Thrill Ride

So, the other day I was sliding down a giant ice-covered hill in my car, as you do.  Don’t Fear the Reaper by Blue Oyster Cult was playing on the radio, proving beyond any rational doubt that my spirit guides, if I have them, are twats. 

I slid slowly at first, giving me time to consider my options.  If there was ever a time to grab the reigns of my own destiny, now might be the time.  Unfortunately, my choices included veering into oncoming traffic, sliding merrily into the car in front of me who also appeared to have lost all traction (for the sake of their dignity I silently hoped they were listening to another radio station at least) or heading over the cliff on my right and dropping a decent distance into a giant lake. 

Naturally, I had some concerns.  Mostly though, I was pissed about what I was wearing.  When faced with sudden death and the possibility of becoming a vengeful ghost, an ugly Christmas sweater, ill-fitting jeans and toque with giant novelty pom-pom don’t exactly lend gravitas to any after-life situation.

I’m not sure I believe in ghosts, but I like to think I’d have some say in my own image if forced to haunt the living.  If kids say my name three times into a mirror at sleepovers, I should at least try to appear terrifying.  Granted, maybe a newly middle-aged woman in an ugly Christmas sweater brandishing a bottle of wine and weeping about how she never found love would be terrifying for teenagers, so I could be on to something. 

For my friends and family, I’d be benevolent.  A comforting presence.  Invisible finder of car-keys and TV remotes.  Bringer of happy dreams.  I don’t want anybody wondering why I’m wearing such a stupid hat, should I visually manifest.

Of course, I would also have to haunt the shit out of one or two romantic interests.  I would want to be a seductive, succubus of a ghost, all flowy hair and wispy gowns.  I want heart-wrenching regret, sorrowful lust, marriages upended by my very supernatural presence, all floaty and gothic in the corner of the bedroom.  Rolling up through a wall in a green acrylic sweater with a giant embroidered reindeer would really kill the mood, and should I try to get all paranormal sexy, what if my legs are as hairy in the afterlife as they are right now?  Dear God, what then??

I slid faster down the hill, despite managing to turn my wheels to the side, trying to take my chances with the narrow snowbank on the shoulder just before cliff, gravity and freezing water.  I’ve never been good at split-second decisions, or anything in the moment. 

If I went off that cliff, I would be leaving a lot of things said too rarely.  It’s not that I never think of saying them, it’s more I think a beat too slowly.  To my Mom, Dad and sister that I love them, and please don’t look in my bedside drawer.  To my friends, that I love them too – even while sober. To the lady at the Tim Horton’s drive-thru – it’s two cream and two sweeteners.   Seriously – every morning, two of both, not one or the other. To everybody I went to high school with, that while I don’t actively hope they die in a house fire, I wouldn’t be completely devastated if they did.

For some people in my life, I have things I need to say that I’ve never, ever said.  It’s those words trapped forever in the back of my throat like strep, because of fear, or thinking there will be time.  These words are only ever small – I love you.  Thank you.  You hurt me. I’m sorry. I hate you. I need you.  It’s not the size of the words that’s scary, but enormity of impact once spoken. 

I mean, I’ve been sleeping with the same guy for eight years and have never once told him what I need to say.  I’ve thought about it, but the time never felt right.  And I was scared.  And the timing would never be right, because I’d always be scared.  So, I should say it right now, out loud, by myself in a sliding car on an icy hill, just to prove it matters.  I should finally say –

JESUS MOTHERFUCKING CHRIST.

There’s a semi spun-out, horizontal across the intersection at the bottom of the hill.  The car in front of me is turned completely sideways, still sliding, heading for the semi.  The snowbank didn’t slow me down, and I’m heading for the car in front.  Blue Oyster Cult has turned to Mariah Carey singing about all she wants for Christmas and if this is the last song I hear, I will seek revenge.

The car in front rolls to a stop with its driver’s side door inches from the passenger tires of the semi.  I could tell, because I rolled to a diagonal stop, less than two feet from the middle section of the big-rig.

 

I can see the driver of the other car, and her hands are gripping the steering wheel like she’s trying to tear it off, just like mine are. She’s wearing a crocheted animal hat with floppy ears.  Clearly, she dodged an after-life bullet, just like me. 

The semi eventually cleared away, the driver somehow making a 562-point turn.  The cars rolled to a stop all willy-nilly in the intersection, drivers still shaking like dashboard hula-girls finally got to drive away, and carry on to the rest of the highway that was sanded, salted and blessedly melted.

I called my Mom when I got home. Had a glass (read: three glasses) of wine. Shoved the ugly Christmas sweater into the back of my closet, and pulled out better clothing choices for driving in winter weather conditions.  Some might say sequins and lingerie aren’t appropriate, but they don’t know my life, and don’t know what I’ve lived through.   

Just One Reason Why I'm Single

Actual transcript of email conversation on OK Cupid – user names and actual names changed to protect whatever semblance of dignity I still cling to.

Tuesday, November 1st, 8:48 pm

HotStud6969: Hey beautiful! My name is Craig. How are you?

Thursday, November 4^th, 10:15 am

HotStud6969: You have a beautiful smile!

Sunday, November 6, 9:40 pm

HotStud6969: Do you remember me? We actually met in at a hotel way back. lol

Tuesday, November 8, 3:27 am

HotStud6969: Do you remember?

Thursday, November 10, 12:20 pm

Bambi666: Hello Craig.  Yes, I seem to remember you, although we didn’t meet at a hotel.  Meeting some random idiot off the internet at a hotel doesn’t seem like something I would do, then or now.  We met at a coffee shop.  You said you were a marine engineer, and you were in town for the night before heading off to meet a fishing boat the next morning for a few weeks of work.  You showed up for our coffee date drunk. I encouraged you to eat something, so you ordered a sandwich with ham, chicken and steak combined on a bagel. I chose to find all of this charming, probably because I liked your tattoos, and the way your chest looked under your t-shirt. I still feel shame. I gave you a lift to your hotel afterward and kissed you goodnight before driving off home.  The kiss was good, even though you tasted like Old MacDonald's Farm. Weeks later, we arranged to see one another again. We talked or texted every day for two weeks before making definitive plans. Then you stood me up, and ignored my text messages. Textbook ghosting. Months and months later, completely out of the blue, you send another message through this same garbage fire of a website. I answer, probably due in part to whatever instincts make characters in horror movies want to check the basement. You let me know you’re in town for a couple of days, and "really just wanting to bang,"  For some reason, you thought I would be the girl to help you out with that.  I politely declined.  So yes…I remember well.

Thursday, November 10, 12:25 pm

HotStud6969: So does this mean you don’t want to get a drink?

Thursday, November 10, 12:26 pm

Bambi666: Correct, Craig. I don't want to get a drink.

Please stop helping.

Advice, suggestions and observations from people I trust and occasionally random strangers on how and what I should be doing with my life are often welcome.

Wise counsel like: your hair is on fire, or the cat was drinking out of your water glass, he’s never going to divorce his wife, the five second rule doesn’t count in a bathroom even if it’s a cookie, or you can see your nipples through that T-shirt – I take it all to heart.

Without the smarter, more observant people in my life who love me enough to make me put down the bathroom cookie – I’m not sure where I’d be.  You know, apart from hairless with my nipples showing.

However, there are some nuggets of advice that are both ubiquitous and useful as asbestos tampons. Yes, it seems they could be absorbent…but at what cost? 

The following “helpful” suggestions are the asbestos tampons of wise counsel – better in theory and needing to be stopped.

Have you thought about volunteering?

Inevitably, this is the very first response when I say I’m having trouble meeting people in my new city. 

What I’m really saying is that I’m lonely, and could use some more social connections.  

What I’m not saying is, I’m lonely, and giving up my precious free time outside of full-time paid work to perform hours of unpaid work could be the solution I’m looking for.  Yet, that seems to be what people hear. 

Look...I’ve worked in non-profits for the majority of my career spanning close to 20 years, which seems impossible given my preference for believing I’m only 29. Volunteers are amazing.  They are the backbone and unsung heroes of every community and after managing incredible teams of volunteers for my entire career and as a newly discovered old person, I can honestly say I’m grateful and in awe of their generosity.

What I can’t say however, is why people think volunteering is a fast-track to building a social life or support structure.   

Naturally, it depends on the volunteer opening.  If I were a different person with wholesome interests like gardening, or Jesus or helping children, maybe my passions would align with more volunteer opportunities.  As it stands I’m a morally questionable, child-hating serial killer of plants, so suitable volunteer activities are…limited.

It seems anybody asking this question has this idea of volunteering as some sort of social jamboree, where bonds are formed over shared altruism and large groups of chatty, fun people agree to go to lunch and hang out after performing set hours of unpaid work. 

It also seems anybody asking if I’ve ever thought about volunteering has never actually volunteered.

If they ever had, they might know that once I submit a lengthy application to volunteer, a criminal records check, a resume and three professional references I’m most likely to be put in a room by myself to seal envelopes, sort donations, tidy storerooms or if I’ve sat through an evening or weekend orientation, I might get to work answering the phone.  Or, because many non-profit agencies are so cash-strapped they can no longer afford physical headquarters, I might be making calls or stuffing envelopes alone in my own home.

These are all needed and necessary activities, but not a single one of them is likely to lead to me making a desperately needed local friend who can help me prevent fire-related hair loss, or convince me he’s REALLY not going to ever leave his wife.

Speaking of all things fire-related, if volunteers are needed in the creation of next year’s charitable Firefighter’s Calendar however…I’ll do it, even though it goes against everything I just said.  I won’t enjoy it – I put this out there only because I’m a good person, deep inside. Like, really deep inside.  And because I care.  About fire-related things. 

You should join a gym!

Also said most often as advice on how to meet new people. And they’re right – I really SHOULD join a gym, if only because when I punch them in their clown hole, I don’t want to pull a muscle.

Gyms are not typically social places.  People want to get in, get out and enjoy an hour or two just for themselves, by themselves.  I get that. When I’m at a gym I don’t want to talk to people.  I’m there to regret every carbohydrate I’ve ever eaten, pray I don’t fart in yoga class and wonder if my crotch is sweating more on average than anybody else’s and if so, why.  I don’t think I’m alone in this – it’s one reason everybody is wearing headphones.  

You should date against your type.

Soooo…if I want a guy who makes me laugh, I should look for someone with no discernible sense of humour at all? If I like a man who’s intelligent and can carry on a conversation, I should give it up for a dude with the IQ of patio furniture? If a guy with confidence and a bit of swagger has always flipped my skirt up, maybe I should keep my damned skirt down and go for more of a dish-rag? Maybe a guy who’s terrible in bed? Or a guy with a micro-penis? Maybe no penis at all? Maybe a woman?

I’m frequently indecisive, it’s true.  I recently spent 20 minutes in a Wal-Mart aisle trying to decide on peanut butter.  I have a favourite brand of toilet paper, but buy whatever mascara is on sale – proof perhaps that I’m naturally more discerning about what comes near my va-jay.  It’s often the only thing I’m sure about. 

I hope that when friends tell me I should look for the opposite of my type, they’re really saying that I should look for somebody who doesn’t cause me pain. Somebody better. Anybody who isn’t the guy I currently pine for. Or any guy I’ve ever pined for.

But that’s not what I hear.

I hear friends telling me my standards are too high.  That whatever virtues I seek in a partner, no matter how reasonable or valued those qualities may be, even in their own relationships – they’re above my station.  That I’m not deserving of the same joys or the same attractions that form the foundations of other relationships without question. That there's something about me that just isn't good enough, so I have to settle - not just compromise, because whatever it is I want, I’m not going to get. 

Can we at least agree he could be good in bed though…?  Just let me have one small standard. 

It’ll happen when you’re not looking for it!

I like to imagine this little gem being used for anything other than wanting to find a romantic partner. 

If I’m hungry, nobody would say food will come to me only when I’m not looking.  It might be because I get dangerously hangry when food-deprived and people are afraid to confront me or even make eye contact, but it’s highly unlikely I’d be lying there, belly bloated with starvation, flies around my eyes, and some idiot suggesting if I just stop wanting food, food will appear.

Maybe I need to find a new job.  It’s generally understood that not looking for a new job if needing a new job is a terrible way to find a new job.  And yet, if I say I’d really like to not be single anymore, there’s a veritable Greek chorus (of mostly smug marrieds) preaching that the best way to find a partner is to not look for one at all.

On the plus side, at least they’re not telling me to join a gym.

Miss me?

It’s been a long time since I’ve written anything, and there’s quite a bit I could cover.  There’s the time I lost my job due to physical unattractiveness, my one and only marriage proposal (revoked), the last several years I spent saving lives, my online stalker and the time I reluctantly had my house cleaned by a naked woman.  Obviously, I’ve been busy. 

However, due to popular demand – I’m back.  And by popular demand I mean one person vehemently complaining (hi CH!) and she was likely drunk on pina coladas at the time.  So, this is for her.

This past year I took every single motivational quote I’ve ever saved in Pinterest much too closely to heart and moved away from everything I’ve ever loved in pursuit of a better career, or at least a great deal of distance between me and an emotionally abusive boss. 

While I am working in a higher-paying job that is less likely to kill me both figuratively and literally than my last, I’m considering an entirely new side career – providing advice to idiot men on online dating sites. 

Yes, I’m online dating again, an attempt to be more outgoing only marginally more satisfying than relying daily on the staff at the Tim Horton’s drive-through for what is often my only social interaction. 

This potential side-career is conflicting.  Partly because I’m not sure men would have the good sense to realize when they’re in need of help, and partly because I wouldn’t want to eliminate fair warning for other women.

I also wouldn’t want to pick on individuals – we’re all just doing our best, dammit. Instead, I would focus on particularly egregious…groups.  Like right now, as below.

The One-Nipple Wonders

Hi! It was nice to see you making an effort with your profile and getting creative! The shirtless bathroom mirror pic has been overdone to death, and I appreciate your effort to pivot boldly toward something different – holding up your shirt to expose just one nipple.

It intrigues me. It makes me think.  Is there something special about that particular nipple? Does it do…something? Do you even have a matching set, or are you just really proud of the one on the right?

It’s tasteful.  In my long, harrowing and filled with suffering online dating experience, men who post pics showing both nipples are too abrupt. Right away, they’re sending messages like, NSA? DTF? Or using actual words, wanna fuck?

Women like a bit of nuance. Does he just want NSA? Or is it 50/50?  With two nipples I’m sure of where I stand, but by coyly only showing one nipple – I’m thrown off my game.

And I like it…but only if it does something special.

The Proud Fathers

Oh heeey. Oh, look at that! So many cute photos of you and all your children! Seriously, how many children are in these photos? What are you, some kind of cult leader? Who has this many kids all under the age of five?? Never mind – you’re virile! 

There’s probably not even that many children, but I can’t tell them apart very well.  My eyes just kind of glaze over and then I get distracted wondering if I remembered to take my pill.  Did I? Pretty sure I did.  God I hope I did. 

I see now it says right there in your write-up – three kids.  They’re your biggest priority, blah blah, can’t live without them, blah, love spending time with them…blah.

Look. I get the impression you strongly feel these kids are a selling feature. Why else would your kids’ faces be appearing anywhere on a dating app? Unlike single mothers who are often put on the defensive about their children, you seem to feel women will love this shit.

Maybe some do.  And then there are those of us whose ovaries are cold, blackened and dead like our souls. Kidding! They’re not actually cold.  That would be physically uncomfortable.

Not every woman wants children.  Some women don’t want their own children, and they surely as fuck will not want somebody else’s, so quit it with this shit.

However, if you wanted to show me pictures of you cuddling puppies, I’ll be over here taking off my clothes.

The Wild Ones

Hello there! Congratulations on displaying a profile picture that shows your face and not immediately asking if I’d be up for a threesome.  These are sad, desperate times we live in but enjoy the accolades nonetheless.

Your photo didn’t make my skin crawl so let’s see what we have in common! I see that your interests include, “hanging out,” and “Netflix.”

Ummm…

Dude.

This is default existing for most people fortunate enough to live in North America.  It’s like saying your hobbies include respiration and digesting food.  Everybody does these things all of the time. 

Nobody needs to talk about it.

This is your chance to make yourself sound exciting.  Woo me a little. I park really far away from the mall when I go shopping so I say my interests include hiking.  See how this works?  

If you can’t even pretend to be interesting, there’s very little hope you’ll ever achieve actual interesting. 

Find a motherfucking hobby.

The Pollies

Jesus Christ.  Yes, I know what polyamorous means, thanks for asking. It’s not condescending at all that you would double-check to make sure I know what it means, because it is a long word with a shit-ton of vowels, so it’s possible I’d never heard of it and basic illiteracy prevented me from answering your first three messages. Or fear of vowels. 

No other possible reason.

How delightful your “wonderful loving primary partner” is totally OK with you seeking “fun options!” When I do set out to be an option for somebody separate from their wonderful and loving primary partner, my biggest priority would be making sure she was happy too. You’d be happy, she’d be happy and I’d be a fun option. Polyamory is awesome!

Yes, I’ve actually read about polyamory, separate from simply knowing what it means.  It’s not condescending at all that you would assume I’m making assumptions based on something I don’t understand and this lack of understanding prevented me from answering now four messages in a row.

I’m glad it’s working for you, and I especially hope it’s working for your “primary partner.” I hope she’s getting hers.  I can’t think of a single reason why she’d need some sort of break from you otherwise, so I hope this arrangement works wonders for you both.  Only, it never worked out for me.

Holy shit, what did I just say?? Why yes, I know all about polyamory after being the fun option for close to ten years if you round up.  And it hurt me.  It hurts me still. 

Find another fucking  fun option and don’t message me again.