Given that it wasn't very good, I wasn't overly disapointed when part of the frozen thingie fell off the stick and landed on my boob. Had it been cookie dough or anything with actual calories, I would have moved faster, but I was really indecisive. The more pressing concern was a small portion of my boob freezing off, and or soon covered in melted aspartame.

For the record, I wasn't lying on my loveseat eating a frozen thingie on a stick while naked. I was presentable, but the part that fell off the stick landed on the one part of my boob not coverd by my tank top. It's the Law of Movie Popcorn:

When eating popcorn at the movies, popcorn will miss your mouth and land in the most awkward places possible. You will be forced to empty your bra of popcorn after the show, and or debate whether you can get away with digging the popcorn out of your crotch when the theatre gets dark enough.

Overall it was one more reason to wish I had bigger boobs. Besides limiting my career in porn, smaller boobs don't allow for easy clean-up, so soon the melting aspartame was heading for my tank top - you'd be amazed at how fast aspartame moves on a semi-flat surface.

And now came yet another humbling moment. I had no choice but to begin a frantic overturned turtle to get off the loveseat. God forbid I just be able to sit up on my own, so arms and legs flailing, I began the effort of rolling myself off the couch. Forgetting I was still holding the WeightWatchers endorsed frozen thingie on a stick trying to pass for ice cream. Which soon landed all over my legs.

So damn you WeightWatchers. Screw you Calgary. Stupid lower back.

And this is how a creative writing genius spends her time. Awe-inspiring isn't it?