Dear Jesse...

***The following is not terribly funny, and I'm breaking a couple of rules. I've used my friend's real names in this posting, because I think they deserve to be known. I wrote about Jesse on this blog a long time ago, although I didn't use his real name. It's hard for me to write about events and people that are really close to me, or who have affected me deeply and personally.

I've wanted to write about Jesse for a long time - not necessarily on this blog but somewhere. I've perhaps needed to write about Jesse for a long time, and could never find the right words. I'm not sure I've managed to yet, but I've had something to tell him and the easiest way to start is by writing him a letter. You may not want to read it, or you may. At least it's written. We will return to regularly scheduled ridiculousness and postings shortly.***

Dear Jesse,

I told everybody about you at first. How could I not? My best Valentine's Day date ever. Granted, I've only ever had two dates on Valentine's Day before you, and one of those ended with me retching on his shoes so...there's that.

(To be fair, I hated his shoes anyway. They were green Doc Marten shoes and I had the flu. Who in the hell wears green Doc Martens? He was basically asking for it, and the bar was set low for V-Day going forward, is all I'm saying.)

Even if I were the type of girl guaranteed to boost retail sales around the second week of February every year through men trying to outdo themselves for my affections - you will always be my best Valentine's Date ever.

I didn't mean to meet you for the first time on Valentine's Day. We had been talking for weeks and since I never have anything going on that day my schedule was clear.

That's the only reason I picked it - I didn't even think of the significance. You remembered though, and we laughed when you told me how much it freaked you out.

You really rose to the occasion though. I still have the card you gave me, and I remember what you said when you did it. You waited until the end of our date. You gave me the chocolates first, which was a nice touch but the card you kept folded in your jacket.

You didn't have to do either - you didn't know me. But you did, and when you said the sweet romantic card that talked about falling for somebody so quickly had actually become true - it was one of the nicest gestures any guy as ever shown me.

It was a long time ago, but I still have the chocolates too. You can laugh at me for being such a sentimental loser, but I don't think you will. The only times you laughed at me was when you showed your prankster side, and that's when I was usually howling with you.

I wasn't the only one who fell for you that night I'm sure. It was your smile. My God Jesse when you smiled at somebody it was like a moment in the sunshine, the spotlight, a warm tropical breeze when the world seems perfect. You turned that smile on our waitress and we didn't wait a moment for our drinks from that crusty old girl all night.

You were so pretty to look at. Dark hair, dark eyes, impossibly long eye-lashes, chiseled features, chiseled muscles. Quite literally, you were the best looking guy I have ever been out with, and you had the charm to match.

You didn't fake it though. You didn't have to. From the moment I met you, you made me feel like I was the most beautiful, most intelligent, most interesting, most desirable, most downright fucking fascinating woman on the planet. I was high for three days afterward. You hung on my every word.

It actually made me nervous.

Everything about you made me nervous, actually. You were pretty downright fucking fascinating yourself. I didn't know what to think when you leaned in close, and asked me, "You know me don't you?"

It was my first time meeting you. How could I know you?

You explained that you knew we had a connection, and that we knew each other some place else, some where else, some how. You knew these things, and people made fun of you when you talked like that, but you wanted me to tell you - I knew you.

As it turned out, on some level I did.

I laughed when you warned me that no woman had kissed you without falling in love with you and I told you I was willing to risk it. It was a risk. I could barely steady my knees to walk to my car, and it took me several tries to get the key in the ignition.

I'm not sure I fell in love, but I'm pretty sure you blew my mind, just a little.

You kept blowing my mind. We'd talk every day for weeks and then I'd hear nothing from you except for the way you'd say goodnight to me every night, online without fail. I wouldn't have the chance to respond, but you made a point of letting me know you were still thinking of me. Then you'd drop by my office, or call me out of the blue like weeks hadn't passed

I loved talking with you. I loved everything you said. I loved hearing about your daughter, which was strange given my frozen womb. She was your entire world, and you were in awe of how much smarter she was than you. When she scored perfect marks in her grade two spelling test you reacted like the kid had just climbed Everest while simultaneously accepting her Nobel Prize. SO cute.

You were so generous. You offered me money for anything I wanted. Money came easily to you. You made money no matter what you did, but that's because you were so good at your job. A perfectionist. You built people beautiful homes, and you promised me my dream home too.

When you offered me whatever money I needed to put a down-payment on a condo I didn't question your sincerity. I knew you meant it. I knew I could ask for any amount of money from you, and you wouldn't hesitate. To you, it was just money. More was always coming.

If I didn't accept your money, I'd damn well better listen to you and let you help me fix up whatever home I buy. I made you promise you would help me, and you made me promise I'd be smart enough to flip it.

I was appalled. Why would I want to flip my dream home? You weren't attached to places like I am. Once I've put work into something I will not give it up. You said I'd only be giving it up to get something better, and that's what you wanted me to have.

You thought my stubborness was funny, but I still wouldn't take your money. Not for anything. I asked you once why you would not hesitate to spend thousands on me, and you said it was because I would never ask.

You were maddening like that.

You never wanted me mad at you. Remember when we had plans to go out for dinner and you didn't call me until 10:00 at night? I was mad, even though you kept telling me not to be. I was mad when I agreed to pick you up at your buddy's place, way out in the boonies. I was really mad when I overheard your buddy yelling through the door after I rang that "Jesse's whore is here," and then you insisted I come upstairs to meet the crew.

It was quite the crew. The guy who answered the door scared me. I mean, he really gave me the creeps and I actually began to feel mildly terrified but unsure why. There was nothing scary in that million-dollar house. There was literally nothing in that house but a really huge TV and the world's friendliest pit-bull - the pit-bull gave me something to be friendly toward, because I didn't even want to acknowledge any of those guys.

Once we were in the car I was especially mad at you when you informed me you had been afraid you were about to get the shit kicked out of you or worse. The guy who had called me a whore and given me the creeps was apparently one of the biggest and most violent drug-dealers on the west coast and wanted a piece of your construction business. You thought it was about to turn ugly, and suggested in a really casual tone that I might want to start driving.

Wow. Was I mad at you then. You found that amusing, and I found that...well...maddening. I forgave you over our late night dinner. It was so hard not to. The way you would look at me Jesse - nobody could stay mad at you.

I couldn't stay mad but I did start to see much more clearly. Everything you said you were was like a mirage. It looked so real, but blink your eyes or take a second look and the image shifted and shimmied.

You were a talented and sought after building contractor who could build gold out of straw, but you couldn't do it in your own truck. You had lost your license and I couldn't get a straight answer as to why. Your daughter was your world but you had lost her too, along with your wife. You said you had been an addict. Past tense. I wondered how far past.

None of this really swayed me. You were the ultimate bad boy with a sensitive soul. Abused in every way possible as a child, estranged from your family you were a tortured sensitive soul in an incredibly hot body.

You didn't play this angle with me though. You didn't look for sympathy, you were matter of fact. You always insisted that you didn't have to tell me much more, because I simply knew you.

You were never entirely wrong. I recognized something in you that lived inside of me too, and I only wished I saw it more clearly now.

Every moment with you was intense, which is why I never saw it coming that night when you tricked me into thinking you hadn't actually paid and we had just done a dine and dash at a restaurant I was scheduled to have a work meeting at the next day.

It was pouring rain and I first chased you around the car, soaking both of us. How could you do that? How could you?? Yes, yes I was mad at you. Of course I'm mad at you, stop telling me not to be!

Then you chased me nearly to the front door of the restaurant, now closed for the night, when I bolted there to pay our bill in order to prevent me from surely being arrested and my life spiralling into ruin over what was at best a mediocre steak sandwich.

All the time you were laughing your ass off, which should have provided a clue but you were just so convincing. The manager and our server calmly walking out of the building and wishing us good night was the only way I was convinced we were in the clear.

You had such a devious sense of humour, and I came down with a very nasty cold after that. But it was worth it for what happened next.

I was never sure what to do with you when we said good-bye. It never felt like we were truly dating, so every time you kissed me it was new and unexpected. That night, I didn't want to say good-bye just yet. I parked the car outside your place and we sat listening to the rain. You asked me the strangest question in the funniest way. "I bet you're really good in bed aren't you"

It didn't come across as flirtatious. You sounded wistful and sad. I answered honestly. Of course I am. I wanted to know why you would ask me that, and if you had blown my mind a little the first night we met, you blew my mind completely sitting there in the rain.

You said you wouldn't sleep with me. Not yet. Maybe not ever. You were a prude like that, and it wasn't important to you. Holding hands meant more to you because sex was so easy. It was so cheap. You didn't feel good about it anymore, and besides...I was too good.

I was too good to fuck. I was too important to you, I was too valuable and I was too special for you to rush into sex with. Jesse...I wasn't mad at you then when I covered my face for a moment with my hands. I wasn't mad at all.

Aside from my Dad, I've had one guy in my life tell me he loved me. The warm fuzzy impact of that statement was usually lessened by every other time that guy told me I was fat, ugly, stupid or destined to be alone and or homeless without his generosity. I have had three different men tell me that I'm the girl guys like to fuck though.

The first time it was in response to me asking my cheating boyfriend at the time why he and I had been dating for nearly a year and I hadn't met his mother, but the last girl he cheated on me with went home with him for the holidays.

He thought carefully about his answer, before telling me that there are two types of girls. The girls men fuck, and the girls who get to meet the parents. I'm the first kind.

After that, two more guys have said very similar in response to me asking why we don't hang out more, or why we were hanging out a lot, but now he's found somebody he wants to date and for some reason I had thought it should have been me. I'm not the girl guys date either.

No guy but you Jesse has ever told me otherwise. Not in actions, and not in words. When you did...it hit me hard. In a good way. You could have been lying but I don't care. I still don't care. You're the only man, apart from my father, who has ever treated me like I really do deserve better.

It made the next time I saw you not so strange. Pizza and a movie at your place. When I showed up I was really amused that there were four large pizzas. You really wanted to make sure you ordered something I wanted.

We ordered a movie on pay-per-view and you went right to sleep lying next to me on the couch. I teased you about if after the movie ended and you woke up by sneezing into my neck. There's being respectful and then there's ridiculous. How flattered was I supposed to feel that I bored a guy into unconsciousness? It's not how things usually go while cuddling on the couch.

You said I didn't get it. The only reason you could sleep was because I was there.

You looked different that night. Very young and vulnerable. Thinner somehow than the last time you had put your arms around me to prevent me from making an ass out of myself and barging into some restaurant to apologize for not paying.

You seemed smaller, much less sure of yourself. Again, I didn't want to say good-bye, but this time for different reasons. I wanted to take care of you, but I had no idea why you might need caring for.

You vanished again. Weeks went by and all I would get from you were messages wishing me a good night. I was getting a lot more attention from somewhere else though. My relationship with Alex had unexpectedly exploded.

It wasn't as though I stopped thinking of you, but he wasn't leaving me alone and I couldn't leave him alone either. It was true love it seemed - or at least the mutual stalking that passes for true love.

However, you always had a way of making my knees weak, and the next time you and I spoke was no exception.

I don't remember whether you had called or I had called you, but I remember exactly what you said. You said you were so scared. The voices had been telling you to keep checking the locks, and you listened but the doors didn't open and you were so scared because the voices wouldn't stop and you were so afraid you would get into trouble. The hitch in your voice that let me know you were stifling tears almost took my legs from under me.

What scared me most is that you were so afraid, but lucid. You made sense once I asked you questions, clarifying what was happening. You had been hearing voices for at least three days. The voices told you that if you found an unlocked door in any house in your neighborhood that would signify the house actually belonged to you.

You were wandering the streets, checking the front doors of all of your neighbors and you were terrified somebody would see you. You had the sense to know it would raise alarm. The voices wouldn't stop, wouldn't let you sleep and they were always wrong.

You seemed to know that the voices couldn't be real, but you weren't sold on that. For all the times you suggested I knew you on some deeper level, recognized you in a more spiritual way I didn't see that until hearing your voice that day.

I've known what it's like to be that afraid. I've known what it's like to cower within your own mind, with no chance of escape. I know what it's like to know I'm not making any rational sense and yet still be helpless to make sense out of anything.

I told you to stay inside. I was going to come for you. Don't do anything more until I call you back.

My next call was to a mental health hot line. Useless fuckers. I was going to go get you, but I didn't know where to take you. If I took you to emergency we could be sitting for hours and you may not stay. It was too late to take you to a clinic, and I didn't know what to do.

The guy on the other end of the phone sounded like I bored him, and had interrupted his coffee and donut break. He seemed to think the problem could wait, but if I was really concerned I could let days pass and submit what I thought to be the problem to a mental health team that would check in on you. It could take days to arrange. Or, I could just send the cops to your house.

The cops. That would be a great idea. I knew you'd lost your license and may be easily recognizable to local police because of the history I was pretty sure you had. I knew you were upset, and scared, and terrified you were going to be caught. A few police cruisers on your front lawn would surely ease your suffering.

The mental health guy suggested if I could calm you down a walk-in clinic would be fine for tomorrow. I knew I could calm you down, and I did.

We would go the next day. You had to work the next morning - another multi-million dollar home. One of your guys was picking you up but you would be done by 2:00. I would phone you at 2:00 and I would come get you, and we would go together. I wouldn't leave you, and we would sort this out. Be ready for 2:00.

I called at 2:02. You didn't pick up. I called several times more after, and you still didn't pick up.

Maybe you were embarrassed. Maybe you were back on drugs. Maybe you just had a bad trip and couldn't even remember why this crazy chick was calling you every 10 minutes. Maybe you were busy. Maybe you were better.

This was in July of last year, and I didn't call you again. Maybe I was mad at you this time. I'd lived with a guy who drank himself into a stupor every night for four years and he was a mean drunk. I bore the brunt of every shortcoming he tried to drown and I hated my life because of it. If you were that type I didn't want you either.

Besides, Alex was proving to be everything I had ever dreamt of. He was who I had waited my whole life for, I was sure of it. I was sickening in love with him. From that summer onward he was all I could talk about. Everybody knew about Alex, whether they wanted to or not, but there was something about you that I wanted to keep to myself.

Twice you sent me messages while I was either crazy in love on the phone with Alex or on MSN. The first message was in August of last year, telling me you had dreamt about me. The next message was early September, wishing me goodnight and telling me you had been thinking of me but hadn't been doing very well lately.

No shit. I knew what that was like, and I was so grateful to be feeling better. I was feeling so much better I started running again that winter. Alex and I were making plans as to how we were going to be together and I started a graduate program, wanting to take advantage of my newly rediscovered energy and zest for life. My Mom being diagnosed with cancer almost threw me into a tailspin but I pulled through because things just had to work out this time.

I was afraid for you and annoyed with you. I'll admit it. I didn't want drama for once. I wanted simplicity. I wanted happiness.

Several times I saw work trucks drive by me with a red and black logo, your company colours, just where you showed me yours would go once you got your truck back. I was so relieved. I wanted you to be well. Whatever shit you were going through I wanted you to be through it, and if it meant not talking to me anymore because I reminded you of a bad time in your life than so be it.

To a point though. Your silence was increasingly making me mad. I cared for you. I wanted to help you and I tried and you just toss me aside? No emails, no phone calls and not even another message wishing me goodnight? Surely things hadn't been so bad that you would even refuse to add me as a friend on Facebook when I sent you my request, wanting to be back in touch. But you did.

Alex broke my heart. My graduate program nearly broke my mind and my Mom's illness broke my spirit along with hers it seems. And I was so mad at you the whole time. I was glad you were better, and glad you were working but I was a friend that wasn't dangerous. Whatever scene you had fallen back into I could help keep you out of it. I deserved better than your silence.

I ran my first 10k in April, and crossing that finish line was one of my very best moments. The race and the excitement left me drained, and I went to sleep on the couch where I dreamt of you.

You were standing in a door way. I couldn't see you because there was a light coming through the door way and you were backlit in silhouette. I knew it was you though. I was mad at you and I told you so. Like always, you told me not to be.

When I woke up I was furious with you. I sat straight up, and leaned over my laptop which was open by my feet. I typed your name into Google, and up came your obituary.

You had died seven months earlier, suddenly and unexpectedly.

I got up and paced around every room in the house really fast. I tried to think of words that rhyme. I counted backwards from 100 but kept making mistakes. I flapped my hands in front of me and was surprised when I looked down to see them flapping. I kept forgetting to breathe.

You died September 10, 2008. Just before that you had told me you weren't doing well. I didn't call you. I didn' t send a message back.

I made myself click on your online registry. A place where people could leave comments, like a guest book. More than one person said they were glad you had finally found the peace you were looking for. I'm pretty sure I know how, because I really did know you, just like you said.

I think you killed yourself. One way or another. I think I saw in you a person that was just as damaged and as broken as I think I am and you were slipping. That's how I think of it as when I feel myself starting to slide. Slipping.

I think there's only so long a person can go on being as afraid as I heard you sounding. There's only so long you can need to escape your body and your mind - whatever has turned on you. I saw in you somebody who would understand what that feels like, and I think you saw it in me too.

It's more than a year later and I haven't signed your guestbook yet. I missed your funeral. Who would have thought to tell me? I was a name in your phone. A name on your MSN favourites, nothing more. How would I have known?

Plenty of other guys have vanished on me, too cowardly to tell me why or not thinking I'm even worth so much as a good-bye and I thought you had done the same and I was mad at you.

You were the one guy who thought I was worth more than that, and I then you were gone. And I never knew that whole time how much I was actually missing you.

Now I miss you in strange ways. I trip over you. You aren't the only friend I've lost this year. My friend Erika died after a long battle with cancer. She was 31, and one of the most truly remarkable people I have every had the great fortune of knowing. You would have liked her. You both had such huge laughs, I could imagine the two of you together and breaking the sound barrier that way.

I miss Erika being in the world and I hate the universe for taking her and leaving so many useless people behind instead. I don't trip over her loss though. I'm sad and I miss her and wish I had more time with her, and wish I had used the time I had better. I don't find myself painting my new condo with tears running down my face all of a sudden, thinking she should be there like I do with you, because you promised.

I've been singing along with the radio only to burst into tears driving by where we met on Valentine's Day. I'll be walking somewhere and just start to cry, thinking of you. If I'm mourning you, it's hitting me late and it's hitting me hard.

I don't cry as much for Erika now and how she went because I know she was surrounded by all of the love and warmth one person could have in this life. She brought joy to people, and if there's such thing as a good death when you're just 31 and have had more rounds of chemo than years on earth - she managed to have one. She packed so much living into every day that I'm ashamed of every moment I waste doing nothing. I cry for her, but I know she was OK...you know?

You were alone though. I'm afraid you could've been OK too if it wasn't for me. I knew you. I knew you were slipping and I did nothing. I had to remind myself to breathe when I found out you had gone and I still do. I haven't breathed right since.

I knew you were in trouble but I only wish I had bothered to find out how much. I heard that fear in your voice and I recognized it, just like I recognized you. I didn't know what you were going to do about it, but of all people I should have known that you knew it was an option, and I should have acted. Now, all I can hope for is that if I ever call somebody sounding as afraid as you did...I hope they're a better person for me than I was for you.

I'm not mad Jesse at you anymore Jesse. But I am so, so sorry.

The Shortest Date Ever - A Transcript

Bambi - Are you Greg?

Greg - Yep that's me - I recognized you as soon as you walked in.

Bambi - Really? Because...I didn't. You look different than your picture.

Greg- I might. It was taken last year.

Bambi - And then what happened?

Greg - What do you mean?

Bambi - Well it's just...you have a very different look now. It's...striking.

Greg - Well, I guess I started growing my hair out.

Bambi - Everywhere?

Greg - Oh, you mean the facial stuff?

Bambi - There's a lot of it.

Greg - Well I'm very attached to it.

Bambi - To your facial hair? Well yes...it is attached to you.

Greg - No, I mean sentimentally. It reminds me of a trip to Scotland with my family.

Bambi - You know...most people take a trip and buy a T-shirt or something.

Greg - I thought it would be freeing to just let some things go in another country. Not worry about little things like having to groom all the time.

Bambi - Maybe a key-chain? My grandmother always brought back tea-towels when she went to Scotland. They were nice.

Greg - So...me not looking like my picture...is that a good thing or a bad thing?

Bambi - It's not the best thing.

Greg - Are you going to leave now?

Bambi - I think I am. Yes. I should go. I'm sorry.

Greg - No problem at all, it's quite alright.

Total elapsed time: 12 minutes.

Miscellany

Moving...

It was bad enough when the movers were three hours late. It was worse when it started pouring rain just as all of my belongings were sitting outside of the moving truck, gathering puddles. It was really lousy when I sat on top of a large rubbermaid bin to contemplate having moved only to have my ass fall through the crack in the plastic top. None of these things inspired warm and fuzzy feelings.

However.

The very worst moment was picking up a box marked "BEDROOM" in order to move it to the actual bedroom and having said box start buzzing and...vibrating. Put the box down, box stops. Pick it up, box starts rocking. The movers transported that box several times before I picked it up. I expect they all made note of my phone number.

Strata Fees Include...

Before moving into my new condo I do a walk-through of the common areas with the Strata Council President to make sure any damage inflicted by me or my movers throwing my furniture into the walls would be paid for by me.

At least I think that was the point to the entire episode because I was too busy being overcome with lust. My Strata Council President (SCP) is disturbingly hot. And charming. And funny. And no wedding ring.

Naturally, this doesn't automatically make him single but it does mean I'm only slightly less likely to have to break a commandment to get into his pants and at the rate I'm going I'll consider this a moral victory. The man is fine. That's all I'm saying.

So fine in fact, that anytime I take out the garbage I brush my hair and put on lipgloss. If I check the mail I make sure I've shaved my armpits and if I so much as step outside my apartment I'll have checked for anything stuck in my teeth. Day to day living is exhausting, but naturally I don't run into the SCP at all.

Until last night, as I was coming home from a walk. Windblown, snotty from the cold, wearing really unlattering stretchy pants and trying to maneover an extra-large Tim Horton's steeped tea, my purse and a small paper bag containing a Tim Horton's white chocolate macademia nut cookie temporarily shoved into my mouth while fishing my keys out of my bag -- I manage to hit the button on the elevator when all hell breaks loose.

The lid comes off my tea nestled in the crook of my arm and splashes down my front, causing me to say jesusfuckingchrist with a cookie bag in my mouth causing me to drool and simultaniously realize I have snot running from my nose to the cookie bag.

So. Sexy.

Just then, I hear a door open around the corner and I KNEW. I'm not sure how, but I knew it would be him and sure enough, the SCP comes around the corner walking the cutest dog in the world. At first he looked at me like he didn't recognize me or was considering how the locks should probably be changed on the building to ensure no more homeless people sneak inside just to ride the elevator. Then he recognized me. Which was worse.

I managed to remove the cookie bag from my mouth and thought I was pretty smooth by crossing my arms and squelching most of the spilled tea into my armpit with the rest dripping down the bottom of my jacket onto the floor, which I'll probably be charged for by the Strata Council. We chatted for a moment or two, with my snotty nose still completely intact.

Stonehenge. Crop circles. Why I'm still single. Such mysteries.

I Need an App for That...

Saturday I'm shopping for home renovation stuff with two gay boys in Rona - a more unproductive combination does not exist. Suddenly, my phone makes a noise which is highly strange given nobody ever calls or texts me, I never turn it on, mostly because nobody ever calls or texts me. It's Alex, sending me a text message. I squee. I actually jumped up and down and clapped my hands in the lighting aisle. I shouldn't have squeed so hastily though. Exact text exchange and translation of text exchange as per below.

Alex: Just woke up. Was dreaming of you.

Bambi: Was it good?

Alex: (insert sound of crickets chirping here)

Translation by Bambi:

Alex: Just need an ego boost right now -- you're still in love with me right?

Bambi: Yes. Yes, I am.

Alex: Just checking.

Hey Baby

An Open Letter to My Friend's Unborn Baby, As My Friend Has Been Pregnant Since Approximately 2008 and This Is Getting Beyond Ridiculous:

Hi Baby,

You haven't officially met me yet, but I did hug your Mama hello just the other month and since I am no stranger to the carbohydrate our bellies touched, so you can consider that like our first high five.

From one girl to another, there's nothing wrong with making an entrance. Keeping everybody waiting, knowing that when you arrive it'll be worth the wait is what classy women do.

Being fashionably late can make you memorable, get you noticed, and I fully appreciate that, being a classy woman myself.

(While we're on the subject, arriving anywhere with your fly down or toilet paper stuck to your shoe will also get you noticed, but not in a good way at all. Trust me on these two things. It's nothing you need to worry about for a while given the fact that you are still technically a fetus, but I'm just putting this out there.)

However, there comes a time when you really just need to show up. I can understand your hesitation. You have it pretty good where you are, and you may see no reason to make a change. You've grown comfortable, and I get that - but let me tell you Baby, there is so much more waiting for you.

If you're wanting to really make an entrance, I suggest arriving very quickly when your Mama is in a very public place. Unusual and public places of birth always get good media coverage, and for some reason, somebody always seems to call the fire department should a woman go into labour anywhere other than a hospital, which brings me to one of the reasons you should really hurry up and get here:

Firefighters. Now it's true, you may be too young to appreciate firefighters but they do come in both male and female options, depending on however your little mind will grow up to work. We don't judge.

Your Mama may not appreciate dropping into labour in the middle of a sidewalk somewhere, but she can take her mind off of things by asking if any of the responding emergency personnel are single on my behalf, that is if she is any kind of friend at all.

Ahem.

Don't feel pressure that your first appearance needs to be spectacular and traffic-stopping - this isn't the case.. Even if you arrive as planned in a cozy hospital room with your Mama frozen to the ears, you'll still be the most spectacular show in town.

Obviously, your Mama being frozen right up to her nostrils is a sign of her keen intelligence, as you don't have to worry about being born to some crazy hippy lady who plans on giving birth to you in a stream or something while clutching a healing stone and playing the pan flute. Your Mama is so much smarter than that, and so is your Dad, and they've waited so long to meet you.

But they're not the only people who love you already. You don't have to do anything but take your first breath of air and so many people's lives will change for the better. How many people can say they have that power?

Take your brother for instance. Yes it's true he may eventually fart on you, look at you when you don't want him to and generally be an ass-hat, but you can feel free to do the same.

You're siblings, and that's your job. There will be just as many moments that you'll be so glad you have him in your life, moments when he covers for you, moments when he protects you, makes you laugh, makes you smile when you don't think you can and makes you remember where you came from and just how lucky you are that you're linked by friendship as well as blood. Keep that in mind any time he's farting on your head - it'll get you through. Or not.

But for now, you just have one big job to do, and I know you're up for it. Your Mama started growing you in her belly a long time ago (a very, very, very long time ago) because your parents already loved you enough then to want you to experience all the things that those of us on the outside already know to be perfect.

(In addition to firefighters I suggest you also try the chocolate, the smell of freshly cut grass, stomping through puddles, laughing so hard your stomach hurts, the Ganache Torte at Milestones, dancing any way you feel like, kissing, sand between your toes, and basically the whole entire world.)

Come on out and see what all the fuss is about - you'll be so amazed you'll pee yourself.

Actually, you'll probably pee yourself anyway. Let's just address this potentially embarrassing situation right now, as you'll have a lot to learn when you get here, including the whole bladder control thing. And...ahem...bowels. It's nothing unusual - I say have some fun with it while you can.

Also, how you got into your Mama's belly is actually a really interesting story. I suggest you ask your Mama or Dad to tell you all about it very loudly and in public so that everybody around can also hear the story. Trust me, your Mama will love that.

If she doesn't tell you right away, you can call me, and I'll tell you. My version requires you be 19 or older however with written permission from your parents and a bottle of wine.

Sincerely,

Bambi

PS: I'm waiting too, and I swear to you that if you do drop a load in your diaper I will not hesitate to lovingly, and carefully hand you back over to your Mama. I wouldn't leave you hanging like that.

The Power of Negative Thinking

A few weeks ago I fell off the diet and exercise wagon and was dragged for several miles, trapped underneath the wheels.

I'm not sure how my fall from grace became so spectacular, as the only thing I have been sure of for the past month or so is that if I didn't eat poutine every day, puppies would die.

Puppies may not have actually died, but I really wanted poutine dammit. And chocolate. And wine. And anything with bacon. And then more wine.

Cut to this morning when I step on the scale and discover that I've gained back nearly 13 of the 25 pounds I lost, which makes for a very bad start to any day.

During my recent gastrointestinal orgy, I also quit exercising. Running and kickboxing were at one time the highlight of my days, but lately there hasn't been anything that would get me to put on a sports bra. Cupcakes maybe.

Cupcakes could have worked, but that would have seemed somewhat wrong. Have no doubt though - I would have put the sports bra on, eaten the cupcakes and then had a nap on the couch, but it still would have seemed wrong.

I wear my stress. If I'm unhappy or anxious anybody can tell by either the hives on my face or the fact that there's a lot more of my face to see. Luckily however, I've found an interesting way to halt this particular spiral.

I got mad.

Like, really mad.

I've been sad for a while, and then while driving home one day I had an epiphany. Nobody who I'm angry with would care whether I'm fat and miserable - only I will.

Some of these people might take more notice if I'm living very well and looking very good. By that time, I might not care what these people think either way, and may not even remember why I was once sad and then angry.

That's unlikely actually. I can barely remember to flush lately, but I have a long memory for who broke my heart. Also, I do remember to flush. Just wanted to put that out there.

The point is, I went for my first run in a long time yesterday, and it felt great. It felt like I was dying and my lungs were trying to escape and liquidate through the snot running from my nose, but other than that...it was wonderful to be back on the trails.

Also, all I've had so far today is fruit, and I am one hungry, angry bitch. But that's kind of great too. Better to be an angry bitch who's hungry for more than a sad sister who's full of what she doesn't want.

I know you are, but who am I?

Strange things happen to me, but I'm beginning to wonder if it's my very presence that elevates what would be considered strange by any measure to the completely bizarre.

I could be sitting in a movie theatre, waiting for a movie to start when two gorillas burst through the exit doors dressed as pirate wenches followed by members of the local police force armed with tranquilizer guns and I'd barely slow my popcorn consumption.

Most people would consider this a spectacle. Most people would wonder what in the hell was going on. I would wonder out loud whether this interruption will mean we'll all miss the previews, and how terrible that would be because I love previews.

I would also wonder where the gorillas got the leather boots to match their pirate wench costumes, because damned if I can find any that will fit my chunky peasant legs.

Next I'd kick myself for waiting until the commotion was over to unwrap my chocolate bar and make crinkling noises, which I'm always afraid will make fellow audience members hate me, and which I always seem to do during the most quiet and tense part of any movie I'm watching.

At no time will I question where the gorillas came from, how the police got involved or even why the gorillas were in costume. It would never even occur to me.

Gorilla pirate wenches have never happened, but other strange things have. This morning I was stopped while on my way into Tim Horton's by a good-looking artist type dude who wanted to know if my name was Bambi. Indeed it was. Beaming, he said that Bethany had described me perfectly and he was so glad I could be there.

Um.

I had never seen him before, and if Bethany was the girl I saw getting out of the car he had just pulled up in, I'd never laid eyes on her either. This was mildly concerning.

The guy held the door open for me, and once inside asked me if I'd be happy if he grabbed a seat by the window. For most people, this would be where confusion limits max out and explanations are demanded. I am not most people.

Admittedly, I have the memory of a goldfish lately. If I walk around my apartment one time, I will completely forget the reason I ever left point A to begin with. On any given day I have a to-do list that I forgot I made filled with tasks I forget the reasons behind needing to do.

I don't know whether it's stress, too much wine, or if my underpants are too tight and not enough oxygen is reaching my brain because I am turning really stupid.

I wanted to ask him who he was and whether I knew him, but I was so convinced I had to have known him and had simply forgotten who he was, or forgotten where I was supposed to be and why.

Perhaps me showing up purely by accident at the correct time at Tim Horton's for a meeting was just my sub-conscious trying to save me from some sort of social ruin by convincing me I needed to stop for a steeped tea - RIGHT NOW.

Most of my work meetings are spent trying to figure out something intelligent to say about something I don't know and or care nothing about, so perhaps this was like that. I was sure I hadn't ever seen these people before but then I was also sure I hadn't ever seen the McDonald's manager who served me my late night post-concert McNuggets the other night right up until I was walking home afterward and I realized I'd made out with him one ill-advised Halloween night at the bar several years back.

Perhaps I had made-out with these people and was slow to remember. As to why I had agreed to meet them in Tim Horton's just before work was a mystery I hoped would be solved once we all sat down. Luckily, Bethany arrived where we were standing in line and told her guy that he had the wrong Bambi. What are the odds??

They were indeed waiting for a woman named Bambi, a lawyer named Bambi actually, to meet them there for some sort of discussion. I was both relieved and disappointed, as the guy was really quite attractive. He told me I should take the mix-up as a compliment because I looked a lot like a lawyer.

I'm not sure how that's complimentary, unless perhaps he meant I was dressed well, which could have been the case given I really need to do laundry and was forced to bust out a dressy looking skirt this morning due to an acute shortage in clean pants.

We all had a good chuckle followed by a good round of, "What are the odds?" when the real Bambi lawyer showed up. She was very short, immensely fat, and looked as though she rolled out of bed on to her face.

I'm sure she's a lovely down to earth person, as there are not many lawyers keeping office hours in the local Timmies, but...damn-uh. Bethany supposedly described me perfectly and I was mistaken for...her? Obviously this was my karma for being such a shallow judgy bitch, and yet I'm still pissed off over it.

Luckily, I won't need much comforting. At the rate I'm going, I won't remember this at all tomorrow.

The Party in My Pants

Physically speaking, it's been less than a stellar week. I had some dental work done by a sadistic dentist and his henchman of a hygienist, which has given me a third lip.

Somehow, I can only assume during one of the many moments the hygienist was intending to suction spit, blood or water she applied the suction thingy (thingy being a the technical term - try to follow along) to the soft tissue on the inside of my top lip, and now I have a third lip.

It's a flap of swollen skin that hangs down below my top lip, and much like my belly, refuses to be tucked away anywhere less conspicuous. I suppose I should count myself as lucky considering how often she lost grip on the suction thingy and it slipped down the back of my throat, sucking the air from my lungs and causing my arms and legs to flail in the chair like I was trying to catch the attention of a passing aircraft for rescue. Had there been a skylight, I may well have tried. I was lucky to escape with just one extra lip and not the strangest cause for an obituary ever.

Next, I grew a third eye. I'm at an age where I worry about wrinkles and zits in equal amount, which hardly seems fair. One indignity or another should be plenty enough. I'm going to a party this evening where there will be a particular boy I would like to make out with. Nothing more - just make out.

If my third lip doesn't do it for him, the gigantic zit that has sprung up in the very narrow strip of real estate between my eyes should seal the deal. It has its own pulse, and I'm pretty sure that if I were to stand outside, it would be visible via Google Maps.

After these developments, what happened when I went to get a pap test done should have been no surprise. For either of my two readers who may get squeamish at the idea of a pap test - you're obviously reading the wrong blog.

I fired my family doctor long ago after I suffered through a fracture to my pelvis and subsequent nerve damage that he diagnosed as a mental illness and a figment of my imagination - the full story I wrote about in one of my earlier posts.

Not having a family doctor means I have to scrounge my regular maintenance sort of health care where I can. Last year, while I was looking for some sort of diagnosis for all of my pelvic issues, I had an appointment with a very nice doctor who worked out of a clinic for sexual health. They do pap tests, so thinking it's the pro-active thing to do, I booked an appointment at that same clinic for my regular check-up.

This is where everything stops being regular. The doctor I saw was very nice, took time to talk with me, and explained everything that was going to happen - unnecessary at this point in my life, but a nice touch. He then let me know that there would be two "assistants" in the room, both female, who would hand him things and help him out, and was I OK with that?

Well...sure. It seems to be a new policy for clinics that any goings-on with the lady-bits and a male doctor will have a clinic nurse present. I assumed this would be the same scenario.

Imagine my surprise when I'm lying there, staring at the ceiling and trying to pretend that me, my third lip and third eye were all somewhere else when two 19 year old girls wearing yoga pants and halter tops enter the room, laughing and joking, introduce themselves and come over to shake my hand like we're all meeting at a party.

The doctor then calls them to the end of the table where my legs are in a position that would usually mean I'm having a lot more fun, and tells them they should come have a look. Umm. Something had obviously gone awry, and was not about to get better.

With three people now huddled between my legs, one of the would-be yoga instructors says very loudly, "Oh wow!" Oh wow? Did I inadvertently grow a sixth lip? What exactly was going on at my surprise pap test party? The other girl answers with, "I know, right!"

Something was obviously called for, because these kinds of comments aren't really what you'd want to let slide as part of a gynecological exam. So I waved a hand toward the end of the table and asked the crowd gathered there what was so surprising, despite being suddenly afraid of what the answer might be.

Were there cobwebs? Bats? Teeth? A tent city for the homeless? I know it's been a little while since any major activity, but if eviction notices needed to be served I wanted to know immediately.

One of the girls piped up that she had no idea a pap test was actually a slide. Like, she had never thought about it before, and now she just saw it, and was like, so surprised. Like, it goes on a slide and it looks kind of bloody. Did I know that?

Why yes, yes I did know that. Both girls were impressed that I knew that, and it could have been a great bonding moment if I wasn't wondering just who in the hell these people were, and how were they qualified at all to stare at my cervix?

Once everything was declared as looking really good, the girls waved enthusiastically and wished me an awesome day before leaving while I got dressed. I used this opportunity alone with the doctor to ask him who those people were.

Apparently, the society that runs the clinic employs volunteers. Mostly nursing students or pre-med. All volunteers are vetted and screened, and they haven't had any problems. Well, except for once. That girl was crazy, but it really wasn't her fault, because she was legitimately crazy.

Of course. I felt so much less baffled, and disconcerted.

Me, my third lip and eye will still be rocking the party tonight, comforted by the fact it's just my face that's screwed up and my other end isn't actually anything to get excited about. Situation normal - I have several witnesses. If that doesn't make this guy want to make out with me, nothing will.

Bubble wrap this.

For those who don't know that I recently purchased a condo, or who may have missed the billboard campaign I instituted nationally, titled, "Holy Fucking Shit, Bambi Bought a Condo," or who were out of town for the drunken three-day celebration that took place immediately after signing the papers titled, "Holy Fucking Shit, Bambi Bought a Condo and is Now Really Drunk After Spending Money She Should No Longer Be Spending on Sparkling Wine"...

...

...I bought a condo.

I move in three weeks, and I'm so anxious to be moved that my entire living room and dining room are already packed and I can no longer make it to my kitchen without grievous injury, and or a screaming hissy fit about who was stupid enough to leave a really heavy box of books right there in the middle of the supposed pathway. Even though I'm the only one packing, it does nothing to lessen the pain of stubbing my toes on an hourly basis.

Packing puts me in a melancholy mood, because I keep everything. While going through stacks of papers and old binders I've come across birthday cards from people I'm no longer in touch with, the theatre bill from my first date with my ex-boyfriend in 2003, several postcards from the guy who should have been my boyfriend sent from South America and the spare key to my old car, Lucille.

It's like an archaeological dig through my own life. Some of these artifacts I've tucked away again, and some I tossed out with the garbage. Sort of like what I should have done with the origins of these artifacts to begin with.

Moving can also make a chica feel very vulnerable. Once the furniture is gone it will be plain as day that I don't vacuum the corners. Ever. The fact I have more boxes of books than anything other item makes me look a little unbalanced, not to mention the two boxes in my bedroom that should the contents be inadvertently revealed to either the movers or my parents, will cause me to die. Instantaneously. I will burst into flames, and then fall over dead -- no need to cremate me. And yes, I have two boxes worth. Let's not judge.

I suspect most women have similar items in their bedrooms, and have also spent time lying awake wondering what would happen should a buzzing sound suddenly start emanating from one of the boxes during the move, and whether she might recover with the help of therapy, medication or lobotomy.

I've started shopping for furniture for my new place already, given that the furniture I have in my current place came to me only after one of these two statements:

• If you're sure you don't want it and it doesn't smell - I'll take it off your hands OR
• It's only a good deal if Value Village has some sort of delivery service.

Basically, it's been a while since I've bought any major items for my home. However, I'm having the opposite problem shopping for furniture from when I normally shop for clothes - everything is way too big.

Furniture is way too big. It's massive. A typical couch at the Brick could have easily saved one half of the people who went down with the Titanic - it just needs some oars. I bought a condo, not a sprawling country home with available storage in any one of the four barns dotting the property. I need smaller furniture.

I've found a few pieces I like in very expensive furniture stores with the word "urban" in the title. Despite these stores carrying smaller condo sized sofas, these couches are double the price despite being half the size.

This frustration reminds me of shopping for lingerie. Even though a bra and pantie set may have no clearly discernible material and only a few hooks and straps to demonstrate it should be worn as something other than an eye patch, it's still double the price of lingerie that covers a lot more but is a little less pretty.

My hunt for an affordable condo size sofa reminds me of shopping for lingerie for another reason as well. I have no need for a sofa because I haven't even moved into the damned place yet, nobody would see it if I bought one, and only I would be excited about it. Sadly, those are the same reasons lingerie is an impractical purchase for me right now too.

Even if I choose to be done with the moving, pack my car with my most treasured belongings and set my apartment on fire, I know what's coming with me in my car. A few photographs of family and friends, the art on my walls, my David Sedaris books signed by the man himself, one bottle of real champagne and those postcards from South America. Everything else is just clutter.

It's official.

As both readers of this blog know, I am single. I don't mean single in a way that implies I'm simply between relationships right now and enjoying the respite in between periods of regular sex and having to share some closet space...oh no.

I mean single in a way that suggests I need to think very carefully about what kind of pet I choose in my new home. A dog is more loyal and will take longer to eat the dead body of its master, should the master choke unexpectedly on a Cadbury's Hazelnut bar (just for an entirely random example), and her dead body is not found for several weeks.

A cat however will chow down immediately. I read this in a true-crime book about forensics, so it has to be true, and given how single I currently am...I'll be getting a dog.

I'll need the companionship, because I am right now, the only single person I know. Every human being I interact with on a daily basis has coupled. I'm not entirely sure when or how this happened, but in some instances it happened quickly. One day I'm kvetching with a co-worker about eHarmony, and the next day she's giggling and exhausted having hooked up with her across the hall neighbor. They're now an item.

I mean it when I say every person I know. The Tim Horton's lady in her sixties who calls me honey-bun? Getting married in a December wedding. My running buddy? Juggling more than one. The straight guy friend of a gay guy friend who I once thought was gay because he was wearing tight denim cut-offs and who would do that besides a gay guy and who's gained a lot of weight lately and likes to use Rock Paper Scissors as a pick-up line? Getting more ass than a boy-band. My girlfriend who just broke up with her long-time boyfriend for being a douchebag? Found somebody better.

Shouldn't I be getting some sort of special award? A certificate? Key ring perhaps? I am the last of my tribe. Once I go or fail to chew my Cadbury's as thoroughly as I should...who'll pass on my history?

Seeing as how I don't have much else to do - there's no cause for worry. I'll have time on my hands to whine and embarrass myself far into the foreseeable future so...blog postings must continue.

Carpe Diem

I'm out for drinks with a guy who has no hair, wears his pants too high and looks perpetually surprised because his eyeballs are too large.

I would like to make this work however, because he seems nice enough, has a decent job and may be one of the last remaining single men left in Victoria. I estimate there to be approximately 14 left in total.

I've been on first dates with five out of the 14, danced with an additional three at various gay bars and five more consider themselves too good-looking to date me and are holding out for the next Swimsuit Illustrated cover girl.

The very last guy on the still single list is a 600 pound shut-in who's currently trapped between his bathtub and the towel rack. Should he be able to free himself by this weekend, we have a date for Friday.

Although other women are lucky enough to have found partners they find physically attractive, this may be a luxury I won't get to have. I try looking at my date from different angles, squinting with one eye, or staring over his shoulder so he appears blurred. It helps.

He's a few years older than me, and the conversation turns to the most significant changes in attitude we've experienced since getting older. I tell him that being in my thirties is a lot better than my twenties. I'm more confident, more experienced and I know what I want.

(For both of my readers who think I'm a steaming mess at 33 - be glad you didn't know me at 23. I'm actually not that different now come to think of it...but I do have more shoes. That should count for something.)

My date leans forward, the ambiance glaring off of his bald little head and says this:

What you need to know is that this is as good as it's ever going to get for you. You will never look this good again, because it's all downhill from here. Everyday you'll deteriorate a little bit more, and you'll look that much worse, every day. For you, you shouldn't wait. It's never going to get any better than right now, and you should just jump on opportunities. Like, if you didn't like your body in your twenties, it's not any better right now. It just gets worse from here.

As I found out soon afterward when he insisted on walking me home, the opportunity he felt I should be jumping on was him. He was quite astonished when I didn't invite him inside - his pep talk on seizing the moment totally lost on me.

Or perhaps not lost entirely. He was right that I shouldn't wait, and I should jump on opportunities. I will never get to do any moment over again, or be as great as I am right now.

Leaving him on the sidewalk was the only reasonable option available for somebody like me, who may be deteriorated past the point of no return by midnight.

I have no more time to waste.

Cue Celine Dion singing: All By Myself...

All around me, friends are coupling. Friends I've counted on for a long time to reassure me that there is nothing wrong with me because they're single too, are now finding their one true loves.

I'm happy for them, but no amount of happiness I feel can compete, let alone get a word in edgewise, with the special happiness they've always dreamed of in their happiest, most happy, happiness that they are now experiencing and currently killing me with.

Seriously, I don't want to hear it.

Just stop it.

Stop. It.

At first, I would call for updates. I wanted to know all the happy details. You stayed on the phone for an extra hour because neither of you wanted to hang up first...? Aww. He calls you and leaves cutesy messages telling you how he's thinking about you on your work phone...? Too cute! You've never felt this way about anybody before and know this is The One...? Wow! I'm so happy you found each other!

Inevitably though, this Code Red level of joy must be shared in new ways. My newly coupled friends have now become relationship gurus through their own lucky happenstance. They found their soul-mates, and therefore know secrets I don't know and have never considered before.

For one, instead of doing as they've done by procuring myself an amazing man who is nice and kind and the most amazing man ever born, I pursue assholes. If only I would follow their lead and find myself a guy who treats me like a princess I would be so much better off.

This is valuable advice to be sure. It had never occurred to me to interact with nice men only. Instead of pining away and waiting for Charles Manson to write me back and wondering why he hasn't called, I should have been doing what my friends were doing...which is actually the same thing I was doing but with happier endings.

It's the ending I've got wrong apparently. Instead of checking off the box marked, "Gong Show," when handed my relationship menu at the beginning of every date, I should put an X next to "Fairy Tale." Gotcha.

Perhaps I send mixed signals to the universe. One newly coupled friend is convinced she met the most amazing man ever in the history of men and amazingness because she decided she was "open," and the universe provided accordingly.

I tried being open for one afternoon, and a sea gull shat on my shoulder. Obviously I'm better off being a little less accessible to the universe, and a little lower on the radar.

My mixed signals must be the reason for some pretty mixed results. My longest relationship began as blissful, and remained blissful...on paper and in public. He was also amazing...until he wasn't.

Right up until he'd snap he'd be the nicest guy ever, which always made me question my sanity even when I was cramming my car full of the only belongings I could carry and fleeing the province to get away. The universe had that half right...I guess.

Then came Alex. Alex used to leave me cutesy messages at work, call me all the time and make me feel wonderful. Now I still enjoy his occasional Facebook update and the sound of his voice telling me to leave a message.

Things change, some times breaking your heart in the process. I'm not sure where the universe and I got our wires crossed, but I'm refusing to be either open or closed. I'm available by appointment only.

Another friend recently rewarded by the universe swears I should just stop looking. She stopped looking, and now she's frolicking in meadows or whatever it is these new couples get up to.

Granted, before finding her prince she was on E-Harmony and Plenty of Fish but I suppose that wasn't really looking - only browsing.

Out of any of the helpful advice I get that makes me want to drive my single girl vibrator straight through my eyeball, finding somebody by not looking will be the most likely to blind me.

All of my friends now in relationships were looking, right up until they found somebody.

Rewriting history to say that you had just managed to achieve self-actualization and were perfectly content to grow old alone mere minutes before a romance more magical than that between a human and a vampire who sparkles in the sun lands in your lap does not make it true.

(Also, I just watched Twilight for the first time just to see what all the fuss is about. While the story as a parable about waiting to have sex until marriage is eye-rolling, I would do Edward Cullen. Yes I would. Universe? I'm totally open to that idea. Get on it.)

It's hard being the forgotten fry in the container. The one that's all shrivelled and brown with a patch of green that nobody wants, even when still hungry. Telling the universe to make me into a potato or to ignore the fact I'm the last french fry won't help. Also, I need to have lunch if that wasn't readily apparent.

I'm happy for my friends. Honestly, I am. But if all this happiness continues, the weddings had better be open bar and whatever they do - invite some single guys to the receptions. Not that I'm looking.

Side effects may include...

I live in the land of the va-jay-jay. There are seven women in my city to every one man. I'm not a statistician and can barely calculate my share of any bill plus the tip without counting on my fingers and yet I know this much...the ratio is not good. This ratio means that I often consider exactly what standards I need to be lowering in order to be in a semi-successful relationship.

(At this point I regard anything lasting more than 24 hours as semi-successful, so it's not like I'm shooting for the stars. I settle more for shooting for the street lamps, or sometimes just as high as the lamp on my nightstand.)

The situation is becoming desperate, and I've wondered at what point I become desperate too. I've found myself compromising morals, my own values and at least three different commandments just to get a few physical needs met, and it may only be a matter of time before I compromise on what I may once of thought were bare minimum requirements. Like teeth.

It was for these reasons I was uncharacteristically hopeful about meeting Brian for dinner. He was tall, good looking, employed, athletic and fresh out of a long-term relationship. This may be a red flag for women who don't live where I do, but to me it's like being a collector of rare art work and finding a Picasso on Craigslist.

We did the usual email exchange for a while, and he was sweet and kind. He wanted to know all about my day, and told me more than once how much he looked forward to my messages. The pre-date period was going very well.

The date itself was not terrible. He kept his eyes off our waitress' boobs, which even I found mesmerizing. He complimented me on my outfit, asked me questions about myself and half-way listened to the answers. He had really pretty arms and shoulders. Given my newly adjusted standards - a dream come true.

He drove me back to my place, pulled up to the curb and there we sat. I'm not going to lie. I was on him like the proverbial fat kid on a smartie. I'm not proud of this, but both readers of this blog should know by now that demure is not exactly in my repertoire. Neither is good fortune, as I was about to find out.

Brian was a fabulous kisser, and he really seemed to like that I apparently had no decorum whatsoever. In fact, in relatively no time he was talking dirty and telling me I should move my hand down and feel what he had for me, in just those words.

This seemed rather quick, even for me, despite the fact I'd somehow launched myself onto the front console of his car without any effort whatsoever, a move I probably can't replicate ever again without the use of a harness and or crane.

However, there I was, and it seemed impolite to decline. I moved my hand down. And then down farther. And then over there. And then back. And then...maybe here? No. There? No. I was reaching into the front of his pants like I was rummaging for change, and there was nothing. I couldn't feel anything at all. Just a very small bump...umm...really? This is it right here? Huh.

Brian however, was enjoying my efforts. He asked me, "Do you want to see it baby?" And I replied, "I think I better."

Now...I've seen my share of penises before. Enough so that it would make a lot of sense to me if there were a plural word for the penis. Peni? Pene? The point is, I've seen more than one. More than two actually. Probably more than five, but less than a hundred. I've seen enough to have a baseline - some standard of what a penis should look like.

This penis did not match that standard. To say it was small, would be to imply that perhaps it was just smaller than average, but that would not be accurate. It's too difficult to compare what I was witnessing to other penises (peni? pene?) It would be much more accurate to say that it was smaller than the earrings I was wearing. His penis was smaller than my jewellery.

I think there is actually a medical explanation for this, and I think it has to do with his very attractive broad shoulders and muscular arms. Brian was built, and he trains in mixed martial arts. I quizzed him over dinner on what kind of work-outs he did, genuinely curious as I really enjoy kickboxing. Strangely, he didn't work out much. He hadn't trained hard in a couple of months...but he was huge.

There's only one thing that can make a guy's shoulders so attractive you actually want to have sex with his bicep, but be unable to have sex with his penis. Steroids. Goddammit.

What I should have been thinking about was what to say now that he'd whipped it out and was asking, "Do you love it baby?" It seemed wrong to say that it would definitely look fantastic on a necklace, or hanging from a Christmas tree or some other use that didn't require practicality, so I went with what I was genuinely thinking.

"Wow."

He said he knew I'd love it, and invited me to taste it. How nice of him. I'll admit to having put some questionable items in my mouth for some questionable reasons, not the least being some sushi rolls I thought may have turned and a double-stuff Oreo that I knew was on the ground way longer than three seconds, never mind the roster of guys I've dated, more than five, less than 100.

This shriveled little appendage however, was not going near my mouth. It was so small, it actually creeped me out - way more than the lint covered Oreo. I declined.

Naturally, he was disappointed. "Oh come on baby, I know you want this. Tell me what you think."

A friend of mine recently came up with a fantastic word to say to parents of an ugly baby when some sort of compliment seems called for, but there are no words come to mind. Luckily, all of my friends babies are genuinely cute, and I haven't had to use this word...until now.

"Your dick...is truly remarkable."

I kissed him once more, before remembering something I really had to do right away, in my apartment, away from him. I said good-bye and got out of the car to go figure out what it was.

It seems Brian and I both learned something about ourselves that night, as a few hours later I got a very nice email saying that he'd had a great time with me but he realized that he's just not ready to date anybody again so soon. Meanwhile, I have also come to an important realization. There really are some standards I'm just not willing to lower.