Ka-Boom.

It's been a couple of weeks since I've heard from the Bomb Tech (BT). I wasn't really surprised. Mildly puzzled, but not clutching at my chest. I'm suing the authors of "He's Just Not That Into You," for ripping off my life story, so how surprised could I really be?

Last night I ordered Chinese food with a girlfriend and insisted on having Sweet and Sour Chicken Balls just so I could say Chicken Balls. A lot. My sense of humour resembles a ten year old boy's sometimes, and that's not surprising either. Ridiculous, but not surprising.

When I told my girlfriend in between chicken balls (I even like typing it!) that I hadn't heard from BT in a while and she said that she had, as he visits her fairly often...overnight...that was a surprise. It was a huge surprise actually, although it may explain why she was OK with paying for dinner.

She assumed it was OK because I wasn't really that interested any more. Certainly, I had shared how things were going. She was the one who introduced us so there were a few times I may have declared myself done with him when she asked how things were.

I suppose being done with him could be taken several ways. Perhaps I was really done with him, or perhaps I was just frustrated at the lack of progress. Maybe we had actually ended things, or maybe I just thought we might and was trying to prepare for that time.

There really wasn't anything to do but keep eating at that point, because he and I were obviously done right then, and according to her he had really fucked it up with me. That much was really, really true.

(The irony of my friend acknowledging that the BT had really fucked it up with me just after telling me how often he comes over to fool around with her was something that only really hit me hours later.)

(When it finally did, I was really angry that I couldn't have had that example ready and waiting when my Grade 12 English teacher asked me for the definition of irony while poking my head with a ruler. I was asleep at the time. In my defense, that classroom had very poor air circulation.)

I really wanted to ask my friend if the BT made her watch him jack-off too. What could she be doing differently to feign interest and excitement while watching that I just couldn't do? Then I thought better of it. Best to stick with my chicken balls (!) and leave that subject alone.

Which brings us to another topic: Girl Code. There is a Code, and the nuances may vary due to situation and the girls in question, but one aspect of Girl Code is infallible - you don't fuck with it.

Girl Code means you hold her hair back when she pukes, grab your car keys when she calls saying everything is fine but you know it isn't, and there is never anything wrong with her, it's how they make the clothes too small these days.

Girl Code means you don't say, "I told you so." Instead, you say, "That bastard, I'll kill him." It means you're available for moral support and hand holding at clinics when it might be bad, bridal shops when it might be good, Las Vegas, roller coasters, dance floors, beaches and shoe stores everywhere just because.

Those are just some of the rules, but there's one more that should be obvious to anybody who's ever been a girl. If you're lucky enough to have good girls in your life, you don't fuck with their men. Not. Ever.

This can get tricky. At what point does a guy become off-limits? If you know your girls, you know when this is. It's not a matter of time or dating status, but emotional investment. For example, knowing your girl shaved her legs in preparation for a date may be one thing. Knowing she submitted to a Brazilian wax in anticipation is another.

This is why I'm still able to call this girl my friend, and she's lucky. I was never that invested. I was excited by the possibility of something new, happy that he wore a militaristic uniform because damn that's sexy, and satisfied I hadn't broken my streak in which I only date men with more testosterone than brains. Despite these things, I was never crazy in love.

Had the BT been Alex however, I would cut a bitch. I seriously would, even though I can't call him mine and will never get to do so. This particular area of Girl Code defies reason and logic. It's not rational, but it certainly just IS.

Somewhere in my heart Alex is mine, and therefore it's easier to explain what this means in Girl Code. The violation and the conversation would have gone very differently, so for those who don't intuitively grasp the Code, the conversation would go like this:

Friend in Violation of Girl Code - So I fooled around with Alex last night...

Bambi: I. Will. Cut. You.

Friend in Violation of Girl Code - But Bambi, you've been married to Mr. December in the Fireman's Calendar for 37 years and you're still doing the pool boy on the side...shouldn't you have moved on?

Bambi: Where is my knife...?

Logic and time passing makes no difference. Whether the relationship was one-sided or not makes no difference. There is no justification. The conversation could even go this way:

Friend in Violation of Girl Code - Alex is my soul mate. Jesus Christ himself returned to earth, declared my relationship with Alex will bring about world peace, the end of the cola wars, and the cure for cellulite. Also cancer and AIDS. Our saliva mixed together heals the sick and ends suffering. Also gingivitis. When we make love we single-handedly ensure global warming stays in check and that puppies aren't tortured.

Bambi - I. Will. Cut. You.

Friend in Violation of Girl Code - But Bambi, you've been a lesbian since 2013 when you said you couldn't take dating men any more and decided you were just going to stop shaving and marry K.D. Lang. That was 20 years ago! Think of world peace! Think of the children!

Bambi - Fuck the children. Where is my knife...?

See? Girl Code is pretty simple to grasp, but there are girls out there who don't get it. They can have friends, but never the friends who would join them in driving off a cliff, Thelma and Louise styles. That's sad for them, whether they know it or not. I'd always hope I'd have a friend in that passenger seat, holding my hand out of loyalty and adventure.

I'm sad it went this way with the BT, because I would have almost preferred not knowing why. More than that though, it's sadder to be the girl who realizes she may need to step out of that passenger seat some time. Tuck and roll if she has to. Steep cliff ahead.

I probably should have stopped, dropped and rolled.

So I was dancing alone in my living room to the Glee version of Don't Stop Believing, waiting for the toast I was having for dinner to pop, and simultaneously answering the questions of why I keep my living room curtains closed and why I'm still single, when alarm bells went off.

I don't mean abstract alarm bells telling me that my ass was jiggling just a bit too long after I stopped shaking it, or that perhaps I should think more seriously about retirement planning. I mean actual alarm bells. Fire alarm bells.

My first thought was that I was never, ever going to make toast again if this is what happens, but the alarms weren't coming from my smoke detectors.

Rather, these were the ear-splitting alarms for the entire building -- one a ringing bell, the other a high-pitched mechanical chirping that caused blood to ooze from my ears and dolphins to beach themselves on nearby shores.

Overall, an interesting development. There was obviously something I should be doing in response, but at the same time, this must be a mistake.

The bells would stop, whatever caused them to go off in error would be sorted and I could continue shaking my booty undisturbed. All would be well as long as I stood perfectly still, hands over my ears, waiting.

Above me people started running. I could hear the pounding footsteps, multiple doors slamming and the urban equivalent of the running of the bulls in the stairwell next to my apartment. Shit just got real. Time to officially panic.

According to my calculations and all of the expert knowledge acquired from repeated viewings of the movie Backdraft and occasional viewings of the 2010 Fireman's Calendar, I had 30 seconds to grab what mattered in my life and get out. Then I was down to 18 seconds because the first shoes I put on were not my favourites and I would be damned if those were the only shoes that made it safely out of my home.

Now 10 seconds because photographs I could never replace are in two different rooms and now 5 seconds left because I unplugged the wrong cords and can't free my laptop and I have to leave it but if the fire is on the third floor and I'm on the second I can always run back inside at the last second while three extraordinarily good looking firefighters try to stop me and the headline in tomorrow's newspaper would read, "Heroic Woman Dies Trying to Save Decade Old Laptop, Shoe."

By the time I was running down the stairs behind an elderly woman and her miniature poodle, I was wearing my favorite boots under my rattiest yoga pants, a sweater inadequate for the rain that was coming down, and carrying in my purse three picture frames and three signed David Sedaris books.

I regretted not also grabbing a piece of toast. If I was about to be homeless and wearing a blanket supplied by the Salvation Army while I watched everything I had ever worked for and bought at IKEA turned to ash, I should probably eat.

Out on the front lawn, my fellow condo owners milled about, some cradling babies, some clutching dogs. Nobody else had brought their laptop either, or any other household items that I could see. Apparently this had never happened, nobody knew what had caused it, but most were sure it was a false alarm.

Some decided to step back inside momentarily to check their mail, since the boxes were right there after all. One guy went back in to get a granola bar before rejoining the crowd. The elderly woman handed her poodle to her neighbor so she could go inside and get the dog his coat.

I used my cell phone to call one of the gays to let him know I would probably not be coming over that night to watch America's Next Top Model as planned, because my building was on fire.

The sirens blaring and getting closer in the background certainly added legitimacy to what otherwise may have sounded like a far-fetched excuse, and led to a somewhat unfortunate exchange.

Bambi: Yeah so, I probably won't make Top Model tonight.

Gay: Why the hell not?

Bambi: I'm standing outside of my building waiting for fire trucks because it might be on fire.

Gay: Really??

Bambi: Firetrucks are actually coming. Crap. I should really go fix myself.

Gay: Do not go back in the building.

Bambi: But they're actual firefighters, and they're coming to my building.

Gay: Which is probably why you shouldn't go back in.

Bambi: But I look like crap.

Gay: You're an idiot. Call me if you're coming over.

After hanging up, I went back inside to brush my hair and put on lip gloss. I sniffed for smoke first and tested the air for unnatural heat so I felt fairly confident I could do so without dying, and I was glad I did.

When all the firefighters were exiting the building, having turned off the alarm that had been tripped by old age and wiring, one young, very blue-eyed firefighter turned to me and smiled as I stood back outside on the lawn, lips freshly glossed and eating a cold piece of toast. Totally worth the risk.