So where was I...? Oh yes. My first ever first date with a man and his wife. A firefighter and his wife. You know - nothing unusual at all. Totally normal...if we happened to be polygamist Mormons.
However, we weren't polygamist Mormons as far as I knew so I was very, very nervous. Who should I be trying to impress? If I wore something revealing would she think I was trying to seduce her husband? Was I not trying to seduce her husband? Do I pay more attention to her or him? And were these people mentally ill?
Overall, I don't think I've ever been as nervous before any date as I was walking into that pub and looking for a man and woman both wearing something red. As it turns out, I don't think I've ever been as shocked as to what happened next.
They were wonderful.
It was probably the best first date I'd had in a long time. The FF was even better looking than his pictures. She was lovely. They were friendly, and funny and we all got along like old friends. Holy crap.
I had walked in expecting both of them to be perverts, liars or psychopaths or some combination of the three, and I prepared accordingly. I'm not entirely sure what I was planning on doing with the pepper spray in my bag or even which way I was supposed to aim the nozzle, but dammit...I was ready. I had also expected him to be taller...but that was asking a little much I suppose.
Once we finished off a plate of nachos we got down to business. Why in the hell was I there? What were they after? As everybody at the surrounding tables can attest, this couple was very open and to the point. I know everybody in the immediate area can tell you all about the conversation, because every single person went completely silent to eavesdrop.
I can't really blame them, because if I heard one woman asking another woman, "Are you really OK with me sleeping with your husband?" I suppose I'd shut-up and listen too. As everybody in the upstairs section heard, this couple was looking for a third person to hang out with, spend time with and take home to bed on a regular basis.
If at all possible, the surrounding silence became more deafening when I explained that although she was absolutely lovely, I would not be having sex with the wife. If I swung that way, she would totally be my type but really I was just interested in her husband.
The peanut gallery gasped in surprise when both the firefighter and his lovely wife said that would be perfectly alright. In fact, the last girl they had this arrangement with felt the same way and she was "with" them for two years.
Two dirty old men at the next table over actually moved their chairs closer when they described that sometimes the wife would be there, in the room, if and when I was with him. Sometimes she wouldn't be but most of the time she'd be there.
Doing what exactly? I believe at this point the band actually stopped playing and the table of four behind us who had been ready to leave decided to stay and order another round. As I might have suspected, the wife would not be in the room quietly reading a magazine in the corner with her back to the bed. Oh no. And because this couple was extremely forthright, an entire section of one local drinking establishment is now so much clearer on what three naked people could potentially do to each other at the same time.
I wasn't bothered by this for any moral reasons, but what immediately concerned me was how self-conscious that scenario could make me. I can barely type with somebody looking over my shoulder - I couldn't imagine what could go wrong if I was doing something more...involved.
Would I actually consider this? The entire time I could only sneak glances at him. I spoke mainly to her, partly because it seemed the polite thing to be doing rather than draping myself over her husband and partly because...well...he was so damned attractive.
For years friends have said that I fall for the "bad boys," and while this isn't entirely untrue it's never been quite right. I've figured out what the problem is with the men I'm attracted to, and my friends have it wrong. I don't see a guy kicking a puppy and decide that he's the one for me. I don't write to men in prison or long for a man who can't legally enter the US.
I want a man who's good to me, who loves his mother and has never been tasered, unless of course it was part of his military or police academy training. However, I have noticed that men with an overabundance of testosterone are like catnip.
Perhaps I'm deficient in this area, and I seek out the hormone my body needs. Much like feeling tired due to a lack of vitamin D in the winter, or craving whatever vitamin is contained in those two-bite brownies, I fall for men whose testosterone levels cancel out a good part of whatever hormone it is that's responsible for common sense.
Naturally, a guy who makes his living driving through red lights and running into buildings that are on fire would qualify as being particularly gifted in testosterone. And naturally, I wanted to hump his leg. It's hard to look somebody in the eyes when all you can notice is the outline of his muscles under his t-shirt and his wife is sitting right across from him talking about what kinds of things they like to do in bed. Good Lord.
None of this seemed even remotely strange. Frankly I was more shocked by the realization that both of them were doing their very best to impress me. I had been so nervous about what to say or do, and as it turns out all I had to do was show up. There was no need for me to seduce or impress anybody, they were knocking themselves out to prove to me that they were worthy.
The evening ended with me walking them to their truck so I could meet their dog. (Don't worry - it was just to meet and pet the dog, because I love dogs. The dog would not be involved in any potential activities between the three of us - this was not why I met their dog.) We hugged good-bye, they asked me what I thought about what they were wanting, and I walked myself home. I had a decision to make.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Holy crap! It's an update! Now with 100% more firefighter!
Let's recap the last few months to bring everybody up to speed...
I continue my medical odyssey in which various doctors tell me there's a serious problem, there's no problem, there's a problem and it's in my head, and I won't be able to see a specialist until 2009 which is a huge problem. I fall madly in love. I begin an online graduate program as some kind of personal rebellion against spare time. My Mom is diagnosed with a rare form of cancer in her eye and the earth stops moving. My Mom has surgery, her eye is removed and she dresses as a pirate for Halloween. No really, she does. My Dad develops kidney stones as a result of the stress and ends up in the hospital at the same time my Mom was readmitted for complications. My Mom and Dad are both released from the hospital under the provision they go nowhere without an ambulance following behind, especially if my Mom is driving. I perform the Thriller dance in front of a large audience for Halloween. Medical scans come back clear for my Mom. And that nearly brings us to today.
I know what both of you are thinking - the title of this post said something about a firefighter, and dammit that's why you're still reading. (Never say I don't know my audience.) I'm not in love with the FF, but falling in love with somebody else led me to a date with the FF that was so bizarre, I managed to outdo myself.
(Let's keep in mind I've been on dates with men who have at one point picked up the waitress, rode unicycles, worn bells on their shoes, stripped naked during the first kiss, stolen my vibrator and helped me rescue a bird -- which would have been awesome had this all been the same guy, or the same date. And still, I've outdone myself.)
I was upset over Alex.* Alex is the guy I'm in love with and being upset over Alex is an almost weekly occurrence, directly proportionate to the times I'm deliriously happy over Alex and therefore so annoying to my friends that I'm not allowed to talk about him for more than five minutes a time. Seriously.
(Bambi in love is like a melodramatic 12 year-old girl with a split-personality and Tourrette's Syndrome. I'm either crying or laughing, and I can't stop interrupting conversations to talk about Alex. I even annoy myself. God.)
So a few weeks ago I was nearly devastated over Alex. He hadn't called me, we hadn't spoken in weeks, which was the longest we had gone without speaking like, ever, and I really wanted to call him but I was afraid to because the whole world could end if I called and left a message and he didn't call me back and then I'd have to stop telling myself he's just busy or suffering from amnesia brought on by saving orphans and puppies and I just really wanted to talk to him because I love the sound of his voice and what if he didn't like me anymore and for the love of God is every song that comes on the radio so f*cking sad I could cry? See. I told you. Annoying!
I had to do something to pull myself out of the spiral before I became pathetic (read: more pathetic.) My sister has lovingly recommended, or loaned several self-help books that are supposed to help me not be such a loser. Books with titles like, "It's Called a Break-up Because It's Broken," or "He's Just Not That Into You," or "Put Down That Chocolate Bar You Pathetic Loser," which I just made up.
These books are not actually useful in the heat of wretchedness, or any other time for that matter. Although - the hard-cover edition of "He's Just Not That Into You," does a fantastic job of killing spiders. I did actually read the first chapter of "It's Called a Break-up," when my ex broke things off but stopped when I realized I was more relieved than sad and could be using that time to drink out of the carton or leave the house without having to tell anybody where I was going at long last. Jesus - was that ever a digression.
Back to the FF. Self-help books weren't going to help. Chocolate wasn't going to help. Checking to make sure the phone had a dial tone was definitely not going to help, and neither was lying on the floor imagining how Alex would feel when he was finally freed from his captors, able to reach a phone, only to call and find out I'd joined a nunnery.
I needed a distraction, and so I did something I've never done in my life. I answered an ad on Craigslist. The man seeking woman ad was witty, intriguing, smart and with a hint of dirty. There was no picture, but all I wanted was a little tiny bit of excitement, so it didn't matter. Just a distraction - nothing more.
He answered my answer. We talked online for the next four hours, and when he sent me a picture of himself in his firefighters uniform, leaning against the fire-truck I seriously thought that God himself had taken pity on me and perhaps this was a holy peace offering given that God and I have been feuding since 1996.
I love a man in uniform - you have no idea. There are reasons for this, not least is having watched the movie Top Gun at a pivotal stage of puberty. Cops, firefighters, military - loin-tingling. I draw the line at bell-hops and mall security guards - I'm fixated, but not delusional.
The FF was indeed witty, smart and really very dirty. And from his photos he looked like sex on shoes so things were going a little too well. Three hours into our conversation the following night I told him I was surprised he was single, and that's when he told me he wasn't single at all. He was married - but his wife was totally OK with this, and in fact, she wanted to meet me too.
I'll give you a moment to let that sink in. I needed a moment too.
Are we good? Alright then...
Her name was Jen, and Jen was really excited that her husband had found somebody he found so intriguing. He and Jen had a great relationship - so great, a third person could make it even better. He...they....were not looking for a one time threesome partner - he wanted somebody to go to drinks with, movies, dinner...and then do other things with. And she was fine with all this, and would I at least meet them both for a drink?
Readers, and by readers I mean both of you, and by both of you I may actually not mean anybody at all because I haven't posted in so long but at any rate...what choice did I have? If I write a book, this chapter would have to be included. I had to go, if not for the curiosity that was about to strike me dead, then for the purposes of literary research.
We made a date. If you think your average first date/meeting is nerve-wracking, try figuring out who it is you're supposed to be dressing to impress. And so I went...and what happened next is an entirely new post.
Ha! You'll both have to stay tuned till tomorrow.
I continue my medical odyssey in which various doctors tell me there's a serious problem, there's no problem, there's a problem and it's in my head, and I won't be able to see a specialist until 2009 which is a huge problem. I fall madly in love. I begin an online graduate program as some kind of personal rebellion against spare time. My Mom is diagnosed with a rare form of cancer in her eye and the earth stops moving. My Mom has surgery, her eye is removed and she dresses as a pirate for Halloween. No really, she does. My Dad develops kidney stones as a result of the stress and ends up in the hospital at the same time my Mom was readmitted for complications. My Mom and Dad are both released from the hospital under the provision they go nowhere without an ambulance following behind, especially if my Mom is driving. I perform the Thriller dance in front of a large audience for Halloween. Medical scans come back clear for my Mom. And that nearly brings us to today.
I know what both of you are thinking - the title of this post said something about a firefighter, and dammit that's why you're still reading. (Never say I don't know my audience.) I'm not in love with the FF, but falling in love with somebody else led me to a date with the FF that was so bizarre, I managed to outdo myself.
(Let's keep in mind I've been on dates with men who have at one point picked up the waitress, rode unicycles, worn bells on their shoes, stripped naked during the first kiss, stolen my vibrator and helped me rescue a bird -- which would have been awesome had this all been the same guy, or the same date. And still, I've outdone myself.)
I was upset over Alex.* Alex is the guy I'm in love with and being upset over Alex is an almost weekly occurrence, directly proportionate to the times I'm deliriously happy over Alex and therefore so annoying to my friends that I'm not allowed to talk about him for more than five minutes a time. Seriously.
(Bambi in love is like a melodramatic 12 year-old girl with a split-personality and Tourrette's Syndrome. I'm either crying or laughing, and I can't stop interrupting conversations to talk about Alex. I even annoy myself. God.)
So a few weeks ago I was nearly devastated over Alex. He hadn't called me, we hadn't spoken in weeks, which was the longest we had gone without speaking like, ever, and I really wanted to call him but I was afraid to because the whole world could end if I called and left a message and he didn't call me back and then I'd have to stop telling myself he's just busy or suffering from amnesia brought on by saving orphans and puppies and I just really wanted to talk to him because I love the sound of his voice and what if he didn't like me anymore and for the love of God is every song that comes on the radio so f*cking sad I could cry? See. I told you. Annoying!
I had to do something to pull myself out of the spiral before I became pathetic (read: more pathetic.) My sister has lovingly recommended, or loaned several self-help books that are supposed to help me not be such a loser. Books with titles like, "It's Called a Break-up Because It's Broken," or "He's Just Not That Into You," or "Put Down That Chocolate Bar You Pathetic Loser," which I just made up.
These books are not actually useful in the heat of wretchedness, or any other time for that matter. Although - the hard-cover edition of "He's Just Not That Into You," does a fantastic job of killing spiders. I did actually read the first chapter of "It's Called a Break-up," when my ex broke things off but stopped when I realized I was more relieved than sad and could be using that time to drink out of the carton or leave the house without having to tell anybody where I was going at long last. Jesus - was that ever a digression.
Back to the FF. Self-help books weren't going to help. Chocolate wasn't going to help. Checking to make sure the phone had a dial tone was definitely not going to help, and neither was lying on the floor imagining how Alex would feel when he was finally freed from his captors, able to reach a phone, only to call and find out I'd joined a nunnery.
I needed a distraction, and so I did something I've never done in my life. I answered an ad on Craigslist. The man seeking woman ad was witty, intriguing, smart and with a hint of dirty. There was no picture, but all I wanted was a little tiny bit of excitement, so it didn't matter. Just a distraction - nothing more.
He answered my answer. We talked online for the next four hours, and when he sent me a picture of himself in his firefighters uniform, leaning against the fire-truck I seriously thought that God himself had taken pity on me and perhaps this was a holy peace offering given that God and I have been feuding since 1996.
I love a man in uniform - you have no idea. There are reasons for this, not least is having watched the movie Top Gun at a pivotal stage of puberty. Cops, firefighters, military - loin-tingling. I draw the line at bell-hops and mall security guards - I'm fixated, but not delusional.
The FF was indeed witty, smart and really very dirty. And from his photos he looked like sex on shoes so things were going a little too well. Three hours into our conversation the following night I told him I was surprised he was single, and that's when he told me he wasn't single at all. He was married - but his wife was totally OK with this, and in fact, she wanted to meet me too.
I'll give you a moment to let that sink in. I needed a moment too.
Are we good? Alright then...
Her name was Jen, and Jen was really excited that her husband had found somebody he found so intriguing. He and Jen had a great relationship - so great, a third person could make it even better. He...they....were not looking for a one time threesome partner - he wanted somebody to go to drinks with, movies, dinner...and then do other things with. And she was fine with all this, and would I at least meet them both for a drink?
Readers, and by readers I mean both of you, and by both of you I may actually not mean anybody at all because I haven't posted in so long but at any rate...what choice did I have? If I write a book, this chapter would have to be included. I had to go, if not for the curiosity that was about to strike me dead, then for the purposes of literary research.
We made a date. If you think your average first date/meeting is nerve-wracking, try figuring out who it is you're supposed to be dressing to impress. And so I went...and what happened next is an entirely new post.
Ha! You'll both have to stay tuned till tomorrow.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Preoccupation.
For someone who spends as much time as I currently do preoccupied with my nether regions, you'd think I'd be having a much better time in life. I'm not though, and neither are any of the doctors who can't diagnose me, won't diagnose me or believe that the symptoms I'm describing are all in my head.
I know the difference though. My fantasy relationship with gold-medal winner Michael Phelps is indeed, all in my head. The near constant pain in the crotchal region is not. And yes, crotchal is now officially a word.
For almost a year now I've been experiencing daily pain in places too impolite to mention in public. On a good day the pain consists of a dull ache, like I was kicked in the crotch by a donkey. On a bad day it feels like I'm wearing barbed-wire underpants two sizes too tight. Nobody can tell me why, or what I can do to make it go away.
It's starting to take a toll. For one, I have no outlet to complain. While I've done some research online and found that there is a condition in existence that translates into constant pain, and doctors have no idea what to do about it or how to help the women experiencing it, this is not a problem that lends itself to charity walks or ribbon pins.
Tell somebody you have breast cancer or MS or tennis elbow and you get some sympathy. Tell somebody your vagina feels like it's on fire and you get...well...I'm not even sure because I have yet to just tell the truth when somebody at work asks me how I'm doing.
I'm not counting on pledge forms for an annual, "Charity Walk for People With Inexplicably Painful Vaginas," so I'm having to look for help on my own. (Although if this walk were to happen - what colour would the T-shirts be?)
There are several theories as to why I'm experiencing these difficulties, but each theory ends with the doctor shrugging his or her shoulders as if to say, "I'm as stumped as you are. Glad it's you and not me honey."
The most popular theory involves my pubic symphysis bone having separated, causing nerve damage and injury to the surrounding soft tissue. This is a great theory, but nobody can tell me what to do about it. Now that my bone has separated...should it try counselling? How will my pubic bone divide the assets? Who gets the house? And for the love of God - what now??
I spent more than $200 on a chiropractor hoping that if my back was in place my pelvis would smarten up and get back together. I spent an additional $35 on a torturous belt I was to wear every hour of every day.
The belt was to be cinched tight around my lower hips, with rubber pieces on either side ensuring I didn't move. The chiropractor assured me the belt could not be seen underneath my clothes, as she had to wear one after the birth of her ninth child or whatever. She may have less than nine children but I had stopped paying attention when I realized I couldn't sit down properly in the belt.
My chiropractor is a size zero, despite having 17 children or whatever. I'm sure the belt did not show under her clothes because she has no actual flesh. I, on the other hand, am slightly more well-endowed in the pudge department. Having this damnable belt cinched around my hips didn't just give me muffin top, it gave me Big Mac top. The cinching gave me a whole extra bun in the middle.
I threw the belt on my floor after one day of squeezing myself like a sausage link and I haven't put it back on since.
My pubic symphysis bone separating is just one theory, but no doctor is willing to refer me to an orthopedic surgeon, neurologist, gynecologist or any other kind of 'ologist' who might be able to help. At this point if a zoologist stepped forward with a theory I'd gladly sit down and listen.
The constant pain has made me tired, and very, very irritable. And I mean more irritable than usual. The uncertainty surrounding what the problem is has made me fearful and anxious and the frustration after having confounded so many supposedly medical professionals has made me bitter...but as always, there's a silver lining.
I've been told I need to avoid sex. Sex makes the pain worse, and so certain positions should be avoided if I'm to try it at all. This isn't the silver lining. This is not turning out to be difficult, but it's not the bright spot in an otherwise dark little trip.
The bright spot came when the last doctor I saw suggested that from now on if I want to be with a guy he just has to be good at oral sex. In case I was unaware, she went on to explain that a lot of women prefer it anyway, so for me it's my best option.
This is still not the silver lining. Oral sex has never been what gets me out of bed in the morning, but if I have to look on the bright side it's what I'm going to get to inscribe on a MedicAlert bracelet should this continue.
Never mind penicillin allergy or diabetes - if I'm to be revived off the floor then the instructions as to what to do with me are going to be much more explicit.
I know the difference though. My fantasy relationship with gold-medal winner Michael Phelps is indeed, all in my head. The near constant pain in the crotchal region is not. And yes, crotchal is now officially a word.
For almost a year now I've been experiencing daily pain in places too impolite to mention in public. On a good day the pain consists of a dull ache, like I was kicked in the crotch by a donkey. On a bad day it feels like I'm wearing barbed-wire underpants two sizes too tight. Nobody can tell me why, or what I can do to make it go away.
It's starting to take a toll. For one, I have no outlet to complain. While I've done some research online and found that there is a condition in existence that translates into constant pain, and doctors have no idea what to do about it or how to help the women experiencing it, this is not a problem that lends itself to charity walks or ribbon pins.
Tell somebody you have breast cancer or MS or tennis elbow and you get some sympathy. Tell somebody your vagina feels like it's on fire and you get...well...I'm not even sure because I have yet to just tell the truth when somebody at work asks me how I'm doing.
I'm not counting on pledge forms for an annual, "Charity Walk for People With Inexplicably Painful Vaginas," so I'm having to look for help on my own. (Although if this walk were to happen - what colour would the T-shirts be?)
There are several theories as to why I'm experiencing these difficulties, but each theory ends with the doctor shrugging his or her shoulders as if to say, "I'm as stumped as you are. Glad it's you and not me honey."
The most popular theory involves my pubic symphysis bone having separated, causing nerve damage and injury to the surrounding soft tissue. This is a great theory, but nobody can tell me what to do about it. Now that my bone has separated...should it try counselling? How will my pubic bone divide the assets? Who gets the house? And for the love of God - what now??
I spent more than $200 on a chiropractor hoping that if my back was in place my pelvis would smarten up and get back together. I spent an additional $35 on a torturous belt I was to wear every hour of every day.
The belt was to be cinched tight around my lower hips, with rubber pieces on either side ensuring I didn't move. The chiropractor assured me the belt could not be seen underneath my clothes, as she had to wear one after the birth of her ninth child or whatever. She may have less than nine children but I had stopped paying attention when I realized I couldn't sit down properly in the belt.
My chiropractor is a size zero, despite having 17 children or whatever. I'm sure the belt did not show under her clothes because she has no actual flesh. I, on the other hand, am slightly more well-endowed in the pudge department. Having this damnable belt cinched around my hips didn't just give me muffin top, it gave me Big Mac top. The cinching gave me a whole extra bun in the middle.
I threw the belt on my floor after one day of squeezing myself like a sausage link and I haven't put it back on since.
My pubic symphysis bone separating is just one theory, but no doctor is willing to refer me to an orthopedic surgeon, neurologist, gynecologist or any other kind of 'ologist' who might be able to help. At this point if a zoologist stepped forward with a theory I'd gladly sit down and listen.
The constant pain has made me tired, and very, very irritable. And I mean more irritable than usual. The uncertainty surrounding what the problem is has made me fearful and anxious and the frustration after having confounded so many supposedly medical professionals has made me bitter...but as always, there's a silver lining.
I've been told I need to avoid sex. Sex makes the pain worse, and so certain positions should be avoided if I'm to try it at all. This isn't the silver lining. This is not turning out to be difficult, but it's not the bright spot in an otherwise dark little trip.
The bright spot came when the last doctor I saw suggested that from now on if I want to be with a guy he just has to be good at oral sex. In case I was unaware, she went on to explain that a lot of women prefer it anyway, so for me it's my best option.
This is still not the silver lining. Oral sex has never been what gets me out of bed in the morning, but if I have to look on the bright side it's what I'm going to get to inscribe on a MedicAlert bracelet should this continue.
Never mind penicillin allergy or diabetes - if I'm to be revived off the floor then the instructions as to what to do with me are going to be much more explicit.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
That time of year again...
It's tourist season in Victoria. This means that on any given day I'm less than three tire rotations away from getting out of my vehicle and beating a Clydesdale horse to death with my bare hands, while a carriage full of horrified Japanese people snap pictures with their camera phones.
Getting stuck behind the slow-moving horses and carriages while on my way home and needing to pee is one thing, but it's the tourists themselves that can really push me over the edge. Particularly the tourists who arrive by cruise ship.
Perhaps it's dropping anchor alongside an island that gives these visitors a feeling of needing to conquer the local primitives. They haven't arrived in a city - they're at a destination, and they will photograph the sights regardless of whether you might be trying to walk, run, drive or just make it past the crowd taking pictures of the shrubs outside of your apartment door.
Cruise ship tourists are a different breed altogether.
I was feeling slightly bad for my fits of rage over these cruisers invading my neighborhood so I stopped and offered to take a picture for a very attractive guy and his grandmother with the ocean in the background. He was very tall, and his grandmother was very short so they were laughing and having difficulties taking a self-portrait.
After noticing the situation my good nature, and libido, led me to offer my services. They were very happy I could take a picture of them both and within seconds I had done my good deed and handed back the camera.
I was just about to strike up a conversation when the young guy dipped the little old lady backward and they began making-out. If I had ever doubted that the cruise ships drop off some bizarre fanny-packed disasters straight into my neighborhood, I never will again.
They annoy me, they overcrowd me and they need to stop taking pictures of random flowers. But I have to say...there is one little old lady in a pink polyester pantsuit who's surely back aboard some floating monstrosity right now, who is my new personal hero. She's welcome back to my city any time - just as long as she tells me how she does it..
Getting stuck behind the slow-moving horses and carriages while on my way home and needing to pee is one thing, but it's the tourists themselves that can really push me over the edge. Particularly the tourists who arrive by cruise ship.
Perhaps it's dropping anchor alongside an island that gives these visitors a feeling of needing to conquer the local primitives. They haven't arrived in a city - they're at a destination, and they will photograph the sights regardless of whether you might be trying to walk, run, drive or just make it past the crowd taking pictures of the shrubs outside of your apartment door.
Cruise ship tourists are a different breed altogether.
I was feeling slightly bad for my fits of rage over these cruisers invading my neighborhood so I stopped and offered to take a picture for a very attractive guy and his grandmother with the ocean in the background. He was very tall, and his grandmother was very short so they were laughing and having difficulties taking a self-portrait.
After noticing the situation my good nature, and libido, led me to offer my services. They were very happy I could take a picture of them both and within seconds I had done my good deed and handed back the camera.
I was just about to strike up a conversation when the young guy dipped the little old lady backward and they began making-out. If I had ever doubted that the cruise ships drop off some bizarre fanny-packed disasters straight into my neighborhood, I never will again.
They annoy me, they overcrowd me and they need to stop taking pictures of random flowers. But I have to say...there is one little old lady in a pink polyester pantsuit who's surely back aboard some floating monstrosity right now, who is my new personal hero. She's welcome back to my city any time - just as long as she tells me how she does it..
Monday, July 21, 2008
The Neighbor
I have some bathroom related issues that I'm fairly well-known for. I don't like others hearing me pee, so in the early stages of any relationship I come close to kidney failure because I will hold it rather than let a guy hear me pee, regardless of how intimate we might have been together just minutes earlier. And it goes without saying that I would sooner actually explode than face the prospect of...well...I can't even say it. If number one is an issue than number two is off the agenda entirely.
Surprisingly, I'm fine with actually sitting in a public bathroom stall unlike some people I know. I won't hover or waste valuable time draping the toilet with a protective tissue barrier. If I can't visibly see it, then I don't want to worry about it. Also, I just don't have the strength in my quads to hover over a toilet and clutch my purse in my lap at the same time, but brava to those who do.
The other bathroom related issues I have are currently being tested on a weekly basis. Unlike the bathrooms in the last office I worked in, our washrooms are not unpleasant. There are six bathroom stalls with automatic flushers and all is usually right with the world. I will always choose a stall at one far end or another -- it's just what I do.
And at least once a week, some other woman will enter the washroom and take the stall right next to mine. She has four eligible toilets to choose from that do not put her in close enough proximity to tap my toe with hers, and yet if I'm in there, she wants to be near me. This bothers me.
Even though I can't actually see her feet, I know it's the same person, every time. I know this because of the humming, and the speed in which she does her business. She's got to wear pants with velcro because she starts peeing no sooner than the stall door is closed and locked. It's as if she had no clothes on to bother with at all, but that just can't be right.
She pees like she's part of a relay race. It happens fast. The only way I think she can pee any faster is if it were in capsule form. It's brief, but powerful and throughout the entire disintegration of her bladder she hums. Just one note. This disturbs me.
And then she's gone. As the toilets are autoflush she storms out of the stall as quickly as she arrives and just leaves, not even bothering to make sure it flushes. And she never washes her hands.
There I am, minding my own business as quietly as I possibly can when suddenly I'm hijacked by some kind of humming/peeing/personal space invading/personal hygiene avoiding bandit.
She's never there longer than I am so I can't wait around to see who she is. I can never see her shoes and I can't recognize her voice in her oddly meditative humming.
We're never finished at the same time because I pee at a normal rate of speed and usually have some sort of fastening devices to contend with at the end.
Every time it happens I'm slightly shaken. Which probably makes me as weird as she is.
Surprisingly, I'm fine with actually sitting in a public bathroom stall unlike some people I know. I won't hover or waste valuable time draping the toilet with a protective tissue barrier. If I can't visibly see it, then I don't want to worry about it. Also, I just don't have the strength in my quads to hover over a toilet and clutch my purse in my lap at the same time, but brava to those who do.
The other bathroom related issues I have are currently being tested on a weekly basis. Unlike the bathrooms in the last office I worked in, our washrooms are not unpleasant. There are six bathroom stalls with automatic flushers and all is usually right with the world. I will always choose a stall at one far end or another -- it's just what I do.
And at least once a week, some other woman will enter the washroom and take the stall right next to mine. She has four eligible toilets to choose from that do not put her in close enough proximity to tap my toe with hers, and yet if I'm in there, she wants to be near me. This bothers me.
Even though I can't actually see her feet, I know it's the same person, every time. I know this because of the humming, and the speed in which she does her business. She's got to wear pants with velcro because she starts peeing no sooner than the stall door is closed and locked. It's as if she had no clothes on to bother with at all, but that just can't be right.
She pees like she's part of a relay race. It happens fast. The only way I think she can pee any faster is if it were in capsule form. It's brief, but powerful and throughout the entire disintegration of her bladder she hums. Just one note. This disturbs me.
And then she's gone. As the toilets are autoflush she storms out of the stall as quickly as she arrives and just leaves, not even bothering to make sure it flushes. And she never washes her hands.
There I am, minding my own business as quietly as I possibly can when suddenly I'm hijacked by some kind of humming/peeing/personal space invading/personal hygiene avoiding bandit.
She's never there longer than I am so I can't wait around to see who she is. I can never see her shoes and I can't recognize her voice in her oddly meditative humming.
We're never finished at the same time because I pee at a normal rate of speed and usually have some sort of fastening devices to contend with at the end.
Every time it happens I'm slightly shaken. Which probably makes me as weird as she is.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
E-Harmony Sucks
The commercials finally got to me, and I had to admit that sleeping with the guy who stole my vibrator has been an ill-advised decision. Regardless of why, I signed up for E-Harmony. And it sucks.
For all those who wonder what magic E-Harmony weaves to match people based on a billion points of compatibility, I can now tell you. The survey you have to fill out takes just enough time to make you wonder when you'll regret losing those precious minutes you'll never get back.
The questions are probing, and by probing I literally mean you'll feel like your underpants have crawled way up your ass. For example:
The people I enjoy spending time with most are:
For all those who wonder what magic E-Harmony weaves to match people based on a billion points of compatibility, I can now tell you. The survey you have to fill out takes just enough time to make you wonder when you'll regret losing those precious minutes you'll never get back.
The questions are probing, and by probing I literally mean you'll feel like your underpants have crawled way up your ass. For example:
The people I enjoy spending time with most are:
- Friends and family
- The corpses I've most recently buried in my yard
- Anybody who will talk to me
- Whoever it is who slides my food through the slot in the door
So it's really not difficult to ace the survey is what I'm saying. Assuming everybody else can out-think the survey, it's not difficult to get matches regardless of who you are.
Once a 'match' has been made, you get an email telling you that a computer program feels you would be highly compatible with a 41 year old, 5'6, retail sales clerk in Brampton, Ontario who has two beautiful children.
Let's assume you're a 32 year old, 5'11, professional in Victoria BC who would want children only to harvest their organs. However, you do both enjoy spending time with friends and family so who knows? Maybe you two crazy kids might just make it!
Occasionally you'll get an email congratulating you that a match has requested communication. E-Harmony is stricter than the Amish when it comes to allowing open communication between the sexes. You simply can not begin emailing back and forth.
If you want to communicate with one of your matches you have to send them five even more probing questions that they answer and send back. I'm not sure what happens after that because I haven't been able to figure that out.
I have figured out that there is a particular type of man who finds me most alluring. He is bald. He is much older. He is short. He has at least 2.5 children and I make more money than he does. Based on the E-Harmony matches who want to probe me further - this is my kind of man.
I hate you E-Harmony.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
And then things got weird. No really.
I'm at such a loss to even explain this latest situation that I've included a Q&A section at the end of my post. I've been asked the same questions over and over again, and I struggle with how to answer every time so perhaps this will finally lead to clarification.
It began well enough, but then the bar wasn't set very high. My last date had fled through a back exit immediately after looking at me, so the fact PB* and I had made it to sitting on a patio together drinking sangria was a victory.
PB was cute. Better than cute actually. I had to listen to more stories about his lacrosse team and the finer points of riding motocross than were really necessary, but all the same I found myself feeling very...warm.
Hard body, slow smile...this was a manly man. This was a guy who could throttle an attacking grizzly bear with one hand while pleasuring a woman with the other and dammit...I wanted to be that woman. Less than an hour later -- I was, romance and or exchanging of last names be damned. Let's not judge.
I maintained some small amount of decorum and refused to have sex with him outright. While this doesn't necessarily qualify me for an award, it probably should given what he looked like with his shirt off. Being the enterprising and enthusiastic date he'd already proven himself to be, he asked me if I had any toys.
(And if you don't know what kind of toys I'm talking about you should probably stop reading right now and just wait until I post again.)
Being a single girl, of course I did. It stood to reason that my manly man would enjoy power tools and we both enjoyed very much. Some time later, it was time for PB to go.
He was so sweet. It was late and he insisted he didn't need the light on because it might hurt my eyes, and I should just stay in bed. He tucked me in and kissed me once more before letting himself out.
I allowed myself a few moments of laying there in happy bliss before getting up to officially get ready for bed, and put away my clothes and everything else that had been left on the floor.
This included my vibrator, which was now gone.
PB (as in Perverted Bastard) had stolen my vibrator.
At first I refused to believe it. I crawled all around the floor. I checked under every nook and cranny, all the while knowing that the missing item was not exactly the proverbial needle in a haystack. It's not something that can just blend in with the surroundings, and I knew it wasn't blending. It was gone.
When your date steals your vibrator, it's a natural time to reevaluate your choices and your chosen path in life. After confirming that my wallet and the panties I had so hastily removed just a few hours earlier were all present and accounted for, there was nothing left to do but to sit down and write the most bizarre message over MSN I've ever had to compose. After all, it's not like I could file a police report.
Knowing the message would be waiting on PB's computer when he got home, this is what I wrote:
"PB - I can't believe I'm even having to write this message, but did you seriously steal from me? You sick fuck. That is really fucking sick."
Then I went to bed, and lay awake for most of the night feeling violated. The breach in vibrator security was traumatizing.
The next day, PB responds to my message with, "What are you talking about????"
And so began one of the most bizarre exchanges in MSN history. I explained that my vibrator was missing. It wasn't where I left it and it wasn't anywhere in my bedroom. Unless the Bermuda Triangle was actually located right next to my bed and I had never before noticed the squadrons of small aircraft being sucked into the mysterious vortex in my bedroom, my vibrator had left the building and I had no other option but to assume he took it.
He denied taking it, and asked me if I had looked under the bed. Since I sleep on two mattresses sitting atop a box spring sitting on the floor like I'm the princess and the goddamned pea, I assured him it was not under the bed.
And this is when it gets weird. PB carries on asking me how my day was like I hadn't just accused him of walking out of my apartment with my personal massage device tucked away hidden in his clothing.
At a loss, we carried on a normal conversation in which he told me how much he liked me and wanted to see me again. And I surprised myself by telling him I wanted to see him again too, and even more shocking - I did really want to see him again. I liked him. He stole my vibrator. But I liked him. Jesus.
As a friend pointed out, if he hadn't taken it he would assume I was one crazy bitch and he wouldn't want to see me again. This wasn't the case. Me accusing him was perfectly normal and we were making plans to get together again.
It's not like I was going to make the same mistakes again...not all of them at least. I told PB that even though I liked him and enjoyed our last evening together we would have to scale things back and take things slower. He agreed this would be fine, because he really liked me and he "had sparks with me." He could be patient. The next time we got together, our clothes just fell off again.
Still, I refused to go any further than softcore. This time however, when he got up to leave I jumped up and turned on all of the lights, blinding both of us but reassuring me that all of my belongings would stay where I had intended. I followed him out and when I hugged him good-bye I patted him down as best I could.
Now I knew I had a problem. I liked this guy enough to abandon all reason. Just hearing his voice caused the angel on my one shoulder and the devil on the other to start licking one another.
We set another date for last night, and we were going to have a little chat about the way things were heading, unbeknownst to him. Specifically, I was going to chat and he was going to inwardly groan as I suggested that perhaps we could see a movie some time instead of attacking each other like rabid raccoons, only that never happened. PB stood me up.
He was going to come by at 8:00. At 7:15 I get a message saying he's just getting ready and he'll see me at 8:00, and he didn't show up. His cell phone was turned off, and I haven't heard from him since. I'm a little baffled.
And so, without any further ado, should you have the same questions everybody else has been asking, I'll attempt to help out.
Q. He stole your vibrator? Seriously?? What the fuck!
A. What the fuck indeed. He did seriously steal it. It's been over a week and it's not turned up. This is not an item that should normally require any kind of anti-theft device with a locator option like when you lose your car in a parking lot and can hit a button to make the car's horn beep...this is a freaking vibrator. Although if I could make it beep I would have tried that.
Q. Why would you want to see him again? He stole your vibrator for Christ's sake! How is that OK?
A. To be fair, that's actually two questions, but nonetheless...I want to see him again because there was just something about him. Chemistry. Absolutely mindless, oh dear God I want you right now chemistry which I didn't experience for a single minute in my last relationship. I had forgotten what that was like, and now I remember why it's a bad idea.
Q. If you marry him can I tell this story at your wedding?
A. If you tell this story at my wedding can I stab you in the neck with my fork? That's what I thought.
Q. Please tell me you're not going to forgive him for standing you up.
A. Not at all. Unless his excuse involves an ambulance ride or time spent lying broken and bleeding in a ditch, we're done. But in that case...I'm really going to need a new toy.
It began well enough, but then the bar wasn't set very high. My last date had fled through a back exit immediately after looking at me, so the fact PB* and I had made it to sitting on a patio together drinking sangria was a victory.
PB was cute. Better than cute actually. I had to listen to more stories about his lacrosse team and the finer points of riding motocross than were really necessary, but all the same I found myself feeling very...warm.
Hard body, slow smile...this was a manly man. This was a guy who could throttle an attacking grizzly bear with one hand while pleasuring a woman with the other and dammit...I wanted to be that woman. Less than an hour later -- I was, romance and or exchanging of last names be damned. Let's not judge.
I maintained some small amount of decorum and refused to have sex with him outright. While this doesn't necessarily qualify me for an award, it probably should given what he looked like with his shirt off. Being the enterprising and enthusiastic date he'd already proven himself to be, he asked me if I had any toys.
(And if you don't know what kind of toys I'm talking about you should probably stop reading right now and just wait until I post again.)
Being a single girl, of course I did. It stood to reason that my manly man would enjoy power tools and we both enjoyed very much. Some time later, it was time for PB to go.
He was so sweet. It was late and he insisted he didn't need the light on because it might hurt my eyes, and I should just stay in bed. He tucked me in and kissed me once more before letting himself out.
I allowed myself a few moments of laying there in happy bliss before getting up to officially get ready for bed, and put away my clothes and everything else that had been left on the floor.
This included my vibrator, which was now gone.
PB (as in Perverted Bastard) had stolen my vibrator.
At first I refused to believe it. I crawled all around the floor. I checked under every nook and cranny, all the while knowing that the missing item was not exactly the proverbial needle in a haystack. It's not something that can just blend in with the surroundings, and I knew it wasn't blending. It was gone.
When your date steals your vibrator, it's a natural time to reevaluate your choices and your chosen path in life. After confirming that my wallet and the panties I had so hastily removed just a few hours earlier were all present and accounted for, there was nothing left to do but to sit down and write the most bizarre message over MSN I've ever had to compose. After all, it's not like I could file a police report.
Knowing the message would be waiting on PB's computer when he got home, this is what I wrote:
"PB - I can't believe I'm even having to write this message, but did you seriously steal from me? You sick fuck. That is really fucking sick."
Then I went to bed, and lay awake for most of the night feeling violated. The breach in vibrator security was traumatizing.
The next day, PB responds to my message with, "What are you talking about????"
And so began one of the most bizarre exchanges in MSN history. I explained that my vibrator was missing. It wasn't where I left it and it wasn't anywhere in my bedroom. Unless the Bermuda Triangle was actually located right next to my bed and I had never before noticed the squadrons of small aircraft being sucked into the mysterious vortex in my bedroom, my vibrator had left the building and I had no other option but to assume he took it.
He denied taking it, and asked me if I had looked under the bed. Since I sleep on two mattresses sitting atop a box spring sitting on the floor like I'm the princess and the goddamned pea, I assured him it was not under the bed.
And this is when it gets weird. PB carries on asking me how my day was like I hadn't just accused him of walking out of my apartment with my personal massage device tucked away hidden in his clothing.
At a loss, we carried on a normal conversation in which he told me how much he liked me and wanted to see me again. And I surprised myself by telling him I wanted to see him again too, and even more shocking - I did really want to see him again. I liked him. He stole my vibrator. But I liked him. Jesus.
As a friend pointed out, if he hadn't taken it he would assume I was one crazy bitch and he wouldn't want to see me again. This wasn't the case. Me accusing him was perfectly normal and we were making plans to get together again.
It's not like I was going to make the same mistakes again...not all of them at least. I told PB that even though I liked him and enjoyed our last evening together we would have to scale things back and take things slower. He agreed this would be fine, because he really liked me and he "had sparks with me." He could be patient. The next time we got together, our clothes just fell off again.
Still, I refused to go any further than softcore. This time however, when he got up to leave I jumped up and turned on all of the lights, blinding both of us but reassuring me that all of my belongings would stay where I had intended. I followed him out and when I hugged him good-bye I patted him down as best I could.
Now I knew I had a problem. I liked this guy enough to abandon all reason. Just hearing his voice caused the angel on my one shoulder and the devil on the other to start licking one another.
We set another date for last night, and we were going to have a little chat about the way things were heading, unbeknownst to him. Specifically, I was going to chat and he was going to inwardly groan as I suggested that perhaps we could see a movie some time instead of attacking each other like rabid raccoons, only that never happened. PB stood me up.
He was going to come by at 8:00. At 7:15 I get a message saying he's just getting ready and he'll see me at 8:00, and he didn't show up. His cell phone was turned off, and I haven't heard from him since. I'm a little baffled.
And so, without any further ado, should you have the same questions everybody else has been asking, I'll attempt to help out.
Q. He stole your vibrator? Seriously?? What the fuck!
A. What the fuck indeed. He did seriously steal it. It's been over a week and it's not turned up. This is not an item that should normally require any kind of anti-theft device with a locator option like when you lose your car in a parking lot and can hit a button to make the car's horn beep...this is a freaking vibrator. Although if I could make it beep I would have tried that.
Q. Why would you want to see him again? He stole your vibrator for Christ's sake! How is that OK?
A. To be fair, that's actually two questions, but nonetheless...I want to see him again because there was just something about him. Chemistry. Absolutely mindless, oh dear God I want you right now chemistry which I didn't experience for a single minute in my last relationship. I had forgotten what that was like, and now I remember why it's a bad idea.
Q. If you marry him can I tell this story at your wedding?
A. If you tell this story at my wedding can I stab you in the neck with my fork? That's what I thought.
Q. Please tell me you're not going to forgive him for standing you up.
A. Not at all. Unless his excuse involves an ambulance ride or time spent lying broken and bleeding in a ditch, we're done. But in that case...I'm really going to need a new toy.
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