Push comes to shove.

Those who have never had the misfortune of having to resort to online dating are often the people expressing the most alarm over what could possibly go wrong.

These people worry most unnecessarily about the possibility of misrepresentation - that the person you're talking to is not at all who you think he is.

He could be a she, he could be writing from within the walls of a maximum-security prison, he could be fifteen years old, or he could be a Nigerian scammer wanting access to my bank account.

To these concerns I say a woman might be easier to get along with in the long run, at least I'd know where he is, I do like them young, and more power to the Nigerian scammer if he actually thinks there's something in my bank account.

Most people you find online dating don't stretch the truth that grievously. Granted, one should always subtract at least three inches from whatever height a guy has listed himself to be, and if a guy submits a photo of himself in a baseball hat then the hair color he's listed is irrelevant - he's going bald. These are irrefutable truths.

I'm guilty of some glossing myself. I only submit the very best pictures I have - the ones where thanks to some miraculous shadowing my eyes are open, my nose appears smaller than my boobs and I have fewer chins. My muffin top is listed as "curvy" and the fact I choose to park and walk into fast food restaurants as opposed to using drive-throughs means I can confidently list myself as "athletic."

Every so often though, I come across a guy who doesn't just stretch the truth - he snaps it in two pieces with a karate chop.

I have several friends who prefer dating older guys. To me this is ridiculous. It's like a choice between a puppy or a dog so old it takes pleasure only in passing gas and being carried up the stairs due to hip problems. While it's true the older dog might be trained - there's no joy in the results. I'll take the puppy every time, even if it pees on my carpet. I can totally see that this analogy is going awry, so let's move on.

I like younger guys. Guys with more confidence than brains and more machismo than common sense. They can have common sense too, I just don't want it getting in the way of them carrying me out of a burning building while in uniform or shooting down enemy aircraft while also in uniform. I don't think this is unreasonable.

Friends of mine however, would disagree vehemently. One in particular wanted to know just how well my preferences were actually working out for me. The definition of insanity according to Einstein is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.

When I argued that Alex was totally different because he's a year older than me, doesn't have a macho profession and has to wear a red tie for his car salesman uniform this was not different enough apparently.

It's true he's jumped over tables to beat the crap out of a guy he saw hitting a woman and enjoys more dangerous sports than your average dare devil so I had to concede he wasn't different enough.

It was for these reasons that I half-willingly began chatting with 43 year old doctorate student whose interests included gardening, cooking and card games. This was already such a shift in thinking for me that I may as well of decided to date women. He looked attractive enough in his photos. He had hair, arms and legs.

At this point, it's probably best not to be too picky.

I agreed to meet him for a walk and a coffee one night by the breakwater. The breakwater is a long narrow stretch of concrete walkway on the ocean, ending in a lighthouse. It makes for a lovely walk, and I thought if conversation was awkward then at least I'd have the water to look at.

Well.

Poseidon and a chorus line of mermaids rising from the deep to perform my favourite songs from the Phantom of the Opera could not have distracted me enough to make the date less awkward. Perhaps given his age, this guy didn't understand the implied trust inherent within online interactions. The guy wasn't 43.

If he was a day under 62 I would have been surprised. While it's true he had arms and legs, it was more difficult to tell given the pictures he posted were at least 100 pounds ago. He had giant man-boobs. Moobs if you will.

I think he was one of those men who delude themselves into thinking they're actually still pretty svelte because they haven't gone up a pant size in half a century. Instead, what's happened is all of the gut and chunk is held up and held over the trousers by an extremely hard working belt. Women have muffin top, some men take it to new levels entirely. This was one of them. When he walked up to me, grinning like an idiot, I was looking behind him hoping that this wasn't happening.

Again, perhaps it was his age and a need for bi-focals, but he must have missed the horrified look on my face. Rather than reaching to shake my hand, he went in for a kiss. I leaned all the way back once I realized what was happening, but he hooked his arm around my back so I couldn't get away. I was left with a wet patch of old guy spit right near my ear, as I'd tried to twist my head out of the way at the last minute.

During this whole time I said nothing. No greeting, no smile, no sound at all. He wasn't daunted. He wanted to know, "Shall we walk?" still smiling.

I really, really wanted to say no, no we shall not, but then a strange thing happened. As it usually does at the most inopportune times, I felt compassion. I felt sorry for the guy. I didn't think how he'd lied to me, but instead thought about all the times I'd been rejected and felt terrible afterward. Maybe he was lonely, and it wouldn't kill me to just go for a walk and get it over with. I was wrong. It almost did kill me.

Quickly though, we were off to an even worse start when he tried to take my hand. When I yanked my hand back like his was radioactive he told me to "Give me yer paw." I was not about to give him my paw, even if I were hanging over the edge and his hand was the only thing saving me from splashing over the side and into the ocean. As it was, I almost did end up in the water.

I told him I'd really rather not hold hands and we began our walk. Me, with my arms folded tight across my chest, him talking the entire time about his "life philosophy," and strangely, every second word was "motherfucker." I think he was trying to appear cool through excessive profanity, but instead I wondered if he was suffering from early onset dementia.

We made it to the lighthouse and then turned back, him talking the entire time, not bothering to ask me anything about my life in return. The only exception being he wanted to know where I worked and grew angry when I would only tell him the kind of work I did, rather than the exact address.

As we headed back, he shoved me.

Walking quickly, I was focused on getting back to shore, running home and scrubbing my face clean of old guy spit. I must have been nearly running, because when he shoved I was caught totally off balance and stumbled toward the edge like I'd tripped. The breakwater is not a place you'd want to trip. Had I gone over, my fall would have been broken by some concrete blocks before I hit the water, so at least there was that small comfort.

I spun and put my fists up around my ears like I was going to take this geriatric fucker out of the gene pool with a jab-cross combination he'd never see coming, just like I've been taught. My kick-boxing trainer would be so proud of me. He'd kept walking though, not bothering to check whether I was still upright. He called back over his shoulder that I was on the wrong side. He always had to walk on the left, and I was in his way.

Let's do a quick rundown of dates I have been on. I've been stood-up. I've been walked out on by a guy who confirmed I was the Bambi he was there to meet and walked out the side door when my back was turned. I've helped save a bird, had my vibrator stolen and been refused a good night kiss for religious reasons.

I've been on a successful first date with a man and his wife meaning we now have some sort of arrangement/relationship and I've been asked to spank a guy with a wooden spoon while he called me Mommy. All of these thing are true and more. And yet, I've thankfully never been hit or shoved. Until now. What a fabulous milestone.

I trailed him back to land, refusing to walk alongside of him. He kept talking the whole time though, not letting the absence of anybody listening stop him from holding forth on all matter of motherfucking subjects relating to himself.

When we finally reached solid ground he sat down on a bench and patted the seat next to him, like he and I were going to have a cozy chat. I remained standing. He winked at me, and then wanted to know if I felt there was any chemistry between us.

There was chemistry alright, and it was repellent. Rather than launching into a tirade about how disgusting I found him to be, how repugnant, how offensive and a total liar, liar, pants on fire I said no. No, there was no chemistry.

Much to my utter shock, he was surprised. His mouth opened and closed for a few moments and then he appeared to steel himself. He crossed his arms over his moobs and told me that he thought so too. In fact, he disliked me the moment he saw me. He really did. In fact, I was just...just...really unpleasant.

This was the best news I'd heard all evening. Finally, I'd done something right. I stepped aside and stood there smiling at him, waiting for him to walk away first. There's no way I was about to try walking to either side of that guy, ever again.

Motherfucker.

State of the Union

Every so often, I take stock. Where am I? How is life progressing? Where did I get this stain on my shirt? I came to a few realizations while lying on my couch, examining a spot on my leg I've apparently failed to shave properly for the last seven years.

The closest thing I have to a long-term relationship is somebody else's husband...and her.

(Yes, it's flattering that I am the spice in somebody else's marriage and that I have some cross-over appeal. It's also nice that somebody gets to see my fancy underwear, but it's not exactly what I envisioned for myself. It's getting harder to manage my role in all of this because lately I find myself looking at him and wondering what it would be like if I had met him first...)

(What if he found me on Lavalife and not her five years ago and I got to be married to an independently wealthy and really hot firefighter and live in a huge house with two dogs and quit my job just because I had a bad day and he would take care of me and pay for everything while looking really exceptionally hot in his uniform, which really should come with velcro fasteners instead of buttons because...damn...)

(What if he met me instead of her because I was single at that time and not involved in a lousy relationship with a guy whose cat peed on my clothes every day, for the four years we were together in Calgary? What if I can't stop thinking that I want to be the girl who stays and not the girl who goes home afterward?)

(Never mind. If he had met me first he wouldn't have called me again afterward, so at least I can stop wondering. Such a relief.)

I have no home.

(Well...I kind of have a home. I put yet another accepted offer in on one more condo, which has become my unofficial hobby. It's a nice place. I don't love it, but it's nice. I suppose it's my rebound condo. I'm waiting for the strata minutes and inspection before I start caring.)

(Also, it's not like I'm homeless. I live in an apartment, and it's a roof over my head in a neighborhood I love. It's just very...student like. It's not decorated with beer bongs and sci-fi posters or whatever it is kids these days are doing, but it still feels temporary. And the toilet, bathtub and sink are turquoise. And I left a banana peel in my garbage for two days and now I have fruit flies.)

I may lose my job.

(There are some people where I work who make more money than I do and have more power than I ever will who want to see me fired. It's not as though they dislike me personally, although one of them consistently stares at my tits like the answer to life's greatest mysteries may be found in my nipples and I respond with barely concealed disgust, but it's not personal. Nonetheless, my organization is going through some serious belt tightening and me and my nipples of wonder may become casualties.)

(It's starting to wear at me. Every day I go to work wondering if I'm going to be asked to clear out my desk, which would realistically take days. My desk is a mess.)

(This would not be such a terrifying proposition if I was married to an independently wealthy and hot firefighter. Just sayin'.)

I have some really nice shoes and purses.

(I love them all so much.)

I am now allergic to shoe leather.

(Seriously. It began on one of my last days in Thailand. I put on the shoes I'd worn comfortably for ages and my feet began to bubble and blister. It took weeks to heal. I've since worn other leather sandals I've had for years and the same things happen. Wherever the leather straps touch my skin, my skin makes a decent run for it. Apparently I've developed a sudden and extreme allergy to the tannin in shoe leather. As god as my witness however, I will sooner amputate my feet than wear crocs.)

I have family, friends and co-workers who love me, and I love them back.

(Even still, some friends of mine are urging me to move to Vancouver, because there are no men where I am and they don't want to see me morph into some crazy cat lady. Little do they know I've already spent years covered in cat piss through no fault of my own as per above, and that will never happen again. If anything, I'll be crazy guinea pig lady, or crazy gecko lady. Something more original. There are also more jobs in Vancouver in my field, but then I'd be away from my friends and family, in a city where I could never stop my car because I'm incapable of parallel parking.)

I miss Alex so much I'm embarrassed for myself.

(Alex was my boy in Kelowna who I lost gradually it seemed, instead of all at once. I've talked about him on this blog too much already. We don't talk right now at all. This time last year we spoke every day, for hours. This year he was the one person who told me how proud he was of me when I ran my first 10k, how proud he was that I finished my school program, how much he missed me. Gradually, we just spoke less and less. I refused to call or message him because he wasn't calling or messaging me.)

(He hasn't been online on MSN for weeks and weeks. This is unusual. It's not just unusual - it's unheard of. He was the type who was online every day. Every minute, of every day, for almost two years. Now he's not.)

(I haven't spoken to him in over a month. I logged on to Facebook the other night and saw some pics of him and some girl named Haley at her graduation with her parents. He'd mentioned her to me before, but I thought he was just sleeping with her, nothing more. It was like being sucker-punched. They all looked really happy. She looked really skinny. I hope she starves to death.)

(I seriously can't believe how much I miss this guy. I didn't miss my ex-boyfriend at all when I packed up my cat-piss soaked clothes and moved back to BC -- and we were together for four years. I want to call him, but I know it's a bad idea. Alex - not my ex-boyfriend. My ex can kiss my not insubstantial blazing white ass.)

(It's so juvenile. I find myself crying for no reason, just thinking about him. My friends can't understand what it is I ever saw in this guy, and continue to see. He sells cars for a living. He's a womanizing slut. His penis is average sized, if that. There, I said it. And still...I miss him so much.)

(I really want to call him.)

(SO pathetic.)

I lost 30 pounds. Gained back five.

(I eat when I'm stressed out. I eat everything. If there is a situation I can't do anything about that's bothering me, then the least I can do is eat, and be really, really good at it.)

(mmm...bacon doughnuts...)

I'm just not really happy right now.

(I don't know what to do.)

(I don't know what to change.)

(I really don't know.)

Thailand - Part Two

Every travel experience is unique to the traveller, and I'm sure nobody wants to hear me ramble on about the glory of some sunset or flower or transcendent moment of meditation in some ancient Buddhist temple. If anybody reading this blog wanted to read that, I would question why in the hell she's reading this blog. So. Based on my unique travel experiences, these are my recommendations...

A Few Things I Loved Most About Thailand

Banana Crepes

I know, I know. I travel halfway around the world and the only food I rhapsodize about is banana crepes, but these were not average crepes. For one, the best banana crepes were always at some random food stand on the street - no names, no signage. In Canadian money, they cost about four pennies.

The sellers who knew how to make them the proper way, began by dumping a dangerous amount of butter on a round skillet. They added the crepe batter, and miraculously did not burn it the way I would. They grilled the bananas into the crepe batter - and that part was important. Some sellers just threw some raw bananas into a rolled up crepe - these were not proper banana crepes. These were crepes with a side of banana - not the same thing.

Once the bananas were grilled into the crepe, the crepe was folded into a square, smeared with Nutella, cut into smaller squares and eaten with a tooth pick. And then I would die from happiness. If I find anybody who can make me these crepes, I will marry them. Man, woman, serial killer, octogenarian - if you're out there and can make this for me, I want to spend my life with you.

Koh Phangan Full Moon Party

Koh Phangan (pronounced ko-pan-ya) is a beach paradise, where locals and hedonists chill together so effortlessly, it is virtually impossible to experience stress in Koh Phangan. I tried. Koh Phangan's motto should be should be, "Whatever you worry about in your daily life just forget about it for now because you're in Koh Phangan and it's time to get your party on, your groove on, your beach on and we don't even care if you wear pants."

I didn't wear pants in Koh Phangan. I rarely wore shoes. I wandered around all day in a bathing suit and either a t-shirt or skirt, but never both, because why worry? I realized I really did have to leave Koh Phangan when I found myself thinking that fisherman pants I saw other white people who had been there longer than me wearing, might actually be an inspired fashion choice. I'd just weave some beads into my hair, wrap both wrists and ankles with hemp jewellery, and rock out with my fisherman pants and a bikini top and everything would be OK. Obviously, this was a sign it was nearly time to go.

Koh Phangan is famous for its monthly full-moon parties. The days leading up to the full moon saw caravans of back-packers arriving by any mode of transport with wheels, from everywhere around the world. On a small stretch of white sand beach, 5000 people gathered while we were there, in the off-season, to dance until dawn and have sex in the water. I didn't go swimming for two days afterward for fear I'd get pregnant by jumping a wave. Sadly, I did not have sex in the water but I did pee in it with a large audience, which I don't recommend.

A friend we met during a stay in Koh Phangan announced that her and I should go "wee." She was British. We waded off into the water and I since I'd had a little bit to drink, I really had to go. I turned around to face the beach, and this was a mistake. The beach was crammed full of people grooving on the music, staring into the water. One of them yelled out to ask if we were peeing. My friend yelled yes, of course we were. He yelled back, Awesome! This is the standard response to any activity undertaken in Koh Phangan.

It would have been awesome, except my nervous bladder could not handle performing in front of a crowd. It froze. Either at least 100 people on the beach would have to turn around, or my kidneys would fail due to stress. Luckily, my bladder gave up and we could continue with the evening.

Everywhere there were people dancing, fire spinners, crazy things happenening - it was almost overload. In the hours leading up to the party street vendors sold neon body paint, and that's all some people wore. It wasn't a rave - it seemed much more organic than that. Thousands of people worshipping the moon and the water and everything in between, and they worship every month in Koh Phangan.

People

Thai people are beautiful. I don't mean physically beautiful - although they are. It's actually pretty disgusting. The women are all stunning and weigh approximately as much as my right leg, but they were all so warm and naturally kind that I couldn't hold it against any of them. In my upcoming list of things I Never Want to Experience Again in Thailand or Anywhere, I have a story to share about just how amazingly kind to me one local guy was when I went to battle with a sea urchin and lost. I'm sure there's rotten people in Thailand - but I didn't meet any.

Buddhism

I'm agnostic. If I were to believe in anything, I believe that God and I have been feuding since 1996 and that s.o.b. is winning. I don't know what I believe, but I believe in loopholes. Being agnostic rather than atheist gives me a loophole should I find myself shut out of the pearly gates -- I'll have a valid argument at the ready.

I've had arguments with people over their faith, and often I don't understand what I consider to be blind devotion at the expense of common sense and in some cases - human decency. I think gays should be allowed to marry, birth control should be readily available and women should have the right to choose what happens to their bodies - issues at odds with the faith I was raised in and my own parents still share.

Therefore I was surprised by how moved I was by religious worship in Thailand. Practicing Buddhists really live their faith - it's a part of their every day lives, every day. Buddhist shrines are everywhere. Some shrines are built by the monarchy, and are grandiose and elaborate. The shrines that moved me the most were the ones I came across in the strangest places, and were often the most humble. In a bush off of a side walk, near the edge of a parking lot, in between vendor stalls - entirely random or so it seemed.

What struck me though was that these small shrines with their small offerings of fruit and flowers demonstrated how people carried their faith with them during their most mundane moments. Waiting for a bus, buying lunch, walking to work - all moments they could use for personal reflection.

I'm still agnostic and still feuding with the God I was taught to believe in, but for a few moments, I glimpsed how religion could be a comfort to those who believe, and even those who don't know what to believe but wish they did.

Thailand - Part One

I know my last post was a little...um...angry. Three parts hissy fit and one part panties in a wad, tossed into a lidless blender and splattered all over the walls. That's just how I roll. I'm an angry little person lately. Actually I'm an angry tall person with child-bearing hips. If I was a teen-age girl right now I'd be rocking the goth look - all black eyeliner, bad attitude and torn up leggings.

I'd probably be listening to Morrissey and writing horrible poetry about how nobody understands me and I am all alone. I'm not sure what the 33 year-old woman equivalent is exactly, but I'll let you know once I have it perfected.

I don't think I'm going through a second puberty, although I don't want to rule that out. My breasts really underperformed during the last one, and I'd like it if they had a second chance for a coming out party.

The summer has been rotten, but with one amazing highlight so spectacular, I think about it now when I'd otherwise be listening to Morrissey. It wasn't just one highlight, but over two weeks of highlights when I travelled to Thailand.

My younger sister is the traveller in the family. She's lived for a year in Australia, spent nearly a year in New Zealand, travelled through Europe, worked ski seasons in Jasper and Whistler, spent a summer in Johnson Canyon near Banff, flown to San Francisco on a whim and not surprisingly, finished her degree in Tourism Management.

On the other hand, I get flustered by shopping at a new grocery store. Trying to figure out the Metro in Paris would probably give me a stress-induced heart attack, whereas my sister would consider it part of the fun and adventure.

I'm not sure what happened to me at birth, but it's likely that within seconds of my arrival from the womb I was screaming and crying only because I did not have an itinerary and plan in place for where I was supposed to be next.

Thus, I was actually extremely nervous flying to meet my sister in Bangkok. What if she wasn't there to meet me? What if I missed a flight? What if they lost my luggage? What if somebody slipped drugs into my luggage during the nanosecond I wasn't looking and I would spend the rest of my life in a Thai prison? She flew from New Zealand to Thailand, and I spent what may have been eight days in the air from Victoria to Tokyo, Tokyo to Bangkok.

I did not step outside the Tokyo airport, but let me just say that the washrooms in Tokyo are an attraction all their own. The first time I went to use the washroom after spending six of my eight days in the air, I was completely flummoxed by the toilet. I opened the stall door, and there sat a toilet so advanced I was too tired to figure out how to use it.

It had arm rests with buttons, and it was too much for me after such a long flight and no sleep. I chickened out that time, but went back to investigate after I'd napped during my long layover.

The toilets are a technological wonder. Not every toilet was as high-tech - only certain stalls offered the full experience. I sat down on one of the gadget infused toilets, and began experimenting with the buttons. There is a button to make a flushing noise, without actually flushing the toilet, for those who may want some auditory privacy. There is a button to release a pleasant, deodorizing scent. There are two buttons for jet sprays, aimed at different areas. I recommend both, and that's all I'll say about that. There are also buttons for two different drying blasts of air. I suggest bracing yourself.

I was disappointed there was not a waxing option built right in, but the technology may still be new. There is of course a button to flush when you really mean it, and I'm happy to report that worked the same as always.

However, my vacation wasn't just about toilets, although when travelling, toilets actually become a real issue. The point is, I strapped on a back pack for the first time in my life, saw parts of the world that yanked me outside of my comfortable shell and met people who changed my view of things entirely.

Thailand is a beautiful country. Much more talented people than me have tried to describe sunsets, white sand beaches and ocean waves in ways that aren't cliched, and I can't hope to get across what the country side and the water and the smells and the sounds of jungle and stillness of temples and the kindness of the Thai people I met on my travels are like, because I could never do any of them justice.

Travelling with my sister was a great balance, and we only almost killed each other once when we spent an entire day travelling to the wrong island. It's a long story, suffice to say that I was tired, cranky, in a lot of pain and we were on the wrong island. I'm not saying I handled it badly, I'm just saying that I handled it...not so well.

Unfortunately, in the second week of our travels my back went out. I had been feeling twinges, like the day we landed on the wrong island, but I thought that was as bad as it would get. It wasn't.

When I say my back went out I don't mean it quietly closed the door and left the building for a few minutes...oh no. I mean my back chartered a plane and left the damned country. I was in so much pain I couldn't walk, stand, or sit without weeping.

The day it happened was a travel day, and I couldn't carry my pack. My poor sister had to carry both of ours, and help me off and on the various boats and buses we had to take to get to where we were going. This was not a highlight for me, because I had really hoped my body would be strong enough to pull off everything we wanted to do, and for the most part it was. Some of the physical issues I've been working through have been documented on this blog, and some of my issues arose only because I don't have the upper body strength to bench press a piece of chicken.

One of my best moments on my trip came when I passed a couple of British military guys hiking it up some steep stairs to the top of a temple. One guy turned to me and said, "Jay-sus. You must be a runner!" I've spent the months away from my blog posting doing some heavy physical training. I trained for a 10k race, ran it, and kept on running three times a week. I started kickboxing, and I'm actually pretty good at it. I've lost almost 30 pounds since March, so when I lapped the British soldiers and they noticed - I was She-Ra, Princess of Power.

I did not feel like She-Ra with my back spasming so badly I was honestly afraid I might lose control of my bowels, less than three days after lapping the brits. My sister ran - literally ran - to a local pharmacy to get me some drugs, and I was able to resume my vacation.

Yay drugs!

Thai pharmacies offer many drugs over the counter that you can't get here without a prescription. My sister was able to mime and gesture what she needed to the Pharmacist, who gave her pain medication for me normally given to women during just after childbirth or surgery. Perhaps he thought I was actively in labour - it's hard to say what my sister was miming exactly. Regardless, the pills he gave her for me meant I didn't have to fly home a week early like I was thinking I'd have to.

Luckily our second week was mostly beach and less adventure, so me moving around like a brittle old woman didn't matter so much. I could manage tanning and bobbing around in the water without a medical team standing by, and that's just what I did.

It sounds as though the trip was quite awful now, and that is not what this posting was supposed to be about. SEE? I think I need to go get my lip pierced and dye my hair black.

No matter how miserable I might be lately though, I think back to what it was like jumping through the waves in Phuket, waving at my sister in her giant movie star diva sunglasses on the beach and the feeling that lasted for hours and not moments - that I am so lucky to be here, and so lucky to just be.

An argument on behalf of tenting.

* Please be advised that this posting insults the following: children, old people, mortgage insurers, women with children and a ridiculous sense of entitlement because a kid popped out of their va-jays, old people again, strata councils, well-meaning friends, crown corporations, wall paper, basic human rights and people in comas. If you feel you may be offended by any of this, please stop reading right now.*

My first mistake in real estate was comparing the process to dating. At some point I must have made that statement out loud, and the universe overheard. You start looking. You meet some undesirables. You meet more undesirables. And then twice more, with feeling.

Finally, you meet your match. You want to linger longer. You ask more questions and like what you hear. You can picture your underwear on the floor, and you feel like you've found home. Then you discover very quickly that your new love interest does not share your affection, and may in fact hate you.

I've been shopping for a condo for three months now. I've had three building inspections, two accepted offers and I'm still without a home. The first place I fell for had approximately 1.2 million in hidden remediation costs identified by my home inspector. I ran from that purchase like I was fleeing an abusive boyfriend.

I fell in love a second time with a brand new ultra-urban "space" in the heart of the antique district. Hardwood, cherry wood, granite and stainless steel - the space had likely decimated at least one small section of rainforest to make it pretty, but killing so many exotic trees for me to drop my clothes upon, store my blender in and place my toaster was well worth the environmental crisis.

I loved how cool it all looked. I loved how cool I would be just by association. Despite the price being higher than I'd every planned on paying, I wanted my name on that land title...right up until I discovered how they compensated for killing so many trees. There was no parking in the building. There was no parking on the street. The closest parking space I could use was four blocks away for a special rate of only $300 a month more.

Suddenly my visions of becoming the type of girl who went to yoga every day across the street and carried her dog around in her handbag to the Parisian bakery next door were replaced by visions of me lugging my Costco toilet paper bundle four blocks in the rain. The time we spent together was fun, but it was just a fling. I walked away.

Finally, I fell in a different kind of love with a spacious two bedroom fixer-upper. The little old lady selling the place had two hobbies in the 30+ years she lived in the suite: smoking cigarettes and wall papering. She was better at smoking than papering, but she did not let lack of taste or ability to line the wall paper up properly dampen her enthusiasm. I didn't care. I loved this place unconditionally and I imagined the life we would have together.

My new sun room would be the perfect place to try my hand at painting, despite not having any discernable artistic ability and poor deph perception. An easel and canvas would add a lovely bohemian quality to the space. I would have parties and not be able to see all of my guests at the same time, by spinning in a circle.

The suite was so large, I could actually take guests on tours instead of relying on hand gestures. I knew what colors I would paint every room and what order I would place my shoes in the special built-in shelves within the walk-in closet. I was in love, and nothing could stop us from being together.

Except mortgage insurers. Those fuckers could stop the sun shining and flowers blooming with a single glance. For Harry Potter fans, mortgage insurers are Dementors. They suck your happiness and your soul right out of you.

My new found love was located in an age-restricted building. Tenants had to be 18 years or older. This was fine by me, seeing as how it fit my own personal standards for dating (most of the time, unless he's extremely hot and very mature for his age) and that I hate children with a singular passion. Not having to listen to babies crying or tripping over tricycles in the hallways were selling features to me.

The Canada Mortgage and Housing Corporation feels differently. Despite age-restricted buildings not being illegal, the CMHC feels these restrictions discriminate against young families trying to get into housing. In order to end this senseless discrimination against screaming, whining children by people who just don't want to hear it, the CMHC will end the discrimination by...discriminating against qualified buyers who want to buy into these buildings and sellers who want to sell.

The mandate of the CMHC is to help young families find housing. If you are a young family of one, or a couple choosing not to have a family, your housing needs don't matter. The CMHC refused to insure my mortgage based on the age restriction set forth by the building's strata council, even though I can count at least five people I know personally off the top of my head who have bought into 18+ buildings in the last three years, with CMHC insured mortgages.

According to the CMHC, these mortgages must have all slipped through the cracks. Every one of them was a mistake, including the CMHC backed mortgages provided to tenants in my chosen building, just last year. The CMHC has had this rule on their books for eight or nine years and there is no truth at all to the rumour that they've only started enforcing the rule this summer, following a recent case in which a woman, knowing she was pregnant at the time, bought into an 18+ building, and then expressed outrage when tenants complained and wanted her out following the blessed event and the incessant screaming of the resulting miracle.

She took her case to the Canadian Human Rights Commission, along with what I can only imagine would be an SUV Assault Stroller large enough to clear an entire sidewalk of fellow pedestrians, disregard for her neighbors concern matched only by her disregard towards the instructions included with her birth control prescription, and a sense of entitlement so great it threatens to change how all property is bought and sold in Canada.

This is all just coincidence though. The CMHC refused to insure my mortgage because my beloved prefers grown-ups. Not a deal-breaking concern, because there was one other mortgage insurer in Canada. Only one more option for those buying condos, but surely, in a recession, the bank would want my business and so would a mortgage insurer called Genworth.

My love interest is 39 years old. When anything reaches 39 years old, there's a bit of maintenance that should take place. Regular check-ups - just to make sure things keep working properly. The property had such a check-up, and as a result the strata council decided to replace some wood siding that was a little bit worn.

The siding was not leaking, it was just getting older and could be replaced with new material that would ensure the building would never leak at all. Half of the work had been done, and since the work is not vital, the remainder of the work would be done in 2013. I would have to pay some money towards it, but it was a small price to pay for all the love I had in my heart. As readers of this blog know, I've done crazier things in pursuit of love. I've done crazier things in pursuit of cake for crying out loud.

Genworth denied my application. They flagged the work being done on the building as full-blown remediation. While it's true that leaky condos facing remediation are almost guaranteed to bankrupt their poor owners, this was not a leaky condo. Genworth claimed the information provided in the two years worth of strata minutes was not clear, but after begging and pleading through my mortgage broker they agreed to take a second look at my case.

I pushed the strata council president to provide clearer amendments to the strata minutes and he did so. The work was so minor that the strata council did not have to pursue a costly engineer's report, but I included a letter from the Building Inspector of Victoria explaining why there was no engineers report, why he was sufficiently qualified to provide comment, and stating the work was solid, as was the building.

I attached my first inspection report provided by my building inspector in which he declared the building in the best shape he's seen in a condo of that age. I included a second inspection report from the same inspector looking specifically at the walls, roof, siding and foundation reporting no moisture. I included a report from the building company who had done the work, and was set to do the remaining work, explaining what they were doing and why, and that the work was relatively minor maintenance.

Genworth denied my appeal, and then I cried.

Had Hooked on Phonics not worked for Genworth staff? Were they illiterate? Were they evil? Why did they hate me so much?

My broker could not get an answer, other than they worried "construction" costs could double in three years time and that I, deadbeat that I surely must be, would default. Despite replacing some wood siding not really qualifying as "construction," there was little room for further argument.

My broker received an email stating that after much discussion, Genworth had "flagged" the building, and would NEVER insure it - their capitalization, not mine.

I cried some more.

Then I began doing what I do best - making a complete and absolute nuisance and pain in the ass out of myself. I insisted the seller's realtor call the strata council president and ask him to call an emergency meeting to change the language in the by-law. I had my realtor call the vice-president on the strata council to encourage her to do the same thing.

Both refused. Essentially, the building they live in is not insurable. If any tenant there wanted to sell right now, their only hope of finding a buyer would be if the buyer had more than 20% for a down-payment. It's the only way around mortgage insurance.

How many people buying into a condo have that much money to put down? And if they do...are they single? Male? Attractive? They should totally call me.

If I was wanting or needing to sell a property, I would hope the pool of potential buyers would be a lot deeper than that. I actually thought I was providing these people with a useful warning. I was the canary in the cold mine, and I'd had my throat cut -- they need to take some action to protect their investment.

Both said there was no way they would change a by-law to help a prospective buyer out. The vice-president actually said she would prefer that if they change it at all, she'd want it changed to 55+, as she is a proud senior citizen.

I would be proud too, if I could achieve that level of ignorance without my state being routinely described as both "persistent" and "vegetative." While I'm assuming she doesn't have to take nourishment through a feeding tube, I do question her ability to consider implications greater than just doing me a favor.

Without any other choice, I'm signing the release forms today. I don't want to. This feels like a divorce that I'm actively contesting, but there's no hope left.

While it's true there may be many fish in the sea (or so people keep telling me whenever another relationship goes awry, and frankly I wish those people would find another cliche because where I live, the only available fish are served with beer batter and tartar sauce) there are not many homes available for me, and certainly no others with the same qualities I fell so hard for, or even room enough for my shoes.

By comparing real estate to dating I've some how managed to prove I'm not lucky in any kind of love. I'm scheduled to look at two properties tonight, and competition is fierce. I was scheduled to see a third, but there's already an accepted offer and like the two other properties on my list, it came on the market today.

One of the remaining two I'll see tonight is an older 18+ building. I can't let myself get attached. The other property has no age restrictions at all, and I was actually made arrangements this morning to take some time off work this afternoon to be one of the first to see it, but the seller refused.

She has two young kids, and leaving the house with only several hours notice would be too inconvenient. Buyers need to be more considerate of her needs don't we know? Yeah, we sure do.

Walk of Shame.

Lately, my karma hasn't been right, and by lately I mean since birth. I am having a run of such crappy luck that instead of feeling down about it, I'm actually in awe. Before I step outside my home and am struck dead by some sort of frozen waste accidentally jettisoned from the septic system of an aircraft passing overhead and falling to earth only to crush me like a bug, I thought I would do a good deed and try to rectify whatever karmic situation is causing such calamity.

I do good deeds all the time. I tell my friends about my dating life so that they may feel better about whatever situation they have going on. I clean my lint out of the dryer so the next person to use it doesn't have to. I actually go ahead and sit on the toilet seats in public restrooms so that I don't spray everywhere and nobody has to wait in line at the ladies for very long for me to pee and perform acrobatics at the same time, which nobody should be doing. Ever. I risk the good health of my bare thighs and ass because I am a good person. However, the universe has not been kind lately so I tried to make up for the mystery deficit by giving blood.

If you get back what you give, I thought blood should put me in a pretty good position, cosmically speaking. Canadian Blood Services came to my company and set up their clinic near the cafeteria and I was pretty happy. Not only would I get to do something good for somebody else, but I would get a free cookie, some time away from work, and whatever alcohol I was planning on drinking later on would go straight to my head. There was no way I could lose.

I made my appointment and showed up at the designated time. Apparently every single one of my colleagues had the same idea, because the clinic was very busy. I filled out my form in which I denied any knowledge of having mad cow disease, or being a gay man before 1977. Or something like that. While it's true my gay friends have declared me to be an honorary gay man, it shouldn't count.

This form gets filled out in a waiting area outside of the nurses "offices." For anybody who hasn't given blood, you fill out one part of the form and then meet with the nurse in private to talk about anything you might not want to declare in public, like having mad cow disease.

Every chair in the waiting area was full, with more staff members showing up without appointments and standing around waiting to see if anybody actually in the process of giving blood would pass out. It's what I was doing after I finished my form, so I can only imagine everybody else was taking bets on anybody looking overly pale.

The nurse examined my arms for track marks and approved of my answers until we got to the section about travel outside of Canada. I recently got back from Thailand, and this was a problem. Health Canada approves of some areas in Thailand, but not all. I went to some places that were not on the Health Canada list, which means my blood is no longer fit for consumption.

I tried arguing, because it was silly. Some places we travelled to were in such close proximity, it was like saying Calgary would have been safe, but Banff is a danger-zone. Or Vancouver is all-clear, but look out for Burnaby. Health Canada's ignorance about the geography in Thailand was going to cost some poor accident victim the gift of life - my gift of life. My good deed was getting a nasty looking red stamp all over it. Canadian Blood Services did not want my blood. I was tainted.

What normally happens after donors see the nurse in the private office is the nurse leads the donor to a bed and the donor lies there for a while bleeding into a bag. What happened with me was I walked out of the nurse's office and the nurse escorted me past all of the people in the waiting area to make sure I left. I suppose she thought I was so desperate to do something nice for humanity that I was just going to launch myself at one of the needles and refuse to leave until I was down at least a pint of the good stuff.

People actually stared at me. I would have stared too, wondering at the scandal behind my rejection and escort out of the premises. I left with dignity, my head held high, stopping only to tell one secretary I knew that she should reconsider sex with prostitutes. It's just not worth the price.

Spooning.

So, I made it to date number two with Andrew. It's embarrassing for me to admit how rare second dates are...when it comes to the men I date, the last thing I want to consider is what I could have possibly brought to the table that somehow out-freaked the freak show.

There are times though when not reaching second date status is inexplicable, and I actually scan obituaries to find out whether the guy who I really thought would call somehow wound up under a double-decker bus loaded with tourists.

(Case in point - Gavin. We talked online for six months. Finally met for lunch. Lunch turned into drinks, which turned into a walk around downtown, checking out street performers, shopping in my favourite book store at his suggestion, which turned into more drinks on the patio, which turned into dinner and conversation about what movie we were going to see together later that week. After nine hours together following lunch, I thought second date territory was a given. I was wrong.)

(So far, my follow-up phone call to Gavin has not been returned and the obituaries have yet to provide any explanation for over two weeks now. They haven't even yielded any leads on an affordable estate sale condo, which I'm also looking for, but more on that later.)

(This is turning into a really long aside, and I'm sorry for that, but if anybody knows Gavin, I would appreciate if you did actually shove him underneath a double-decker bus loaded with tourists, because then my mind would be at ease. Thank you.)

The first date with Andrew started well enough. He was decent looking, and dressed very well. He smelled good. I was not fond of the facial hair situation he had embarked on, but I felt that could be addressed at a later time. He was funny in a way that took me by surprise, and he was taller than me.

I'm aware that none of these things would qualify this date as the most romantic story of our nation's time, but given what I have to choose from, I had little choice but to be impressed. Our first date ended with a kiss that was also surprisingly pleasant, and so I was cautiously optimistic when he emailed me asking to meet for a drink later that week.

Surely, this was how these things are supposed to go, and I felt perhaps I had managed not to screw things up or misjudge his character too badly. At this point, I knew he could still have bodies buried in his backyard, but he was taller than me and a girl has to compromise some times to get what she wants in the end.

We ended up meeting at a wildly popular ice cream stand instead of a pub, which was exciting because we could take a walk around the park, perhaps walk to the beach, and I could tell so many more people in the surrounding area through excited telepathy that I, Bambi, was on a second date. Yes, the attractive man beside me getting ice cream stuck in his ill-considered facial hair met me once, and then willingly chose to meet me again. In public. Behold the awesome miracle.

After settling on a bench and after me settling on a way to eat my cone without appearing to fellate it, he turns to me and says he has something to tell me, but he's not sure how. Of course he did. I abandoned any pretense of eating my cone in a dainty manner and told him he should probably just lay it on me. He warned that it may change the way I thought about him, but he really felt it was something he had to get out of the way early on.

I waited for him to tell me he had herpes or he was married. Or both. I wondered if I could manage to pull my face into something crossed between empathy and considered concern, and how soon after he told me was married with herpes would it be appropriate for me to take my leave without appearing shallow or angry.

It turns out, it was neither of those things. Instead, Andrew told me that the only way he could get off sexually would be if I was to beat him with a wooden spoon while he called me, "Mommy."

Now.

There was no point asking him to repeat what he'd said. I heard him perfectly well and did not want to hear it again. There were options. I could laugh at him. I could grab what was left of my cone and napkins and run for my car. I could explain to him that really, I don't ever want anybody calling me Mommy - that I've never wanted children, I don't have a biological clock, if I did have a biological clock it was out-matched in sluggishness only by my metabolism and that I'm quite comfortable with my decision to single-handedly keep the birth control industry in business, but sad for my own Mom and Dad who would make some totally kick-ass grandparents.

I sensed that would be a tangent however, and avoiding the real issue. Some response was called for.

I asked him if it had to be a wooden spoon.

This was the wrong response for several reasons. For one, it seemed to ignite in him some hope that I was not totally freaked out by this and was merely considering logistics. While I wasn't totally freaked out, it was only because as far as nutbars I have dated go, Andrew had some serious competition and nothing can shock me any more. My question and my nonchalance seemed to only encourage him that I may be the mean Mommy of his dreams. I was not.

Also, I would like to point out that his particular...desire...did not particularly freak me either. Each to their own - honestly. You could get off on dressing in a bumble bee suit while licking somebody's eyeball and standing on a Wii Fit and more power to you. What blows your hair back is your business, and I encourage one and all to get as kinky as you want - no complaints from me. Unless of course it involves a felony. Or kids. Or blood. Or poo. Or dead people. Or Stephen Harper. Some things are just sick and wrong.

(And now this post has gone totally awry, and I am so SORRY.)

What freaked me out about Andrew and his confession was that he had spent some time with me, had conversations with me, got to know me and still felt that I was the kind of girl it would be OK to dump this upon on our second date while we ate ice cream in a park.

It bothered me much more that he would think it necessary to bring up a sexual fetish at all, before we'd ever held hands. Yes, I kissed him, and I'm good at it. I really am. If I could put kissing on my resume I would, but I was mildly annoyed that he seemed to think we were mere minutes away from re-enacting some kind of sexualized child abuse scene straight out of an after-school special. I mean...honestly.

But I went and asked him about whether it had to be a wooden spoon, and it turns out it did not. It could be a wooden paddle. Or alternating between a wooden spoon or paddle. He had several that he liked, and had brought some with him. He preferred wood to plastic, as he felt wood had a more pleasant aesthetic.

Once again, I had some options. I could have said right then and there that this was not for me, that I wished him luck, but I would not feel comfortable swinging any wooden spoons or paddles. In fact, I suffered through one entire season of softball when I as fifteen and I did not get a single hit that got me on base in that entire time. It was humiliating. The softball season that is - this conversation was just weird. Basically, I would not be swinging anything made of wood, ever again.

I could have said all of these things, but instead I focused on one thing he had said that stood out. He said he brought some spoons and paddles with him. I asked him if he really did, and he really did. He had them in his car, safely concealed in his laptop bag.

Did he bring them just for me, or did he always carry them around just in case a public flogging were to suddenly break out? How many did he bring? And why in the name of everything holy did I not get a double scoop?

I asked to see them. I wanted to know. Did the man seriously carry around a bunch of wooden spoons in case of random acts of corporal punishment? When I asked to see them I thought he was going to foam over with excitement. He thought I was on board, and I thought this may be the lowest point in my dating history. And that's actually saying a lot.

We walked to his car, just a good looking young couple taking a stroll on a summer's evening. Sure enough, one entire compartment in his laptop bag was stuffed with wooden spoons and paddles. I might once have called the paddles "cutting boards" but apparently I have little imagination.

Once I saw it for myself, there was nothing left to see. I held my hand out and wished him good luck in his search. He looked quite shattered - I had got his hopes up. Some times it happens that way. You show somebody your private collection and they walk away, and some times you spend an entire day with somebody and never want to do it again. No further explanation necessary.

Back again.

I haven't been very good about doing anything productive lately. I've tripped over the same laundry basket for 3 consecutive weeks, and yet I have not moved it. Emptying said laundry basket and putting it where it's supposed to be is obviously far outside of my abilities.

You'd think that kicking the damn thing to a place where I might not trip over it could be manageable, but you would be wrong. Tripping over this basket seems to provide me with an adrenaline rush I enjoy, and so the basket stays.

If I can't kick a basket out of my way, keeping up a blog with a reasonable amount of posts hasn't happened either. It's not as if my life has been devoid of ridiculousness to write about - far from it. Just the other day I was on the phone with a girlfriend who in between laughing at my latest exploits explained why it is she loves talking to me so much.

She's a single mother of four children, and she's just so glad she does not have my life. This was heartwarming. Apparently my very existence is an act of charity for those who might otherwise suffer. I live to serve, but I am going to investigate as to whether this may qualify me for any tax credits.

I have a lot to write about, including what happens when I attempt to purchase real estate, the guy who brought his wooden spoon collection to our second date, my firefighter and his lovely wife, a short-lived relationship, my trip to Thailand, my violent encounters with sea urchins and squat toilets, how I came to be known as really very unpleasant and two friends of mine who recently passed away, and why that changes everything.