So I had my first date from this most recent Plenty of Fish profile, and it did not go well. This is about as surprising as me saying that I woke up this morning with armpits.
To my relief, it wasn't spectacularly bad. Nothing caught on fire, nobody had to call the authorities and he didn't steal my vibrator. We all know the depths my dates are capable of, so this was relatively unscathing.
He did do the unthinkable however, and snapped his fingers at our waitress. Up until that point I had been thinking that he was charming and funny enough in an effeminate way that would be like having a gay friend who might actually want to have sex with me.
I wasn't interested in ever seeing him naked, but I didn't hate him yet. Three finger snaps later, that changed.
In case he hadn't doomed himself to the discard pile already, he assumed he would be sharing my dessert.
I don't mean he asked me politely for a small taste, and then wisely put the fork away after my generous allowance of chocolate, icing and an entire pecan - I mean he kept digging right in, and taking forkfuls of dessert that I was about to eat.
I'm rather territorial about my food, and would have sooner given up a kidney than any part of my Turtle Pie. I have to love you to let you take so much as a fry off my plate without feeling the need to drive a fork through your wrist.
In fact, I knew I had fallen completely and utterly without hope of redemption in love with Alex when I offered him my last bite of crab cake over dinner. In my mind, it was like telling him I would willingly die in childbirth just to have his children. It was really tasty crab cake.
Perhaps it's not surprising, but my witty and sarcastic Plenty of Fish profile is not getting much of a response, with Mr. Finger McSnappy from last night as the exception.
As Heidi of Completely Barking Mad blog fame pointed out, my current profile (posted here a couple of weeks back) will either lead to no responses or finding my soul mate. For those of you wise enough to place bets on the "No Responses" square - the next round should be on you.
However, the last time I had posted a Plenty of Fish profile, my message was very sweet. It was a little girly, kind of bland, and nothing like me at all. That profile got me no responses either. If I wanted any messages at all, I had to send my own to about 15 guys before one would reply back.
This time around, I even included more pictures of me looking as cute as I possibly can, and I'm getting the same crickets chirping in the night sound as when I tried to be sweet. The difference seems to be -- I can't bring myself to send messages to anybody.
Sure...I've browsed. A few profiles have even made me linger a little on the pictures, but I just can't get excited, and I'm certainly not hopeful.
No matter how good a guy looks, he doesn't look as good as Alex. If he tries to be funny, he's just not as funny as you-know-who. If he has interests, they're just not as interesting as...don't worry. It sounds just as repetitive, sickening and worrisome to me.
This affliction of mine doesn't seem to be going away. I gave him my crab cake, and apparently...it was serious.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Thursday, February 19, 2009
In which I defend my love of hitting things.
I'm not sure what it is I'm going through, or where it may stop. Last night, I signed up for six months of kickboxing classes, mere hours after going for a run over my lunch hour at work.
The run was painful, as I've got some sort of over-use injury going on with my left leg and I'm running along like Terry Fox only without any of the will, heroism, insurmountable odds or heart-rending back story. I just mean I'm running in a hopping and dragging way that's sure to keep the ice-pack industry in business.
Then I worked the afternoon and went to kickboxing class, feeling very athletic indeed. I had attended my first class two nights previously, at the invite of a casual work acquaintance.
I had run that day too, and called the woman who invited me to kickboxing to let her know I wouldn't be meeting her, but thank you for the offer and suggestion, but I was very tired. This is how the conversation went:
Bambi - Hi Maria - thanks for inviting me to go with, but I'm not going to make it.
Maria - Why? You dead?
It should be noted that Maria has a wonderful Spanish accent that when used correctly, makes people afraid of her. And by people, I mean me.
Bambi - Not really dead per se...
Maria - Oh good! I was afraid for a minute. See you at 5:30!
Bambi - Umm...no...I mean...
Maria - You not dead?
Bambi - No. Not dead.
Maria - 5:30 then! Bye!
I'm still unsure how it came to be that my only way out of kickboxing was clinical death, but I went and thought the worse that could happen was...well...clinical death.
But that's not what happened. First, I developed an instant girl-crush on the owner/operator of this particular women's only kick-boxing studio. Yes, she's a beautiful girl, and yes her body is so slamming I'm not even convinced we're the same species when standing next to one another in the mirror but more than that...this woman is powerful. I want to be her.
She taped up my hands and warned me that for the next few days they were going to shake, but I should still be able to wash my hair. I had never experienced a work-out that could put my personal hygiene rituals at risk, so I was alarmed.
She asked me about injuries, and I thought it was going to be her turn to be alarmed. Knee. Back. Left leg. Pelvis. I've given the run-down before for other work-out programs started and stopped and was expecting the same reaction - she'd make note of it on some kind of legal contract saying I couldn't sue her if I died and we would get on with things.
Instead, she looked me up and down, pointed to every spot I'd just mentioned and asked what happened. She wasn't alarmed at all, but I was starting to panic as she made her way upward.
No other fitness trainer had ever asked me, and I had no answer prepared for when she asked me what happened to crack my pelvis. And so I told her the truth. She looked at me for a good long time - so long it made me nervous. Then she said, let's go hit something. And so we did.
She knows how to hit, and how to teach other women how to hit like men. There's a lot to remember. Hip there, feet here, knuckles like so, hands up or she'll hit me in the face. She won't really, but somebody else could.
She held up the shields, and I started punching. My first cross sent her back a step, and she wasn't faking. She dropped the shields and looked at me for another long time...and then smiled.
The next hour passed in a sort of frenzy. By the end of it I looked like I had just stepped out of the shower, only I was joyful and not wondering if I had forgotten to rinse the conditioner. I learned how to jab, cross, elbow, knee, roundhouse kick, hook and smack down without smacking like a bitch.
It seems I may have one or two issues to work out.
When Maria drove me back to my car after class I thanked her for not letting me weasel out of going. She said I just looked like somebody who would be really good at it if I tried, and she knew better than me. That part was hard to argue with.
My second class was more of the same only I learned how to spin punch, hit from below and...that I really can't do a push-up even if the ground beneath me were on fire and it was the only way to save my own boobs. Hopefully, this will change -- and it won't be the only thing that gets better.
The run was painful, as I've got some sort of over-use injury going on with my left leg and I'm running along like Terry Fox only without any of the will, heroism, insurmountable odds or heart-rending back story. I just mean I'm running in a hopping and dragging way that's sure to keep the ice-pack industry in business.
Then I worked the afternoon and went to kickboxing class, feeling very athletic indeed. I had attended my first class two nights previously, at the invite of a casual work acquaintance.
I had run that day too, and called the woman who invited me to kickboxing to let her know I wouldn't be meeting her, but thank you for the offer and suggestion, but I was very tired. This is how the conversation went:
Bambi - Hi Maria - thanks for inviting me to go with, but I'm not going to make it.
Maria - Why? You dead?
It should be noted that Maria has a wonderful Spanish accent that when used correctly, makes people afraid of her. And by people, I mean me.
Bambi - Not really dead per se...
Maria - Oh good! I was afraid for a minute. See you at 5:30!
Bambi - Umm...no...I mean...
Maria - You not dead?
Bambi - No. Not dead.
Maria - 5:30 then! Bye!
I'm still unsure how it came to be that my only way out of kickboxing was clinical death, but I went and thought the worse that could happen was...well...clinical death.
But that's not what happened. First, I developed an instant girl-crush on the owner/operator of this particular women's only kick-boxing studio. Yes, she's a beautiful girl, and yes her body is so slamming I'm not even convinced we're the same species when standing next to one another in the mirror but more than that...this woman is powerful. I want to be her.
She taped up my hands and warned me that for the next few days they were going to shake, but I should still be able to wash my hair. I had never experienced a work-out that could put my personal hygiene rituals at risk, so I was alarmed.
She asked me about injuries, and I thought it was going to be her turn to be alarmed. Knee. Back. Left leg. Pelvis. I've given the run-down before for other work-out programs started and stopped and was expecting the same reaction - she'd make note of it on some kind of legal contract saying I couldn't sue her if I died and we would get on with things.
Instead, she looked me up and down, pointed to every spot I'd just mentioned and asked what happened. She wasn't alarmed at all, but I was starting to panic as she made her way upward.
No other fitness trainer had ever asked me, and I had no answer prepared for when she asked me what happened to crack my pelvis. And so I told her the truth. She looked at me for a good long time - so long it made me nervous. Then she said, let's go hit something. And so we did.
She knows how to hit, and how to teach other women how to hit like men. There's a lot to remember. Hip there, feet here, knuckles like so, hands up or she'll hit me in the face. She won't really, but somebody else could.
She held up the shields, and I started punching. My first cross sent her back a step, and she wasn't faking. She dropped the shields and looked at me for another long time...and then smiled.
The next hour passed in a sort of frenzy. By the end of it I looked like I had just stepped out of the shower, only I was joyful and not wondering if I had forgotten to rinse the conditioner. I learned how to jab, cross, elbow, knee, roundhouse kick, hook and smack down without smacking like a bitch.
It seems I may have one or two issues to work out.
When Maria drove me back to my car after class I thanked her for not letting me weasel out of going. She said I just looked like somebody who would be really good at it if I tried, and she knew better than me. That part was hard to argue with.
My second class was more of the same only I learned how to spin punch, hit from below and...that I really can't do a push-up even if the ground beneath me were on fire and it was the only way to save my own boobs. Hopefully, this will change -- and it won't be the only thing that gets better.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Let the Gong Show begin.
I'm not a big believer in the whole time healing all wounds proposition, so it's come to my attention that the only way I'm going to distract myself from my current romantic disaster is to create entirely new ones.
Relief can't come soon enough. As it is, I'm still at the point where listening to a romantic song of any kind will make me weepy so there's only three songs in the entire world right now that are safe. One of those songs is "A Boy Named Sue," and the remaining two are Weird Al classics, so I'm obviously in a very delicate state.
Therefore, it's time to try online dating again.
I just can't spend any more time wondering what it is about me that Alex doesn't want, or arguing with the well-intentioned who've debated passionately that maybe it has nothing to do with me.
And bless the hearts of those who have employed the words, "Maybe it just wasn't meant to be..." As last words go, they could have done worse. I'm sure their families might miss them, and I might miss their friendship but I reacted the only way that seemed natural at the time - even though I'm regretting not having more room in the trunk of my car right now.
Basically, I'm in desperate need of a distraction and meeting new and interesting people and then going on horrifying dates with them seems like a good idea. And so, I've written a new online ad that I'll be posting on Plenty of Fish this weekend.
The ad will read as follows:
Here’s the thing. Not really in the mood for any sort of crap, and definitely not in the mood to read one more ad from a guy who says, in summary:
“I’m not into head games, or crazy girls. I like spending time outdoors and indoors some nights too.”
(I mean…really?? You like to go outdoors sometimes, and indoors other times? How fascinating! Me too!)
I’m just a nice guy looking for a girl who’s genuine, smart, funny, and down to earth. No fatties.”
(As opposed to all of those people looking for phony, stupid and dull 800 pound shut-ins. Way to be different!)
Meanwhile, dude is pictured either shirtless or holding a guitar, and God help us all, some times both. Nothing says sensitively masculine like a half-naked guy clutching a guitar and calling women fatties. I’m getting butterflies just thinking about it. So instead of an upset feeling in my tummy, I thought I’d just go ahead and write my own ad…
I’m bat**** crazy. Seriously. I love to play games, mess with people’s heads, lie, cheat and steal. My last date ended up as the lead-off on the 6:00 news, but in my defense it was a slow news day, and I was going to come down from the top of that building on my own time -- the SWAT team didn’t have to get so testy about it. I can’t stand being outdoors for any reason. Come to think of it, I can’t stand being indoors neither so mostly I just hang out in foyers. It’s a decent compromise. I’m ridiculously phony. Nothing about me is genuine, and I have the forged birth certificate to prove it. I have no hobbies or interests of any kind. I strongly dislike good conversations or pleasures of any sort come to think of it. I prefer awkward silences and watching paint dry. I’m illiterate. In fact, I’m forcing somebody to type this for me right now by gunpoint. I can’t be in the minority!
I’m also a little sarcastic, irreverent and bored with the usual – and I hope you are too.
I'm hoping that the honest approach will pay off. Fingers crossed.
Relief can't come soon enough. As it is, I'm still at the point where listening to a romantic song of any kind will make me weepy so there's only three songs in the entire world right now that are safe. One of those songs is "A Boy Named Sue," and the remaining two are Weird Al classics, so I'm obviously in a very delicate state.
Therefore, it's time to try online dating again.
I just can't spend any more time wondering what it is about me that Alex doesn't want, or arguing with the well-intentioned who've debated passionately that maybe it has nothing to do with me.
And bless the hearts of those who have employed the words, "Maybe it just wasn't meant to be..." As last words go, they could have done worse. I'm sure their families might miss them, and I might miss their friendship but I reacted the only way that seemed natural at the time - even though I'm regretting not having more room in the trunk of my car right now.
Basically, I'm in desperate need of a distraction and meeting new and interesting people and then going on horrifying dates with them seems like a good idea. And so, I've written a new online ad that I'll be posting on Plenty of Fish this weekend.
The ad will read as follows:
Here’s the thing. Not really in the mood for any sort of crap, and definitely not in the mood to read one more ad from a guy who says, in summary:
“I’m not into head games, or crazy girls. I like spending time outdoors and indoors some nights too.”
(I mean…really?? You like to go outdoors sometimes, and indoors other times? How fascinating! Me too!)
I’m just a nice guy looking for a girl who’s genuine, smart, funny, and down to earth. No fatties.”
(As opposed to all of those people looking for phony, stupid and dull 800 pound shut-ins. Way to be different!)
Meanwhile, dude is pictured either shirtless or holding a guitar, and God help us all, some times both. Nothing says sensitively masculine like a half-naked guy clutching a guitar and calling women fatties. I’m getting butterflies just thinking about it. So instead of an upset feeling in my tummy, I thought I’d just go ahead and write my own ad…
I’m bat**** crazy. Seriously. I love to play games, mess with people’s heads, lie, cheat and steal. My last date ended up as the lead-off on the 6:00 news, but in my defense it was a slow news day, and I was going to come down from the top of that building on my own time -- the SWAT team didn’t have to get so testy about it. I can’t stand being outdoors for any reason. Come to think of it, I can’t stand being indoors neither so mostly I just hang out in foyers. It’s a decent compromise. I’m ridiculously phony. Nothing about me is genuine, and I have the forged birth certificate to prove it. I have no hobbies or interests of any kind. I strongly dislike good conversations or pleasures of any sort come to think of it. I prefer awkward silences and watching paint dry. I’m illiterate. In fact, I’m forcing somebody to type this for me right now by gunpoint. I can’t be in the minority!
I’m also a little sarcastic, irreverent and bored with the usual – and I hope you are too.
I'm hoping that the honest approach will pay off. Fingers crossed.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Because there's nothing low-impact in my nature.
I've joined another running clinic. Apparently I like paying a small fee for ongoing torture, punishment and degradation. And a T-shirt.
This running clinic is being held through my employer in preparation for a very well-known annual 10k race taking place in April. It's a brilliant strategy actually. My employer has been hinting at the need for cutbacks for some time now, but our staffing has already been reduced to skeletal levels.
I believe the administration is hoping that by supporting 40 odd staff members spending their lunch hours running through wooded trails, that we'll just die off through natural selection. It's less awkward than lay-offs - we're doing this to ourselves.
I'm actually doing this for the 20 seconds I experience when I feel invincible. When I can run up a hill, jump over logs, race down a path along the ocean and feel like a stretchy pant wearing warrior princess. The remaining 44 minutes and 40 seconds I want to die, but the exchange is almost worth it.
I want to run this race, and I want to cross that finish line with the team, even if it means I come limping in behind the old people who walk the entire route with their walkers, and the one 450 pound individual who seems to participate every year and takes nine hours to finish.
Every year the newspaper sponsoring the run profiles a person like this, and it's become an unofficial tradition. I won't care at all if I'm visible in the background of the triumphant photograph of the 450 pound inspiration story crossing the finish line, just as long as I cross before they start taking down the signage.
It's not looking good I'm going to be able to finish though, and neither will at least one of my colleagues and fellow runners.
Running aggravates this stupid injury I'm dealing with and causes me pain. While it doesn't injure me any further, it just hurts like a mo'fo. If I can't deal with it or lessen it or make it go away through sheer force of will - I may not make it.
One particular colleague of mine may not make it either, but that's because I might have to kill her long before race day. I only have so much will, and getting my ass into the stretchy pants and hitting the trails takes up all of it. Basically, she's on borrowed time.
I'm not a happy runner. I don't experience a great deal of exhilaration, I feel every complaint my body and lungs throw my way and with every step I curse my slow metabolism and the fact there's no such thing as a sports bra for my ass, given that it bounces more than my boobs.
I like to talk when I can, but in short bursts when I feel I don't have to choose between conversation and cardiac arrest. Mostly, I like to focus on getting through, getting over and getting something out of all that suffering.
This colleague makes that hard, given her need to warn the group. What does she warn the group about? Everything. How does she do it? She yells...no, that's not really accurate.
Years of watching Canucks games in sports bars have conditioned me to remain calm while any number of people yell at random intervals for no good reason. This woman doesn't just yell. She brays like she's spotted a nuclear missile heading right for us.
For your consideration a small list of warnings she's hollered into my ear:
Car!
Watch the grass!
Dog!
Branch!
Mud!
Stairs!
Pine cone!
Watch the pavement!
Slippery!
Watch the gravel!
Geese!
Truck!
Parked!
The geese warning caught me by surprise. What was the concern exactly? Is there some sort of protocol to consider when running by geese that could have resulted in tragedy if not followed?
I was also particularly captured by her need to specify. After hollering to warn the group of the truck, she went on to alert us in no uncertain terms that the truck was parked. Was she afraid we couldn't see the gigantic red F150 parked by the road, and that without her letting us know it was there and completely stationary we would all, one by one, run directly into the truck head first resulting in the first group claim of that nature ever filed with WCB on behalf of one organization?
Also, it remains unclear as to what we're supposed to be watching the grass, pavement and gravel for. Is she expecting it to do something? Should we all just carry a pair of binoculars and watch the terrain from inside and afar in case it gets sneaky some day?
I know she's not yelling at me personally - she's hollering for the benefit of the entire group. It just so happens though, that we run at the same pace. I can't get away from her. If I speed up I'll collapse and if I slow down any more I won't be running at all. I'm stuck with her.
If I say something I'll look like the raging bitch I currently am. If I don't say anything, I'll end up punching her in the throat and falling over a wayward pine cone in my attempt to flee.
That will be her fault too though. A pine cone warning should come quicker.
This running clinic is being held through my employer in preparation for a very well-known annual 10k race taking place in April. It's a brilliant strategy actually. My employer has been hinting at the need for cutbacks for some time now, but our staffing has already been reduced to skeletal levels.
I believe the administration is hoping that by supporting 40 odd staff members spending their lunch hours running through wooded trails, that we'll just die off through natural selection. It's less awkward than lay-offs - we're doing this to ourselves.
I'm actually doing this for the 20 seconds I experience when I feel invincible. When I can run up a hill, jump over logs, race down a path along the ocean and feel like a stretchy pant wearing warrior princess. The remaining 44 minutes and 40 seconds I want to die, but the exchange is almost worth it.
I want to run this race, and I want to cross that finish line with the team, even if it means I come limping in behind the old people who walk the entire route with their walkers, and the one 450 pound individual who seems to participate every year and takes nine hours to finish.
Every year the newspaper sponsoring the run profiles a person like this, and it's become an unofficial tradition. I won't care at all if I'm visible in the background of the triumphant photograph of the 450 pound inspiration story crossing the finish line, just as long as I cross before they start taking down the signage.
It's not looking good I'm going to be able to finish though, and neither will at least one of my colleagues and fellow runners.
Running aggravates this stupid injury I'm dealing with and causes me pain. While it doesn't injure me any further, it just hurts like a mo'fo. If I can't deal with it or lessen it or make it go away through sheer force of will - I may not make it.
One particular colleague of mine may not make it either, but that's because I might have to kill her long before race day. I only have so much will, and getting my ass into the stretchy pants and hitting the trails takes up all of it. Basically, she's on borrowed time.
I'm not a happy runner. I don't experience a great deal of exhilaration, I feel every complaint my body and lungs throw my way and with every step I curse my slow metabolism and the fact there's no such thing as a sports bra for my ass, given that it bounces more than my boobs.
I like to talk when I can, but in short bursts when I feel I don't have to choose between conversation and cardiac arrest. Mostly, I like to focus on getting through, getting over and getting something out of all that suffering.
This colleague makes that hard, given her need to warn the group. What does she warn the group about? Everything. How does she do it? She yells...no, that's not really accurate.
Years of watching Canucks games in sports bars have conditioned me to remain calm while any number of people yell at random intervals for no good reason. This woman doesn't just yell. She brays like she's spotted a nuclear missile heading right for us.
For your consideration a small list of warnings she's hollered into my ear:
Car!
Watch the grass!
Dog!
Branch!
Mud!
Stairs!
Pine cone!
Watch the pavement!
Slippery!
Watch the gravel!
Geese!
Truck!
Parked!
The geese warning caught me by surprise. What was the concern exactly? Is there some sort of protocol to consider when running by geese that could have resulted in tragedy if not followed?
I was also particularly captured by her need to specify. After hollering to warn the group of the truck, she went on to alert us in no uncertain terms that the truck was parked. Was she afraid we couldn't see the gigantic red F150 parked by the road, and that without her letting us know it was there and completely stationary we would all, one by one, run directly into the truck head first resulting in the first group claim of that nature ever filed with WCB on behalf of one organization?
Also, it remains unclear as to what we're supposed to be watching the grass, pavement and gravel for. Is she expecting it to do something? Should we all just carry a pair of binoculars and watch the terrain from inside and afar in case it gets sneaky some day?
I know she's not yelling at me personally - she's hollering for the benefit of the entire group. It just so happens though, that we run at the same pace. I can't get away from her. If I speed up I'll collapse and if I slow down any more I won't be running at all. I'm stuck with her.
If I say something I'll look like the raging bitch I currently am. If I don't say anything, I'll end up punching her in the throat and falling over a wayward pine cone in my attempt to flee.
That will be her fault too though. A pine cone warning should come quicker.
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