You think you need a vacation...?

I received my first death threat a week or two ago. Given my personality, the most shocking thing about this is that it didn't happen sooner. In the made for TV movie about my life starring Shannen Doherty, I will have done something scandalous to earn this death threat, but in reality all I did was send an email.

My company is planning a large-scale event, and I denied a former client entry because the event was full. As it turns out, the client is barking batshit. Denying him entry to this event means that Canada's national security is at risk, because his attendance could save the "innocents." It's a matter of life or death, he's willing to do whatever it takes because he is a soldier, and he's not afraid to shed blood.

He won't be responsible for his actions, because anything bad that happens will be a result of my negligence. That much I had to translate from Latin, which makes him an incredibly pretentious fruitcake to boot.

Did I mention the event he's frothing at the mouth over will include a buffet lunch? It's amazing how fragile our sovereignty truly must be, if all you can eat soup and salad sends the country into mayhem.

I stopped joking around when I researched Nutbar McNutty online and found all kinds of pictures and video he's posted of himself shooting guns. On three separate social networking sites I found manifestos in which he refers to himself as "God/Visionary (one would think the visionary part would be redundant if one is actually God, but I'm not going to argue with crazy), and long rambling paragraphs describing his excellent marksmanship, his ability to terrify the police into inaction, and his willingness to commit violent acts in order to save the world.

Two things surprised me, not the least of which being the fact I've never been on a date with this person. He posted his longest manifesto on Plenty of Fish, and it's astonishing we haven't crossed paths until now, given my dating history. The second surprising thing being my own lack of concern.

It's not that I'm not concerned - I'm just not afraid. In fact, I feel sorry for this guy. He's young. He's only 23, which tells me this may be schizophrenia and he may have a long road ahead of him to get back on the rails. There's also an element of nothing bad will happen because stuff like this doesn't happen to people not already starring in made for TV movies.

Also, I'm just too tired for this shit.

Naturally I approached our building security, and the department responsible for overseeing emergency planning. The head of security told me to simply tell this guy to go away, and that there was nothing to worry about.

The other department suggested that if I had just accepted this guy's RSVP then this wouldn't be happening. Both areas warned me against going to the police, because "unless he specifically says he's going to shoot you, there's no threat, so probably just drop it."

I had to pass all of this information on to the organization who will be sponsoring and hosting this luncheon in partnership with my company, hoping to avoid any embarrassment that me getting machine gunned at the buffet line may cause.

Luckily, my co-host for this event is the Department of Fucking Awesome National Defence. (Notice the words "Fucking Awesome" are often absent in their promotional materials, but I assure you, they should totally be there from now on.)

The DFAND will be providing an armed escort for me and the other guests to this event, in case Nutbar McNutty shows up. The registration table where I'll be working will have military police standing on either side, just waiting for the slightest attempt to mess with my luncheon.

Whereas my own place of employment seemed happy to ignore me, the military police response is a little overwhelming and therefore embarrassing.

(While it's true I may have a certain fondness for men in uniform - and by certain fondness read: raging fetish, at no point have I wished for armed guards.)

(This may be happening because I only got through the self-help book The Secret's table of contents before declaring the book the stupidest thing I have never read and using it as a coaster from that point on. Apparently when asking the universe for a hot man in uniform, I should have been more specific. If nothing else, I should probably give Chapter One another go.)

(Also, I'd like to reiterate at this point that my fondness for men in uniform is not my fault. I watched Top Gun at the wrong time in my development, and this is what happened. I know for fact that pre-adolescent viewings of Top Gun made at least three of my friends gay, so it's little wonder I became a gay man. Sort of.)

The point is, all this attention is freaking me out. I argued with the officer responsible for coordinating the most heavily armoured luncheon ever planned that Nutbar wasn't going to show. There's no way he would show. He's even stopped sending me emails, presumably because he ran out of threatening Latin phrases, so any further action would hardly be necessary.

This is also what the powers that be at my organization had told me, so I felt if ever there was a time to tow the party line, it would be when on the verge of needing to coordinate my outfit with Kevlar.

The cop didn't think this would be the case at all. It's likely he'll show. I argued that Nutbar won't even know where to go, because we wouldn't be sending him any details about the venue.

Sadly, I had forgotten that our website had been updated with exactly those details just days earlier, and to his credit, the cop had already checked into this. At this point I'm sure the cop is thinking I may need to wear a helmet and kevlar all of the time, just to save me from my own stupidity.

Talking to this officer was reassuring, and troubling at the same time. I really want to think my mentally ill new friend has moved on to saving the world in other ways, or perhaps he realizes he's giving me way too much credit when blaming me in advance for the next world war.

There's also a part of me that hopes this guy shows up looking for free food and a fight. The other night Alex let me know he has a girlfriend, and it's serious. Alex seems...committed. He's dated other girls, but this is different. He feels so lucky to have this girl in his life, and there was nothing I could say but I'm happy for you.

So to the Nutbar I say this - just try it. I dare you. I'm coming with armed guards, a broken heart, and multiple viewings of Kill Bill Volumes One and Two. Now would not be the best time to save the world from me if I were you.

Must love harsh realities and cuddling by the fire.

When I realized if Facebook were to offer a Relationship Status option that came close to fitting my romantic situation it would likely need a legal disclaimer and at least one diagram, I knew something had gone awry.

The phrase, "It's Complicated," simply isn't adequate.

This is why it's much easier to just take a self-imposed hiatus from dating in all of its forms, which is really not hard to do when the male population of this city has already taken a self-imposed hiatus from dating me.

I'm not online dating, I'm not speed dating, long-distance dating, carbon dating, sexting, texting, IMing, web-camming, calling, not calling, meeting or any other verb ending in the letters "ing" and related to heterosexual members of the opposite sex.

(Please note that this hiatus ceases immediately should I hear from Alex again in any capacity or if the dating prospect in question happens to wear a really hot uniform and can save me from a fire-related demise. Or gun fire. Or terrorist attack. Yes, I have a thing for uniforms. And personal safety.)

(Also, my hiatus wouldn't extend to time I may or may not spend with a firefighter of the married persuasion. His marriage to somebody other than me rules out any possibility of dating, so whether I see him or not, we're not dating and therefore he does not fall under the restrictions imposed by my hiatus. It's called a loop-hole, and making bad choices. Glad we could clarify this.)

I can see this hiatus lasting at least until I reach my goal weight, and if the amount of wine I drank this weekend not sanctioned by the Weight Watchers program is any indication, I should reach my ideal weight and menopause at about the same time.

It's not that I expect the world to be a different place just because I'll be sporting smaller pants, but I think I'll have more confidence, and maybe even better pictures should I post another online profile.

At the very least, I'll be able to eliminate one obstacle I might otherwise beat myself up over, so I can focus on other more clearly pressing issues. Once I know it's not my weight that's a barrier to attractiveness and finding the relationship of my dreams, I can confirm my nose or my personality are the two likely remaining culprits, and that's so much easier to accept.

In the meantime, my past dating experiences have become very useful to a friend and colleague who is recently separated. She's a beautiful, funny, kind, sophisticated woman in her late forties who easily looks like she's in her early thirties, so I have no choice but to love and hate her in equal amounts. Eager to see what's out there and to have a little bit of fun, she posted a profile on Plenty of Fish and then came the horror. The horror. Oh, the horror.

My poor friend had no idea how many men in her age-range would be looking for women between the ages of 20-25, or how many would like to meet a petite/slim/trim/thin/ woman who takes care of her health and watches what she eats, because presumably, if his photo is any indication, he hasn't seen his feet since 1973 and he simply wants to make sure his date is healthy enough to run for the defibrillator paddles should the arteries carrying KFC's secret recipe directly to his heart give up in frustration.

She had no idea how many men wouldn't register as tall enough to ride an amusement park roller-coaster, or how many pose with guitars, cats, children or God help us all, all three in an effort to appear sensitive and new-age.

Neither of us had any idea how many men within her chosen age parameters of 45-55 love taking long walks on the beach. If as many men actually walked on the beach as much and in as large numbers as they claim to love to, our shores would be over run with crowds of meandering middle-aged bald men so large, they're visible from space.

I was supportive and helpful through every step of her foray into online dating, and by supportive and helpful I do mean laughing so hard I nearly peed my pants on her desk, the best place to be seated while being supportive and helpful.

While I realize that taking dating advice from me is the very best example of the blind leading the blind ever depicted without an actual photograph of Stevie Wonder trailing behind Helen Keller, I can at least serve as a cautionary tale.

Thanks to me, my friend now knows to automatically subtract two to three inches from whatever height a man lists, and to recognize the signs a photograph being passed off as current was likely taken when Michael Jackson was still considered a black man and not a Caucasian woman. I've also translated the meaning of "420 friendly" and pointed out the photos most likely taken by a prison guard or fellow inmate.

Overall, my own complete and utter lack of ability to meet anybody decent even so that my poor Dad can stop thinking I might be a lesbian, is actually helping people.

Hopefully in a few months and when I'm ready again, I might even be able to help myself.

Going...going...ah crap.

I've become afraid for my bosoms. I joined Weight Watchers in June, and damned if the program isn't working. The problem is not losing weight, the problem is where the weight is disappearing from.

(Again, I'm in no way being paid by Weight Watchers to endorse their methods, mostly because I only have five readers and it would be a very poor business decision on their part.)

(Also because I'm sure Weight Watchers would want to distance themselves from members who have the points values memorized for alcoholic beverages but not fruits and vegetables, and or members who have actually contemplated how many points a very happy ending to oral sex would add to her daily points target, should she decide not to spit.)

(I'm not saying I've contemplated this. I'm just saying somebody could. Alright, fine. I can't be the only deviant ever to track Weight Watchers points, so let's not judge.)

I basically have to lose the equivalent in pounds of two kindergartners stacked on top of on another, so I'm in it for the long haul. I'm happy to report I'm on the verge of losing 10% of my body weight from the date I first joined, which means I'll soon get a special Weight Watchers key chain. I've wanted this 10% key chain very badly, and I will be thrilled when I finally get it.

I'm less thrilled that about 8% of this recorded loss seems to have come from my boobs.

In fact, I'm downright concerned. At no point in my decision to finally get serious about getting healthy did I look in a mirror and think to myself that my body would be smoking hot, if only my boobs were smaller.

When trying on pants and failing to find any that fit, the problem wasn't because my small boobs were preventing the zipper from closing, or my flat chest was blocking the pants from being pulled up over my knees.

When shopping for boots, at no time have I ever had to abandon the struggle to zip a pair of hooker boots over my peasant calves because my lack of cleavage wouldn't allow it.

My boobs aren't the only body parts disappearing despite my attachment and fondness for them just the way they are. My watch no longer sits where it's supposed to on my wrist.

Again, I never found my wrists to be a barrier to higher self-esteem and better fashion choices. I've never worn a t-shirt over my bathing suit because I just didn't want people to see my wrists. I could always wear bracelets. I've never longed to wear smaller bracelets, and yet here we are.

If this continues, I can only imagine what's going to start thinning next. Soon I'll be shopping for hair products to add volume and lip plumpers to give me back my pout. All the while, I'm afraid the rest of me is going to stay the same size, because I'm starting to look like a toilet plunger.

I have this irrational fear that the parts of me I'd like to get thinner, aren't going to. I'm going to keep losing weight from areas that were never a problem, and I'll be grossly unbalanced. My thighs might still rub together, but I won't have enough earlobe to stick an earring in, or my tummy will still have rolls but my spindly fingers snap trying to hold up a wine glass.

Even if I'm shaped like a toilet plunger, I'm sticking with it though. It's working. Against all odds, it's actually working, and that's more than I can say about a lot of things.

The Couch.

Two and a half minutes. I can't believe I've gone two and half minutes. This is a record. I always break by now. Just sitting and blinking at your patient for as long as it takes them to start talking again has got to be some kind of Jedi mind trick. No wonder med school is so expensive --

The last time you were here you were in a very dark place. Did you end up needing to go to emergency?

First of all, I can't imagine what I would say. A reasonably well-dressed chick walks into the emergency ward carrying a wicked purse and tells the unit clerk I'm here because my shrink told me I should come if I ever found myself googling how much asprin could potentially kill a person when taken all at once. Should I have a seat over by the door or can I just lay down on that blood stained stretcher in the hallway? Also, and this is awkward, but should you decide to put me on suicide watch like I'm some kind of crazy person, can you please make sure the hospital security guard having to sit there and watch me nap doesn't also moonlight as a Bomb Technician and didn't spend a couple of years fighting in Afghanistan...? If you could just make sure before I check myself in, that would be awesome, because he and I used to date. Kind of. Which is how I know that would be part of his job, and frankly that would just be all kinds of awkward so...

Did you?

No. No I didn't go.

You were very sad the last time you were here. How have you been feeling since?

Very sad? Very sad?? I was very sad at the end of Brokeback Mountain. I was very sad when Rose couldn't move her ass over on that floating door to let Jack cimb up out of the arctic waters so they could both cuddle for safety and go on to make 'Titantic II - Even Wetter.' I was very sad when I developed a severe and sudden allergy to certain kinds of shoe leather and found my favorite shoes now cause my feet to explode. These things all made me very sad. Sad enough to cry. But this...this is not just sad...this is...

Has there been any changes?

It's all about the same.

How are you getting through?

How does anybody get through lady? Auto-pilot. Pick up right foot. Shift right foot forward. Transfer body weight to right foot. Pick up left foot. Shift left foot forward. Transfer body weight to left fo --

I keep doing what I'm supposed to do. I get up, I get dressed, I go to work, I go home.

I think you're grieving.

I think you're wrong.

This may be short-term.

What loss am I grieving?

You would know that best.

Oh for fuckssake.

I've been here before. There's no sudden loss. This happens every few years and I have to figure out what to do to make it stop.

And the countdown starts again. Can we beat two and a half minutes? I think so. I don't know what to say. I don't know how to fix this. I don't know what to say. I don't know how to fix --

How are your relationships?

Relationships? Are your notes mixed up? I don't have relationships.

What relationships?

You broke off communications with the BT. Are you still not speaking?

If by breaking off communications you mean I blocked him on MSN and then ignored his calls then yes, yes I sure did.

Still not speaking, and that's fine.

Have you thought about talking to him again? You were quite close. He called you once contemplating suicide, which really upset you. You helped him through a cancer scare. You were making plans for him in your life.

Why do I have to be reminded I'm an idiot?

I know.

His betrayal must have hurt you.

Actually, no. When he suddenly found a woman he wanted to date and that woman turned out not to be me, I wasn't actually surprised. That's what hurt. Being all of those things to somebody and still being not good enough to be the girlfriend - that's what hurt. What pissed me off was how he treats her.

His betrayal wasn't entirely unexpected. Things don't work out, so what? It happens to people all the time. He just liked her better.

Why do you say that?

Goddammit. This must be what they pay for in medical school. Open ended questions and now I'm going to either have to sit here and say nothing or sound like an R-Tard. May as well go full R-Tard...

Facebook. That's how I know. Our second date I thought we were going to dinner but he drove way out in the middle of nowhere because he didn't want his ex or any of her friends seeing us and giving him a hard time. We didn't even go to a restaurant in the middle of nowhere. He found a Beer and Wine store and wanted to just go sit on a beach somewhere. I guess it could have been romantic, but I was kind of sad he didn't want to be seen with me.

How is his new relationship different?

New status updates all the time. Lovey-dovey. How he's with the most beautiful girl in the world, life is so good, he's so lucky, and they're out on a patio downtown drinking wine.

So his Facebook upset you?

I can't articulate. Why can't I say anything properly? We sat on a beach drinking ciders because he wouldn't buy wine and I was still having fun because he was funny and making me laugh and I liked that and then I had to pee. On a beach, freezing my ass of as it was, dressed like I was going for dinner, and there's no trees, no bushes, nothing for miles. I had to hike it down shore in my heels, and find a log big enough I could squat behind. I was so proud of myself for accomplishing the job, adjusting my pants over my heeled boots afterward when I found one of my pantlegs was wet. Awesomeness. I peed on my pants. I get driven 20 minutes past where Jesus lost his sandals so I can pee on my pants, and I'm pretty sure he had nothing romantic to say afterward. Whoever he's seeing now gets wine on a patio and lovey-dovey comments. This is why I'm upset. This is always the difference, and I'm not even smart enough to see it until afterward.

He treats her better. He treats her like a girlfriend. Not just like something to do when he was bored or wanted to vent.

Are you still talking to Alex?

Jesus Christ lady are you seriously trying to make me cry now?

No.

Not at all?

Fuck me. What do you mean, "Not at all?" No phone calls, no texts, no MSN but the carrier pigeon is surprisingly reliable? No means no.

No. Not at all.

Why is that?

I'm fairly certian it's not because he's dead, or suffering from amnesia, or been kidnapped and held by ransom. He doesn't want to talk to me, and so he doesn't.

I just don't hear from him.

You don't contact him?

I'd rather pretend he'd be happy if I did. I'd rather pretend that like me, he's not getting in touch because he thinks I don't want to. I'd rather pretend he misses me instead of knowing for certain that he doesn't.

No, I don't contact him. It's easier to miss him.

That's interesting.

Not really.

Are you still seeing the guy who's married?

The firefighter? Yeppers.

On occasion.

When was the last time?

We were supposed to get together yesterday, but it didn't happen. I was relieved.

Why were you relieved?

I just couldn't do it. Thinking about it made me tired. I had no interest. None at all. I didn't know if I could fake it. How much more can I possibly fake?

I just wasn't interested. Like...I had no interest at all. I was actually kind of dreading it.

That should make her happy. She's been harping on and on about how I shouldn't be interested. How the jealousy I feel towards his wife can be crippling. How it's just not healthy. How it goes against everything I say I want, which I suppose is true. But on the other hand...so FUN. She's going to see this as progress at last...

I realize you've taken medication in the past, and experienced some significant side effects. Perhaps with closer monitoring, you may want to reconsider...?

Holy. Crap. She's been thinking I'm having a bad week. Maybe a bad month. Any moment I'll perk right up. I tell her I have absolutely zero interest in doing the firefighter and suddenly I should be trying medication again. Apparently me not wanting to have sex with a firefighter is the fifth horsemen of the apocolypse. Cutting my wrists? Mild cry for help. Doesn't want to get naked with the firefighter? MEDS! STAT! Sweet cracker sandwich...that's...it's...fucking hilarious. I can't believe I'm actually laughing!

I can reconsider - I'm willing to talk about it at least. Talking like this has been really helpful actually...

Enter the Intern

I don't have an office. Office space at my organization is a status symbol, and my cubicle backs into the office kitchen. This puts me in such a lowly position I can barely even claim to work here at all, but at least I always know when somebody's microwaved lunch is ready.

I should be glad to be on top of something I suppose, since I'm not even sure who I report to on any given day. In the last three months my particular portfolio has been transferred back and forth to three different vice-presidents, so I'm just waiting for the day when they realize I was supposed to have been laid off back in January but my pink slip got lost in all the confusion.

I don't have doors, so the entire department can see me updating my Facebook status, and everybody knows when my next PAP smear is scheduled. There is one positive stemming from my office real estate - if I were to one day pass away from corporate ennui, janitors would find my body quickly. I don't even have walls.

There is a desk next to mine, and for at least a year this vacant spot has been acknowledged as the second worst real estate in the building. My proximity to the kitchen makes me number one. As of last week, this conjoined desk is no longer empty -- another department needed a space to stick their intern.

Let's call the intern Cathy. Cathy is very, very enthusiastic. I was introduced to Cathy this way:

"Cathy, this is Bambi. You'll be sitting next to her, and Bambi is really, really funny so I'm sure you'll get along great! Bambi isn't actually part of our department any more - who do you report to now Bambi? Really...since when? Huh. Oh well, she still sits here and can answer any questions you have. Bambi - anything witty you can say to get Cathy started?"

Yes. Get out now Cathy. Run like the goddamned wind.

Everybody agreed that my deadpan delivery and somber tone was indeed, hilarious. This makes me wonder what kind of tone I'll have to use should I ever need to yell for everybody to evacuate the building, because obviously being completely serious didn't work out. Cathy tacked some pictures of her boyfriend to her monitor, and she's obviously staying.

Cathy is always smiling, and this bothers me. Her teeth must be dry, and thinking of dry teeth makes me want to bite my own ear. She always wants to talk business, and there is nothing better to Cathy than "being on the same page."

Regardless of the conversation, she must consistently check that we are on the same page, close to being on the same page, nearly on the same page, or completely on that same page. I'm quite sure I don't have to describe what I want to do to that fucking page at this moment.

This is not Cathy's fault. It's not her fault she's sharing office space with Girl Interrupted and it's not her fault she doesn't know where the envelopes are and it's not her fault she looks way better in a pencil skirt than I ever will and it's not her fault she has a voice that goes up at the end of every sentence and it's not her fault we can't be on the same page and it's not her fault I lost the page a long time ago, and it's not her fault I'm not as excited as she is to be here.

It also won't be her fault when I inevitably throw a stapler at her head.