Lately, my karma hasn't been right, and by lately I mean since birth. I am having a run of such crappy luck that instead of feeling down about it, I'm actually in awe. Before I step outside my home and am struck dead by some sort of frozen waste accidentally jettisoned from the septic system of an aircraft passing overhead and falling to earth only to crush me like a bug, I thought I would do a good deed and try to rectify whatever karmic situation is causing such calamity.
I do good deeds all the time. I tell my friends about my dating life so that they may feel better about whatever situation they have going on. I clean my lint out of the dryer so the next person to use it doesn't have to. I actually go ahead and sit on the toilet seats in public restrooms so that I don't spray everywhere and nobody has to wait in line at the ladies for very long for me to pee and perform acrobatics at the same time, which nobody should be doing. Ever. I risk the good health of my bare thighs and ass because I am a good person. However, the universe has not been kind lately so I tried to make up for the mystery deficit by giving blood.
If you get back what you give, I thought blood should put me in a pretty good position, cosmically speaking. Canadian Blood Services came to my company and set up their clinic near the cafeteria and I was pretty happy. Not only would I get to do something good for somebody else, but I would get a free cookie, some time away from work, and whatever alcohol I was planning on drinking later on would go straight to my head. There was no way I could lose.
I made my appointment and showed up at the designated time. Apparently every single one of my colleagues had the same idea, because the clinic was very busy. I filled out my form in which I denied any knowledge of having mad cow disease, or being a gay man before 1977. Or something like that. While it's true my gay friends have declared me to be an honorary gay man, it shouldn't count.
This form gets filled out in a waiting area outside of the nurses "offices." For anybody who hasn't given blood, you fill out one part of the form and then meet with the nurse in private to talk about anything you might not want to declare in public, like having mad cow disease.
Every chair in the waiting area was full, with more staff members showing up without appointments and standing around waiting to see if anybody actually in the process of giving blood would pass out. It's what I was doing after I finished my form, so I can only imagine everybody else was taking bets on anybody looking overly pale.
The nurse examined my arms for track marks and approved of my answers until we got to the section about travel outside of Canada. I recently got back from Thailand, and this was a problem. Health Canada approves of some areas in Thailand, but not all. I went to some places that were not on the Health Canada list, which means my blood is no longer fit for consumption.
I tried arguing, because it was silly. Some places we travelled to were in such close proximity, it was like saying Calgary would have been safe, but Banff is a danger-zone. Or Vancouver is all-clear, but look out for Burnaby. Health Canada's ignorance about the geography in Thailand was going to cost some poor accident victim the gift of life - my gift of life. My good deed was getting a nasty looking red stamp all over it. Canadian Blood Services did not want my blood. I was tainted.
What normally happens after donors see the nurse in the private office is the nurse leads the donor to a bed and the donor lies there for a while bleeding into a bag. What happened with me was I walked out of the nurse's office and the nurse escorted me past all of the people in the waiting area to make sure I left. I suppose she thought I was so desperate to do something nice for humanity that I was just going to launch myself at one of the needles and refuse to leave until I was down at least a pint of the good stuff.
People actually stared at me. I would have stared too, wondering at the scandal behind my rejection and escort out of the premises. I left with dignity, my head held high, stopping only to tell one secretary I knew that she should reconsider sex with prostitutes. It's just not worth the price.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Spooning.
So, I made it to date number two with Andrew. It's embarrassing for me to admit how rare second dates are...when it comes to the men I date, the last thing I want to consider is what I could have possibly brought to the table that somehow out-freaked the freak show.
There are times though when not reaching second date status is inexplicable, and I actually scan obituaries to find out whether the guy who I really thought would call somehow wound up under a double-decker bus loaded with tourists.
(Case in point - Gavin. We talked online for six months. Finally met for lunch. Lunch turned into drinks, which turned into a walk around downtown, checking out street performers, shopping in my favourite book store at his suggestion, which turned into more drinks on the patio, which turned into dinner and conversation about what movie we were going to see together later that week. After nine hours together following lunch, I thought second date territory was a given. I was wrong.)
(So far, my follow-up phone call to Gavin has not been returned and the obituaries have yet to provide any explanation for over two weeks now. They haven't even yielded any leads on an affordable estate sale condo, which I'm also looking for, but more on that later.)
(This is turning into a really long aside, and I'm sorry for that, but if anybody knows Gavin, I would appreciate if you did actually shove him underneath a double-decker bus loaded with tourists, because then my mind would be at ease. Thank you.)
The first date with Andrew started well enough. He was decent looking, and dressed very well. He smelled good. I was not fond of the facial hair situation he had embarked on, but I felt that could be addressed at a later time. He was funny in a way that took me by surprise, and he was taller than me.
I'm aware that none of these things would qualify this date as the most romantic story of our nation's time, but given what I have to choose from, I had little choice but to be impressed. Our first date ended with a kiss that was also surprisingly pleasant, and so I was cautiously optimistic when he emailed me asking to meet for a drink later that week.
Surely, this was how these things are supposed to go, and I felt perhaps I had managed not to screw things up or misjudge his character too badly. At this point, I knew he could still have bodies buried in his backyard, but he was taller than me and a girl has to compromise some times to get what she wants in the end.
We ended up meeting at a wildly popular ice cream stand instead of a pub, which was exciting because we could take a walk around the park, perhaps walk to the beach, and I could tell so many more people in the surrounding area through excited telepathy that I, Bambi, was on a second date. Yes, the attractive man beside me getting ice cream stuck in his ill-considered facial hair met me once, and then willingly chose to meet me again. In public. Behold the awesome miracle.
After settling on a bench and after me settling on a way to eat my cone without appearing to fellate it, he turns to me and says he has something to tell me, but he's not sure how. Of course he did. I abandoned any pretense of eating my cone in a dainty manner and told him he should probably just lay it on me. He warned that it may change the way I thought about him, but he really felt it was something he had to get out of the way early on.
I waited for him to tell me he had herpes or he was married. Or both. I wondered if I could manage to pull my face into something crossed between empathy and considered concern, and how soon after he told me was married with herpes would it be appropriate for me to take my leave without appearing shallow or angry.
It turns out, it was neither of those things. Instead, Andrew told me that the only way he could get off sexually would be if I was to beat him with a wooden spoon while he called me, "Mommy."
Now.
There was no point asking him to repeat what he'd said. I heard him perfectly well and did not want to hear it again. There were options. I could laugh at him. I could grab what was left of my cone and napkins and run for my car. I could explain to him that really, I don't ever want anybody calling me Mommy - that I've never wanted children, I don't have a biological clock, if I did have a biological clock it was out-matched in sluggishness only by my metabolism and that I'm quite comfortable with my decision to single-handedly keep the birth control industry in business, but sad for my own Mom and Dad who would make some totally kick-ass grandparents.
I sensed that would be a tangent however, and avoiding the real issue. Some response was called for.
I asked him if it had to be a wooden spoon.
This was the wrong response for several reasons. For one, it seemed to ignite in him some hope that I was not totally freaked out by this and was merely considering logistics. While I wasn't totally freaked out, it was only because as far as nutbars I have dated go, Andrew had some serious competition and nothing can shock me any more. My question and my nonchalance seemed to only encourage him that I may be the mean Mommy of his dreams. I was not.
Also, I would like to point out that his particular...desire...did not particularly freak me either. Each to their own - honestly. You could get off on dressing in a bumble bee suit while licking somebody's eyeball and standing on a Wii Fit and more power to you. What blows your hair back is your business, and I encourage one and all to get as kinky as you want - no complaints from me. Unless of course it involves a felony. Or kids. Or blood. Or poo. Or dead people. Or Stephen Harper. Some things are just sick and wrong.
(And now this post has gone totally awry, and I am so SORRY.)
What freaked me out about Andrew and his confession was that he had spent some time with me, had conversations with me, got to know me and still felt that I was the kind of girl it would be OK to dump this upon on our second date while we ate ice cream in a park.
It bothered me much more that he would think it necessary to bring up a sexual fetish at all, before we'd ever held hands. Yes, I kissed him, and I'm good at it. I really am. If I could put kissing on my resume I would, but I was mildly annoyed that he seemed to think we were mere minutes away from re-enacting some kind of sexualized child abuse scene straight out of an after-school special. I mean...honestly.
But I went and asked him about whether it had to be a wooden spoon, and it turns out it did not. It could be a wooden paddle. Or alternating between a wooden spoon or paddle. He had several that he liked, and had brought some with him. He preferred wood to plastic, as he felt wood had a more pleasant aesthetic.
Once again, I had some options. I could have said right then and there that this was not for me, that I wished him luck, but I would not feel comfortable swinging any wooden spoons or paddles. In fact, I suffered through one entire season of softball when I as fifteen and I did not get a single hit that got me on base in that entire time. It was humiliating. The softball season that is - this conversation was just weird. Basically, I would not be swinging anything made of wood, ever again.
I could have said all of these things, but instead I focused on one thing he had said that stood out. He said he brought some spoons and paddles with him. I asked him if he really did, and he really did. He had them in his car, safely concealed in his laptop bag.
Did he bring them just for me, or did he always carry them around just in case a public flogging were to suddenly break out? How many did he bring? And why in the name of everything holy did I not get a double scoop?
I asked to see them. I wanted to know. Did the man seriously carry around a bunch of wooden spoons in case of random acts of corporal punishment? When I asked to see them I thought he was going to foam over with excitement. He thought I was on board, and I thought this may be the lowest point in my dating history. And that's actually saying a lot.
We walked to his car, just a good looking young couple taking a stroll on a summer's evening. Sure enough, one entire compartment in his laptop bag was stuffed with wooden spoons and paddles. I might once have called the paddles "cutting boards" but apparently I have little imagination.
Once I saw it for myself, there was nothing left to see. I held my hand out and wished him good luck in his search. He looked quite shattered - I had got his hopes up. Some times it happens that way. You show somebody your private collection and they walk away, and some times you spend an entire day with somebody and never want to do it again. No further explanation necessary.
There are times though when not reaching second date status is inexplicable, and I actually scan obituaries to find out whether the guy who I really thought would call somehow wound up under a double-decker bus loaded with tourists.
(Case in point - Gavin. We talked online for six months. Finally met for lunch. Lunch turned into drinks, which turned into a walk around downtown, checking out street performers, shopping in my favourite book store at his suggestion, which turned into more drinks on the patio, which turned into dinner and conversation about what movie we were going to see together later that week. After nine hours together following lunch, I thought second date territory was a given. I was wrong.)
(So far, my follow-up phone call to Gavin has not been returned and the obituaries have yet to provide any explanation for over two weeks now. They haven't even yielded any leads on an affordable estate sale condo, which I'm also looking for, but more on that later.)
(This is turning into a really long aside, and I'm sorry for that, but if anybody knows Gavin, I would appreciate if you did actually shove him underneath a double-decker bus loaded with tourists, because then my mind would be at ease. Thank you.)
The first date with Andrew started well enough. He was decent looking, and dressed very well. He smelled good. I was not fond of the facial hair situation he had embarked on, but I felt that could be addressed at a later time. He was funny in a way that took me by surprise, and he was taller than me.
I'm aware that none of these things would qualify this date as the most romantic story of our nation's time, but given what I have to choose from, I had little choice but to be impressed. Our first date ended with a kiss that was also surprisingly pleasant, and so I was cautiously optimistic when he emailed me asking to meet for a drink later that week.
Surely, this was how these things are supposed to go, and I felt perhaps I had managed not to screw things up or misjudge his character too badly. At this point, I knew he could still have bodies buried in his backyard, but he was taller than me and a girl has to compromise some times to get what she wants in the end.
We ended up meeting at a wildly popular ice cream stand instead of a pub, which was exciting because we could take a walk around the park, perhaps walk to the beach, and I could tell so many more people in the surrounding area through excited telepathy that I, Bambi, was on a second date. Yes, the attractive man beside me getting ice cream stuck in his ill-considered facial hair met me once, and then willingly chose to meet me again. In public. Behold the awesome miracle.
After settling on a bench and after me settling on a way to eat my cone without appearing to fellate it, he turns to me and says he has something to tell me, but he's not sure how. Of course he did. I abandoned any pretense of eating my cone in a dainty manner and told him he should probably just lay it on me. He warned that it may change the way I thought about him, but he really felt it was something he had to get out of the way early on.
I waited for him to tell me he had herpes or he was married. Or both. I wondered if I could manage to pull my face into something crossed between empathy and considered concern, and how soon after he told me was married with herpes would it be appropriate for me to take my leave without appearing shallow or angry.
It turns out, it was neither of those things. Instead, Andrew told me that the only way he could get off sexually would be if I was to beat him with a wooden spoon while he called me, "Mommy."
Now.
There was no point asking him to repeat what he'd said. I heard him perfectly well and did not want to hear it again. There were options. I could laugh at him. I could grab what was left of my cone and napkins and run for my car. I could explain to him that really, I don't ever want anybody calling me Mommy - that I've never wanted children, I don't have a biological clock, if I did have a biological clock it was out-matched in sluggishness only by my metabolism and that I'm quite comfortable with my decision to single-handedly keep the birth control industry in business, but sad for my own Mom and Dad who would make some totally kick-ass grandparents.
I sensed that would be a tangent however, and avoiding the real issue. Some response was called for.
I asked him if it had to be a wooden spoon.
This was the wrong response for several reasons. For one, it seemed to ignite in him some hope that I was not totally freaked out by this and was merely considering logistics. While I wasn't totally freaked out, it was only because as far as nutbars I have dated go, Andrew had some serious competition and nothing can shock me any more. My question and my nonchalance seemed to only encourage him that I may be the mean Mommy of his dreams. I was not.
Also, I would like to point out that his particular...desire...did not particularly freak me either. Each to their own - honestly. You could get off on dressing in a bumble bee suit while licking somebody's eyeball and standing on a Wii Fit and more power to you. What blows your hair back is your business, and I encourage one and all to get as kinky as you want - no complaints from me. Unless of course it involves a felony. Or kids. Or blood. Or poo. Or dead people. Or Stephen Harper. Some things are just sick and wrong.
(And now this post has gone totally awry, and I am so SORRY.)
What freaked me out about Andrew and his confession was that he had spent some time with me, had conversations with me, got to know me and still felt that I was the kind of girl it would be OK to dump this upon on our second date while we ate ice cream in a park.
It bothered me much more that he would think it necessary to bring up a sexual fetish at all, before we'd ever held hands. Yes, I kissed him, and I'm good at it. I really am. If I could put kissing on my resume I would, but I was mildly annoyed that he seemed to think we were mere minutes away from re-enacting some kind of sexualized child abuse scene straight out of an after-school special. I mean...honestly.
But I went and asked him about whether it had to be a wooden spoon, and it turns out it did not. It could be a wooden paddle. Or alternating between a wooden spoon or paddle. He had several that he liked, and had brought some with him. He preferred wood to plastic, as he felt wood had a more pleasant aesthetic.
Once again, I had some options. I could have said right then and there that this was not for me, that I wished him luck, but I would not feel comfortable swinging any wooden spoons or paddles. In fact, I suffered through one entire season of softball when I as fifteen and I did not get a single hit that got me on base in that entire time. It was humiliating. The softball season that is - this conversation was just weird. Basically, I would not be swinging anything made of wood, ever again.
I could have said all of these things, but instead I focused on one thing he had said that stood out. He said he brought some spoons and paddles with him. I asked him if he really did, and he really did. He had them in his car, safely concealed in his laptop bag.
Did he bring them just for me, or did he always carry them around just in case a public flogging were to suddenly break out? How many did he bring? And why in the name of everything holy did I not get a double scoop?
I asked to see them. I wanted to know. Did the man seriously carry around a bunch of wooden spoons in case of random acts of corporal punishment? When I asked to see them I thought he was going to foam over with excitement. He thought I was on board, and I thought this may be the lowest point in my dating history. And that's actually saying a lot.
We walked to his car, just a good looking young couple taking a stroll on a summer's evening. Sure enough, one entire compartment in his laptop bag was stuffed with wooden spoons and paddles. I might once have called the paddles "cutting boards" but apparently I have little imagination.
Once I saw it for myself, there was nothing left to see. I held my hand out and wished him good luck in his search. He looked quite shattered - I had got his hopes up. Some times it happens that way. You show somebody your private collection and they walk away, and some times you spend an entire day with somebody and never want to do it again. No further explanation necessary.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Back again.
I haven't been very good about doing anything productive lately. I've tripped over the same laundry basket for 3 consecutive weeks, and yet I have not moved it. Emptying said laundry basket and putting it where it's supposed to be is obviously far outside of my abilities.
You'd think that kicking the damn thing to a place where I might not trip over it could be manageable, but you would be wrong. Tripping over this basket seems to provide me with an adrenaline rush I enjoy, and so the basket stays.
If I can't kick a basket out of my way, keeping up a blog with a reasonable amount of posts hasn't happened either. It's not as if my life has been devoid of ridiculousness to write about - far from it. Just the other day I was on the phone with a girlfriend who in between laughing at my latest exploits explained why it is she loves talking to me so much.
She's a single mother of four children, and she's just so glad she does not have my life. This was heartwarming. Apparently my very existence is an act of charity for those who might otherwise suffer. I live to serve, but I am going to investigate as to whether this may qualify me for any tax credits.
I have a lot to write about, including what happens when I attempt to purchase real estate, the guy who brought his wooden spoon collection to our second date, my firefighter and his lovely wife, a short-lived relationship, my trip to Thailand, my violent encounters with sea urchins and squat toilets, how I came to be known as really very unpleasant and two friends of mine who recently passed away, and why that changes everything.
You'd think that kicking the damn thing to a place where I might not trip over it could be manageable, but you would be wrong. Tripping over this basket seems to provide me with an adrenaline rush I enjoy, and so the basket stays.
If I can't kick a basket out of my way, keeping up a blog with a reasonable amount of posts hasn't happened either. It's not as if my life has been devoid of ridiculousness to write about - far from it. Just the other day I was on the phone with a girlfriend who in between laughing at my latest exploits explained why it is she loves talking to me so much.
She's a single mother of four children, and she's just so glad she does not have my life. This was heartwarming. Apparently my very existence is an act of charity for those who might otherwise suffer. I live to serve, but I am going to investigate as to whether this may qualify me for any tax credits.
I have a lot to write about, including what happens when I attempt to purchase real estate, the guy who brought his wooden spoon collection to our second date, my firefighter and his lovely wife, a short-lived relationship, my trip to Thailand, my violent encounters with sea urchins and squat toilets, how I came to be known as really very unpleasant and two friends of mine who recently passed away, and why that changes everything.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Starting with more of a whimper.
So I had my first date from this most recent Plenty of Fish profile, and it did not go well. This is about as surprising as me saying that I woke up this morning with armpits.
To my relief, it wasn't spectacularly bad. Nothing caught on fire, nobody had to call the authorities and he didn't steal my vibrator. We all know the depths my dates are capable of, so this was relatively unscathing.
He did do the unthinkable however, and snapped his fingers at our waitress. Up until that point I had been thinking that he was charming and funny enough in an effeminate way that would be like having a gay friend who might actually want to have sex with me.
I wasn't interested in ever seeing him naked, but I didn't hate him yet. Three finger snaps later, that changed.
In case he hadn't doomed himself to the discard pile already, he assumed he would be sharing my dessert.
I don't mean he asked me politely for a small taste, and then wisely put the fork away after my generous allowance of chocolate, icing and an entire pecan - I mean he kept digging right in, and taking forkfuls of dessert that I was about to eat.
I'm rather territorial about my food, and would have sooner given up a kidney than any part of my Turtle Pie. I have to love you to let you take so much as a fry off my plate without feeling the need to drive a fork through your wrist.
In fact, I knew I had fallen completely and utterly without hope of redemption in love with Alex when I offered him my last bite of crab cake over dinner. In my mind, it was like telling him I would willingly die in childbirth just to have his children. It was really tasty crab cake.
Perhaps it's not surprising, but my witty and sarcastic Plenty of Fish profile is not getting much of a response, with Mr. Finger McSnappy from last night as the exception.
As Heidi of Completely Barking Mad blog fame pointed out, my current profile (posted here a couple of weeks back) will either lead to no responses or finding my soul mate. For those of you wise enough to place bets on the "No Responses" square - the next round should be on you.
However, the last time I had posted a Plenty of Fish profile, my message was very sweet. It was a little girly, kind of bland, and nothing like me at all. That profile got me no responses either. If I wanted any messages at all, I had to send my own to about 15 guys before one would reply back.
This time around, I even included more pictures of me looking as cute as I possibly can, and I'm getting the same crickets chirping in the night sound as when I tried to be sweet. The difference seems to be -- I can't bring myself to send messages to anybody.
Sure...I've browsed. A few profiles have even made me linger a little on the pictures, but I just can't get excited, and I'm certainly not hopeful.
No matter how good a guy looks, he doesn't look as good as Alex. If he tries to be funny, he's just not as funny as you-know-who. If he has interests, they're just not as interesting as...don't worry. It sounds just as repetitive, sickening and worrisome to me.
This affliction of mine doesn't seem to be going away. I gave him my crab cake, and apparently...it was serious.
To my relief, it wasn't spectacularly bad. Nothing caught on fire, nobody had to call the authorities and he didn't steal my vibrator. We all know the depths my dates are capable of, so this was relatively unscathing.
He did do the unthinkable however, and snapped his fingers at our waitress. Up until that point I had been thinking that he was charming and funny enough in an effeminate way that would be like having a gay friend who might actually want to have sex with me.
I wasn't interested in ever seeing him naked, but I didn't hate him yet. Three finger snaps later, that changed.
In case he hadn't doomed himself to the discard pile already, he assumed he would be sharing my dessert.
I don't mean he asked me politely for a small taste, and then wisely put the fork away after my generous allowance of chocolate, icing and an entire pecan - I mean he kept digging right in, and taking forkfuls of dessert that I was about to eat.
I'm rather territorial about my food, and would have sooner given up a kidney than any part of my Turtle Pie. I have to love you to let you take so much as a fry off my plate without feeling the need to drive a fork through your wrist.
In fact, I knew I had fallen completely and utterly without hope of redemption in love with Alex when I offered him my last bite of crab cake over dinner. In my mind, it was like telling him I would willingly die in childbirth just to have his children. It was really tasty crab cake.
Perhaps it's not surprising, but my witty and sarcastic Plenty of Fish profile is not getting much of a response, with Mr. Finger McSnappy from last night as the exception.
As Heidi of Completely Barking Mad blog fame pointed out, my current profile (posted here a couple of weeks back) will either lead to no responses or finding my soul mate. For those of you wise enough to place bets on the "No Responses" square - the next round should be on you.
However, the last time I had posted a Plenty of Fish profile, my message was very sweet. It was a little girly, kind of bland, and nothing like me at all. That profile got me no responses either. If I wanted any messages at all, I had to send my own to about 15 guys before one would reply back.
This time around, I even included more pictures of me looking as cute as I possibly can, and I'm getting the same crickets chirping in the night sound as when I tried to be sweet. The difference seems to be -- I can't bring myself to send messages to anybody.
Sure...I've browsed. A few profiles have even made me linger a little on the pictures, but I just can't get excited, and I'm certainly not hopeful.
No matter how good a guy looks, he doesn't look as good as Alex. If he tries to be funny, he's just not as funny as you-know-who. If he has interests, they're just not as interesting as...don't worry. It sounds just as repetitive, sickening and worrisome to me.
This affliction of mine doesn't seem to be going away. I gave him my crab cake, and apparently...it was serious.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
In which I defend my love of hitting things.
I'm not sure what it is I'm going through, or where it may stop. Last night, I signed up for six months of kickboxing classes, mere hours after going for a run over my lunch hour at work.
The run was painful, as I've got some sort of over-use injury going on with my left leg and I'm running along like Terry Fox only without any of the will, heroism, insurmountable odds or heart-rending back story. I just mean I'm running in a hopping and dragging way that's sure to keep the ice-pack industry in business.
Then I worked the afternoon and went to kickboxing class, feeling very athletic indeed. I had attended my first class two nights previously, at the invite of a casual work acquaintance.
I had run that day too, and called the woman who invited me to kickboxing to let her know I wouldn't be meeting her, but thank you for the offer and suggestion, but I was very tired. This is how the conversation went:
Bambi - Hi Maria - thanks for inviting me to go with, but I'm not going to make it.
Maria - Why? You dead?
It should be noted that Maria has a wonderful Spanish accent that when used correctly, makes people afraid of her. And by people, I mean me.
Bambi - Not really dead per se...
Maria - Oh good! I was afraid for a minute. See you at 5:30!
Bambi - Umm...no...I mean...
Maria - You not dead?
Bambi - No. Not dead.
Maria - 5:30 then! Bye!
I'm still unsure how it came to be that my only way out of kickboxing was clinical death, but I went and thought the worse that could happen was...well...clinical death.
But that's not what happened. First, I developed an instant girl-crush on the owner/operator of this particular women's only kick-boxing studio. Yes, she's a beautiful girl, and yes her body is so slamming I'm not even convinced we're the same species when standing next to one another in the mirror but more than that...this woman is powerful. I want to be her.
She taped up my hands and warned me that for the next few days they were going to shake, but I should still be able to wash my hair. I had never experienced a work-out that could put my personal hygiene rituals at risk, so I was alarmed.
She asked me about injuries, and I thought it was going to be her turn to be alarmed. Knee. Back. Left leg. Pelvis. I've given the run-down before for other work-out programs started and stopped and was expecting the same reaction - she'd make note of it on some kind of legal contract saying I couldn't sue her if I died and we would get on with things.
Instead, she looked me up and down, pointed to every spot I'd just mentioned and asked what happened. She wasn't alarmed at all, but I was starting to panic as she made her way upward.
No other fitness trainer had ever asked me, and I had no answer prepared for when she asked me what happened to crack my pelvis. And so I told her the truth. She looked at me for a good long time - so long it made me nervous. Then she said, let's go hit something. And so we did.
She knows how to hit, and how to teach other women how to hit like men. There's a lot to remember. Hip there, feet here, knuckles like so, hands up or she'll hit me in the face. She won't really, but somebody else could.
She held up the shields, and I started punching. My first cross sent her back a step, and she wasn't faking. She dropped the shields and looked at me for another long time...and then smiled.
The next hour passed in a sort of frenzy. By the end of it I looked like I had just stepped out of the shower, only I was joyful and not wondering if I had forgotten to rinse the conditioner. I learned how to jab, cross, elbow, knee, roundhouse kick, hook and smack down without smacking like a bitch.
It seems I may have one or two issues to work out.
When Maria drove me back to my car after class I thanked her for not letting me weasel out of going. She said I just looked like somebody who would be really good at it if I tried, and she knew better than me. That part was hard to argue with.
My second class was more of the same only I learned how to spin punch, hit from below and...that I really can't do a push-up even if the ground beneath me were on fire and it was the only way to save my own boobs. Hopefully, this will change -- and it won't be the only thing that gets better.
The run was painful, as I've got some sort of over-use injury going on with my left leg and I'm running along like Terry Fox only without any of the will, heroism, insurmountable odds or heart-rending back story. I just mean I'm running in a hopping and dragging way that's sure to keep the ice-pack industry in business.
Then I worked the afternoon and went to kickboxing class, feeling very athletic indeed. I had attended my first class two nights previously, at the invite of a casual work acquaintance.
I had run that day too, and called the woman who invited me to kickboxing to let her know I wouldn't be meeting her, but thank you for the offer and suggestion, but I was very tired. This is how the conversation went:
Bambi - Hi Maria - thanks for inviting me to go with, but I'm not going to make it.
Maria - Why? You dead?
It should be noted that Maria has a wonderful Spanish accent that when used correctly, makes people afraid of her. And by people, I mean me.
Bambi - Not really dead per se...
Maria - Oh good! I was afraid for a minute. See you at 5:30!
Bambi - Umm...no...I mean...
Maria - You not dead?
Bambi - No. Not dead.
Maria - 5:30 then! Bye!
I'm still unsure how it came to be that my only way out of kickboxing was clinical death, but I went and thought the worse that could happen was...well...clinical death.
But that's not what happened. First, I developed an instant girl-crush on the owner/operator of this particular women's only kick-boxing studio. Yes, she's a beautiful girl, and yes her body is so slamming I'm not even convinced we're the same species when standing next to one another in the mirror but more than that...this woman is powerful. I want to be her.
She taped up my hands and warned me that for the next few days they were going to shake, but I should still be able to wash my hair. I had never experienced a work-out that could put my personal hygiene rituals at risk, so I was alarmed.
She asked me about injuries, and I thought it was going to be her turn to be alarmed. Knee. Back. Left leg. Pelvis. I've given the run-down before for other work-out programs started and stopped and was expecting the same reaction - she'd make note of it on some kind of legal contract saying I couldn't sue her if I died and we would get on with things.
Instead, she looked me up and down, pointed to every spot I'd just mentioned and asked what happened. She wasn't alarmed at all, but I was starting to panic as she made her way upward.
No other fitness trainer had ever asked me, and I had no answer prepared for when she asked me what happened to crack my pelvis. And so I told her the truth. She looked at me for a good long time - so long it made me nervous. Then she said, let's go hit something. And so we did.
She knows how to hit, and how to teach other women how to hit like men. There's a lot to remember. Hip there, feet here, knuckles like so, hands up or she'll hit me in the face. She won't really, but somebody else could.
She held up the shields, and I started punching. My first cross sent her back a step, and she wasn't faking. She dropped the shields and looked at me for another long time...and then smiled.
The next hour passed in a sort of frenzy. By the end of it I looked like I had just stepped out of the shower, only I was joyful and not wondering if I had forgotten to rinse the conditioner. I learned how to jab, cross, elbow, knee, roundhouse kick, hook and smack down without smacking like a bitch.
It seems I may have one or two issues to work out.
When Maria drove me back to my car after class I thanked her for not letting me weasel out of going. She said I just looked like somebody who would be really good at it if I tried, and she knew better than me. That part was hard to argue with.
My second class was more of the same only I learned how to spin punch, hit from below and...that I really can't do a push-up even if the ground beneath me were on fire and it was the only way to save my own boobs. Hopefully, this will change -- and it won't be the only thing that gets better.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Let the Gong Show begin.
I'm not a big believer in the whole time healing all wounds proposition, so it's come to my attention that the only way I'm going to distract myself from my current romantic disaster is to create entirely new ones.
Relief can't come soon enough. As it is, I'm still at the point where listening to a romantic song of any kind will make me weepy so there's only three songs in the entire world right now that are safe. One of those songs is "A Boy Named Sue," and the remaining two are Weird Al classics, so I'm obviously in a very delicate state.
Therefore, it's time to try online dating again.
I just can't spend any more time wondering what it is about me that Alex doesn't want, or arguing with the well-intentioned who've debated passionately that maybe it has nothing to do with me.
And bless the hearts of those who have employed the words, "Maybe it just wasn't meant to be..." As last words go, they could have done worse. I'm sure their families might miss them, and I might miss their friendship but I reacted the only way that seemed natural at the time - even though I'm regretting not having more room in the trunk of my car right now.
Basically, I'm in desperate need of a distraction and meeting new and interesting people and then going on horrifying dates with them seems like a good idea. And so, I've written a new online ad that I'll be posting on Plenty of Fish this weekend.
The ad will read as follows:
Here’s the thing. Not really in the mood for any sort of crap, and definitely not in the mood to read one more ad from a guy who says, in summary:
“I’m not into head games, or crazy girls. I like spending time outdoors and indoors some nights too.”
(I mean…really?? You like to go outdoors sometimes, and indoors other times? How fascinating! Me too!)
I’m just a nice guy looking for a girl who’s genuine, smart, funny, and down to earth. No fatties.”
(As opposed to all of those people looking for phony, stupid and dull 800 pound shut-ins. Way to be different!)
Meanwhile, dude is pictured either shirtless or holding a guitar, and God help us all, some times both. Nothing says sensitively masculine like a half-naked guy clutching a guitar and calling women fatties. I’m getting butterflies just thinking about it. So instead of an upset feeling in my tummy, I thought I’d just go ahead and write my own ad…
I’m bat**** crazy. Seriously. I love to play games, mess with people’s heads, lie, cheat and steal. My last date ended up as the lead-off on the 6:00 news, but in my defense it was a slow news day, and I was going to come down from the top of that building on my own time -- the SWAT team didn’t have to get so testy about it. I can’t stand being outdoors for any reason. Come to think of it, I can’t stand being indoors neither so mostly I just hang out in foyers. It’s a decent compromise. I’m ridiculously phony. Nothing about me is genuine, and I have the forged birth certificate to prove it. I have no hobbies or interests of any kind. I strongly dislike good conversations or pleasures of any sort come to think of it. I prefer awkward silences and watching paint dry. I’m illiterate. In fact, I’m forcing somebody to type this for me right now by gunpoint. I can’t be in the minority!
I’m also a little sarcastic, irreverent and bored with the usual – and I hope you are too.
I'm hoping that the honest approach will pay off. Fingers crossed.
Relief can't come soon enough. As it is, I'm still at the point where listening to a romantic song of any kind will make me weepy so there's only three songs in the entire world right now that are safe. One of those songs is "A Boy Named Sue," and the remaining two are Weird Al classics, so I'm obviously in a very delicate state.
Therefore, it's time to try online dating again.
I just can't spend any more time wondering what it is about me that Alex doesn't want, or arguing with the well-intentioned who've debated passionately that maybe it has nothing to do with me.
And bless the hearts of those who have employed the words, "Maybe it just wasn't meant to be..." As last words go, they could have done worse. I'm sure their families might miss them, and I might miss their friendship but I reacted the only way that seemed natural at the time - even though I'm regretting not having more room in the trunk of my car right now.
Basically, I'm in desperate need of a distraction and meeting new and interesting people and then going on horrifying dates with them seems like a good idea. And so, I've written a new online ad that I'll be posting on Plenty of Fish this weekend.
The ad will read as follows:
Here’s the thing. Not really in the mood for any sort of crap, and definitely not in the mood to read one more ad from a guy who says, in summary:
“I’m not into head games, or crazy girls. I like spending time outdoors and indoors some nights too.”
(I mean…really?? You like to go outdoors sometimes, and indoors other times? How fascinating! Me too!)
I’m just a nice guy looking for a girl who’s genuine, smart, funny, and down to earth. No fatties.”
(As opposed to all of those people looking for phony, stupid and dull 800 pound shut-ins. Way to be different!)
Meanwhile, dude is pictured either shirtless or holding a guitar, and God help us all, some times both. Nothing says sensitively masculine like a half-naked guy clutching a guitar and calling women fatties. I’m getting butterflies just thinking about it. So instead of an upset feeling in my tummy, I thought I’d just go ahead and write my own ad…
I’m bat**** crazy. Seriously. I love to play games, mess with people’s heads, lie, cheat and steal. My last date ended up as the lead-off on the 6:00 news, but in my defense it was a slow news day, and I was going to come down from the top of that building on my own time -- the SWAT team didn’t have to get so testy about it. I can’t stand being outdoors for any reason. Come to think of it, I can’t stand being indoors neither so mostly I just hang out in foyers. It’s a decent compromise. I’m ridiculously phony. Nothing about me is genuine, and I have the forged birth certificate to prove it. I have no hobbies or interests of any kind. I strongly dislike good conversations or pleasures of any sort come to think of it. I prefer awkward silences and watching paint dry. I’m illiterate. In fact, I’m forcing somebody to type this for me right now by gunpoint. I can’t be in the minority!
I’m also a little sarcastic, irreverent and bored with the usual – and I hope you are too.
I'm hoping that the honest approach will pay off. Fingers crossed.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Because there's nothing low-impact in my nature.
I've joined another running clinic. Apparently I like paying a small fee for ongoing torture, punishment and degradation. And a T-shirt.
This running clinic is being held through my employer in preparation for a very well-known annual 10k race taking place in April. It's a brilliant strategy actually. My employer has been hinting at the need for cutbacks for some time now, but our staffing has already been reduced to skeletal levels.
I believe the administration is hoping that by supporting 40 odd staff members spending their lunch hours running through wooded trails, that we'll just die off through natural selection. It's less awkward than lay-offs - we're doing this to ourselves.
I'm actually doing this for the 20 seconds I experience when I feel invincible. When I can run up a hill, jump over logs, race down a path along the ocean and feel like a stretchy pant wearing warrior princess. The remaining 44 minutes and 40 seconds I want to die, but the exchange is almost worth it.
I want to run this race, and I want to cross that finish line with the team, even if it means I come limping in behind the old people who walk the entire route with their walkers, and the one 450 pound individual who seems to participate every year and takes nine hours to finish.
Every year the newspaper sponsoring the run profiles a person like this, and it's become an unofficial tradition. I won't care at all if I'm visible in the background of the triumphant photograph of the 450 pound inspiration story crossing the finish line, just as long as I cross before they start taking down the signage.
It's not looking good I'm going to be able to finish though, and neither will at least one of my colleagues and fellow runners.
Running aggravates this stupid injury I'm dealing with and causes me pain. While it doesn't injure me any further, it just hurts like a mo'fo. If I can't deal with it or lessen it or make it go away through sheer force of will - I may not make it.
One particular colleague of mine may not make it either, but that's because I might have to kill her long before race day. I only have so much will, and getting my ass into the stretchy pants and hitting the trails takes up all of it. Basically, she's on borrowed time.
I'm not a happy runner. I don't experience a great deal of exhilaration, I feel every complaint my body and lungs throw my way and with every step I curse my slow metabolism and the fact there's no such thing as a sports bra for my ass, given that it bounces more than my boobs.
I like to talk when I can, but in short bursts when I feel I don't have to choose between conversation and cardiac arrest. Mostly, I like to focus on getting through, getting over and getting something out of all that suffering.
This colleague makes that hard, given her need to warn the group. What does she warn the group about? Everything. How does she do it? She yells...no, that's not really accurate.
Years of watching Canucks games in sports bars have conditioned me to remain calm while any number of people yell at random intervals for no good reason. This woman doesn't just yell. She brays like she's spotted a nuclear missile heading right for us.
For your consideration a small list of warnings she's hollered into my ear:
Car!
Watch the grass!
Dog!
Branch!
Mud!
Stairs!
Pine cone!
Watch the pavement!
Slippery!
Watch the gravel!
Geese!
Truck!
Parked!
The geese warning caught me by surprise. What was the concern exactly? Is there some sort of protocol to consider when running by geese that could have resulted in tragedy if not followed?
I was also particularly captured by her need to specify. After hollering to warn the group of the truck, she went on to alert us in no uncertain terms that the truck was parked. Was she afraid we couldn't see the gigantic red F150 parked by the road, and that without her letting us know it was there and completely stationary we would all, one by one, run directly into the truck head first resulting in the first group claim of that nature ever filed with WCB on behalf of one organization?
Also, it remains unclear as to what we're supposed to be watching the grass, pavement and gravel for. Is she expecting it to do something? Should we all just carry a pair of binoculars and watch the terrain from inside and afar in case it gets sneaky some day?
I know she's not yelling at me personally - she's hollering for the benefit of the entire group. It just so happens though, that we run at the same pace. I can't get away from her. If I speed up I'll collapse and if I slow down any more I won't be running at all. I'm stuck with her.
If I say something I'll look like the raging bitch I currently am. If I don't say anything, I'll end up punching her in the throat and falling over a wayward pine cone in my attempt to flee.
That will be her fault too though. A pine cone warning should come quicker.
This running clinic is being held through my employer in preparation for a very well-known annual 10k race taking place in April. It's a brilliant strategy actually. My employer has been hinting at the need for cutbacks for some time now, but our staffing has already been reduced to skeletal levels.
I believe the administration is hoping that by supporting 40 odd staff members spending their lunch hours running through wooded trails, that we'll just die off through natural selection. It's less awkward than lay-offs - we're doing this to ourselves.
I'm actually doing this for the 20 seconds I experience when I feel invincible. When I can run up a hill, jump over logs, race down a path along the ocean and feel like a stretchy pant wearing warrior princess. The remaining 44 minutes and 40 seconds I want to die, but the exchange is almost worth it.
I want to run this race, and I want to cross that finish line with the team, even if it means I come limping in behind the old people who walk the entire route with their walkers, and the one 450 pound individual who seems to participate every year and takes nine hours to finish.
Every year the newspaper sponsoring the run profiles a person like this, and it's become an unofficial tradition. I won't care at all if I'm visible in the background of the triumphant photograph of the 450 pound inspiration story crossing the finish line, just as long as I cross before they start taking down the signage.
It's not looking good I'm going to be able to finish though, and neither will at least one of my colleagues and fellow runners.
Running aggravates this stupid injury I'm dealing with and causes me pain. While it doesn't injure me any further, it just hurts like a mo'fo. If I can't deal with it or lessen it or make it go away through sheer force of will - I may not make it.
One particular colleague of mine may not make it either, but that's because I might have to kill her long before race day. I only have so much will, and getting my ass into the stretchy pants and hitting the trails takes up all of it. Basically, she's on borrowed time.
I'm not a happy runner. I don't experience a great deal of exhilaration, I feel every complaint my body and lungs throw my way and with every step I curse my slow metabolism and the fact there's no such thing as a sports bra for my ass, given that it bounces more than my boobs.
I like to talk when I can, but in short bursts when I feel I don't have to choose between conversation and cardiac arrest. Mostly, I like to focus on getting through, getting over and getting something out of all that suffering.
This colleague makes that hard, given her need to warn the group. What does she warn the group about? Everything. How does she do it? She yells...no, that's not really accurate.
Years of watching Canucks games in sports bars have conditioned me to remain calm while any number of people yell at random intervals for no good reason. This woman doesn't just yell. She brays like she's spotted a nuclear missile heading right for us.
For your consideration a small list of warnings she's hollered into my ear:
Car!
Watch the grass!
Dog!
Branch!
Mud!
Stairs!
Pine cone!
Watch the pavement!
Slippery!
Watch the gravel!
Geese!
Truck!
Parked!
The geese warning caught me by surprise. What was the concern exactly? Is there some sort of protocol to consider when running by geese that could have resulted in tragedy if not followed?
I was also particularly captured by her need to specify. After hollering to warn the group of the truck, she went on to alert us in no uncertain terms that the truck was parked. Was she afraid we couldn't see the gigantic red F150 parked by the road, and that without her letting us know it was there and completely stationary we would all, one by one, run directly into the truck head first resulting in the first group claim of that nature ever filed with WCB on behalf of one organization?
Also, it remains unclear as to what we're supposed to be watching the grass, pavement and gravel for. Is she expecting it to do something? Should we all just carry a pair of binoculars and watch the terrain from inside and afar in case it gets sneaky some day?
I know she's not yelling at me personally - she's hollering for the benefit of the entire group. It just so happens though, that we run at the same pace. I can't get away from her. If I speed up I'll collapse and if I slow down any more I won't be running at all. I'm stuck with her.
If I say something I'll look like the raging bitch I currently am. If I don't say anything, I'll end up punching her in the throat and falling over a wayward pine cone in my attempt to flee.
That will be her fault too though. A pine cone warning should come quicker.
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