It's not stupid if it tastes good.

Back in January I resolved two things. The first was not to do anything stupid in 2010, and the second was a carry over from New Year's resolutions 1996 through 2010 - which was to lose 20 pounds.

Apparently, I need to be more specific with my resolutions. I have indeed lost 20 pounds, largely by donating some furniture and books to the Salvation Army after I moved. My personal body weight on the other hand has increased to the point where I'm afraid that should I ever be making out with a guy again, I'm going to have to stop the proceedings to point out that he is in fact, groping my belly and not my boobs. Yes, both are squishy and hanging out over my clothes. The boobs are on purpose, the belly is muffin top. Kindly re-engage at your convenience.

As an aside, I had a mortifying experience recently at an airport. No matter what I do, I set off the alarm even after taking off my shoes, jewellery, depositing my pocket change and performing the Hokey Pokey. Regardless, I always require "wanding" to ensure I really do look this bitchy all the time, and my anti-social facial expression is not an indicator of terrorist activity.

This time, the female security guard began poking at my muffin top with her magic metal detecting wand. It's muffin top. It's only dangerous to my health and self- esteem, and poking it is not going to reveal it to be an explosive device. She poked it so many times I was actually forced to be helpful, just in case she wasn't sure what she had discovered.

"Um. That's my belly."

She said she knew that, and then commented that it was quite hard, which actually forced me to say to this random female security guard that I was constipated due to stress. I felt it important to explain the source of my constipation, should she think for a second that I was trying to smuggle 82 balloons of top-grade heroin into Kelowna, that proverbial hotbed of drug smuggling activity, instead of just needing to chill-out and go number two.

She poked my muffin top and hard belly once more, perhaps confirming my story, and declared me, "all good." Many things are all good. This experience was not one of them.

However, back to my resolutions. Having completely buggered my sworn oath to lose 20 pounds, I've had equal difficulties with my resolution to not do anything stupid. While it may seem obvious what should constitute stupid, I've realized that defining stupid is really much more of a free-flowing activity.

Put in more simple terms, I find doing stupid things as hard to resist as fattening food. And so I don't. Rather than resist, I keep redefining what I consider stupid. Now about the only stupid activities I will avoid for absolute certain involve smuggling 82 balloons of top-grade heroin into Kelowna via my belly, anything to do with mimes, attempting to fix my own plumbing, and watching the TV show, The Hills. Anything else I will likely be able to justify.

It's not that I've gone completely off the rails, and in my defense...I'm pretty sure I'll remain firmly against anything to do with mimes. However, activities that may seem more questionable to polite society, my four readers, and are also safe to publish without fear of further drama are as follows:

Without Question: I told many people that I was going to look for a nice, normal, decent guy for a real relationship. (Nice, normal and decent meaning no hero complex, no adrenaline addiction, no wife, no Kevlar, no cute little firefighter uniform, no macho, no shirt, no shoes, no service.)

Questionable: I am now kind of sort of dating a military bomb tech with post-traumatic stress disorder. I say kind of sort of dating because largely thanks to the Olympics and some issues he has due in part to an ex-wife, we've only seen each other a handful of times and the rest of our dating relationship has consisted of MSN, text and phone messages. Should we upgrade to Facebook, I'll know it's really for real.

On the plus side, because we've barely had time to make-out, I've not needed to correct him on which lady lumps he should be squeezing and which should be politely ignored.

(For those wondering what a bomb tech does, I'm dating the lead character from the movie, The Hurt Locker. He only used to be a firefighter, so it's not like I'm not trying over here.)

Without Question: I told many people it was over, and spent the last couple of months preparing to have a very serious discussion with my boy Alex in which I told him that I wanted no further contact with him ever, as the contact we do have with one another is too painful for me given my feelings for him, and then one of several wonderful things would happen simply as a reward from the universe for doing something so fucking hard. I would walk away feeling liberated, I would lose 20 pounds immediately, he would realize what an ass-hat he is and declare his undying love for me, and or failing all of these things, I would be content just knowing I did the right thing.

Questionable: While I did have a serious discussion with Alex during my stay in Kelowna, the topic wasn't so much my feelings for him and how we would no longer have any contact, but rather whether we should remove an item of clothing every time Luongo stopped a goal by Slovakia during the Olympic hockey game we were cuddled in bed watching, or should we wait until commercials.

I was a coward, but I'm actually at peace with that. At some point between jumping up and down on the hotel room beds in our undies when Team Canada won, me still feeling like a sex goddess with him despite all the extra weight I've gained, terrorizing room service and laughing hysterically at which one of us room service likely thought was the hired escort, my knowing him well enough to remember his irrational fear of hotel room soap, and his knowing me well enough to remember my irrational fear of going to sleep without a glass of water I realized...I really do kind of love this guy, and that's OK.

He'll never be who I want him to be, and that's OK too. Life requires all different kinds of friendships. He owns a special category, and that may be stupid, but also...OK.

Rest assured, these are not the only stupid activities I've undertaken in the recent past. My next posting will talk about the dangers of using bedroom/intimate products without adequate safety testing. Prepare yourselves accordingly.

Nobody call 911.

As a new homeowner, it's a sinking feeling to realize that whatever may be going wrong in my new home is solely my responsibility. In order to cope, I've developed a checklist, helping me identify what the problem is and the action(s) required to fix it. The checklist is as follows:

Painting required:
Call Dad.

Taps making funny noises at night:
Obvious paranormal activity. Do nothing to aggravate the spirits.

Fridge is loud:
Open fridge door for investigative purposes. Eat something. Repeat as necessary.

Laminate flooring strip lifting:
Catch with toe. Curse. Repeat. Cover with rug. Tap in place with foot.

Light fixture needs changing:
Call Dad.

Nearly everything that can go wrong in my home is covered by similarly well-developed contingency plans, but when I walked into my bedroom late one night and smelled gas, I was at a loss.

My first instinct was to ignore the gas smell, but no matter where I stood or what angle I held my nose I could smell it. I sniffed the window, hoping that a tanker had overturned outside on the front lawn, absolving me of all responsibility. The smell wasn't coming from outside.

I sniffed my laundry pile, as perhaps my steady diet of fattening food and white wine when combined with a painfully slow metabolism and daily use of allergy meds, somehow led to my sweat glands producing gasoline. No such luck.

Next I sniffed my bedroom closet, where I was afraid the smell had been coming from all along. My hot water tank and all manner of wiring and plumbing for my washer and dryer fight for space there with my clothes and shoes. And now the whole mess smelled like I should be able to hook it up to my car and stand there contemplating whether I should run inside for a bottle of water and bag of chips, and why the goddamned price always jumps when I'm running nearly empty.

Needless to say, this was some serious shit that was not on my checklist.

I left the room, and then walked back in to determine whether the smell was simply my imagination, or even better, a sign of a stroke. At least I would know what to do if I was having a stroke. The smell was still there, and consciously so was I. Dammit.

It was 1:30 a.m., I was exhausted and in need of some serious help. I needed an instruction manual. Luckily, the previous owners left me more than just clogged drains and some really questionable carpet stains. Stashed in one of the kitchen cupboards was a stack of manuals I had been using to store my spices on.


At the very top of the pile, a manual for my washer and dryer. On the front cover in bold letters: What To Do If You Smell Gas. It was like the manufacturer was right there with me.

I wouldn't even have to turn to the table of contents - everything I needed to know was in bolded block letters in a fancy shadow box, with graphic arrows pointing to the text should the gas fumes presumably overwhelm me and my vision start to blur.


For your safety the information in this manual must be followed to minimize the risk of fire or explosion or to prevent property damage, personal injury or loss of life.

Loss of life? Explosion? Aren't they laying this on a little thick? Did I have to choose this night to stay up late watching the Colbert Report? I'm just too tired to have an explosion right now.


Do not store or use gasoline or other flammable vapors and liquid in the vicinity of this or any other appliance.

Oh. Crap. Does Febreze count as a flammable vapor? What about Spray and Wash?? Dear God, I'm going to die, all because of Spray and Wash.


Do not try to light any appliance

What does that even mean? How do I light an appliance?? I turn them on or off -- I don't light them. I don't even know what this means. I am totally screwed.

Do not touch any electrical switch; do not use any phone in your building

Any phone at all? What if the dude upstairs decides to call for a pizza? Sweet Christ on a cracker, please nobody call for a pizza.

Clear the room, building or area of all occupants

The entire building? Seriously?? I live in a condo building, and it's 1:30 a.m. I am not knocking on these people's doors. At least if they get blowed up, they won't know what hit them, and the really hot strata council president will never have to see me on his doorstep in my Winnie the Pooh boxing shorts. A happy afterlife ensues for everybody.

Immediately call your gas supplier from a neighbor's phone. Follow the gas supplier's instructions.

Well which is it, people? I can't call from my neighbor's phone because I'm supposed to be evacuating them. My building is sandwiched between an apartment complex whose residents all seem to prefer giant pirate flags covering their windows as opposed to curtains, and a house where I'm pretty sure I can purchase meth. I'm also pretty sure the residents of that house have all seen me naked, because I went for quite some time without curtains. Or a pirate flag. Also, who in the hell is my gas supplier? I suppose I could look that up, but that may mean lighting my laptop.

If you cannot reach your gas supplier, call the fire department.

Oh HELL no. For all four of my long-time readers and the legal team I should really have on stand-by...just no. Really, no. Although it pains me, because I do love a man in uniform...no.

Strong, decisive action was needed. This was my time to do the right thing in a life and death decision. I could save lives. I could be a hero, featured on the front page of the newspaper, credited with saving an entire neighborhood from certain blazing death.

Or I could open all the windows in my bedroom and go to bed, which is what I did. I may be brain damaged or dead in the morning, but I had an important work meeting to go to and death or brain damage would certainly make it more bearable. I struggled with setting my alarm clock. Would this constitute lighting the appliance? Would the alarm going off lead to me being enveloped in a fireball? I would find out at 6:25 a.m.

The alarm went off and I was alive. If there was brain damage, I really couldn't tell the difference. Even better, I couldn't smell any gas. I did hesitate before switching on my hair straightener, as this seemed an indirect violation of touching an electrical switch, but my bangs were looking really ridiculous.

I really couldn't concentrate at work, feeling that perhaps there was something more I should do about the gas leak situation. Something very important that hadn't occurred to me the night before in my exhaustion, and I left work early to take care of it in a hurry.

The insurance agent was very helpful, and it took no time at all to double the value of my possessions and increase my coverage. Finally, some piece of mind.

And yet, something still nagged at me. When I got home, it was still standing, and I took this as a positive sign. Just to be on the safe side, I had figured out which gas company to call, and was pleased when a real live person answered the special phone line to report gas leaks. I'm not sure why this task had seemed so difficult the night before, but better late than never.

I explained the situation to the woman on the other line, who wanted to know when I detected this smell. I told her I smelled it the night before, but it was gone now. But if they weren't doing anything, maybe they could still stop by. She seemed rather taken aback.

According to the woman, I should have called immediately. I really shouldn't have waited a day. I told her I understood her position, but I had some things I had to do. Silence on the other line, and then she told me to get out of the house, and go wait in the lobby. And so I did.

There's a couch in our lobby, and so I took a book and waited. The gas guy showed up very quickly, and I'm relieved to report that I don't find all men in uniform attractive.

I apologized profusely for not actually having a smell to direct him toward anymore, but it seemed prudent to call anyway. He agreed, but was dubious. It was very frustrating - like when trying to describe to a mechanic the clicking noise you keep hearing, but when he starts the car it sounds like a happy kitten.

He waved a wand at my closet - no readings. He waved a wand at the only appliance in my condo that requires gas, which is my fireplace -- in my living room, and nowhere near my bedroom. Apparently my washer and dryer can be wired for gas, but are not. Regardless, no gas. There was absolutely nothing emitting gas in my apartment. I couldn't have even passed gas if I tried at the time.

It was a relief. The crisis had been averted. I had saved the day, by doing nothing at all, which is what was required, as it turns out. Perhaps this home ownership thing will work out after all.

Muppetism.

On any given day I'll have several health issues going on that I'm unable to bring up in polite conversation, should polite conversation ever arise. I'm not a hypochondriac, even though a bad headache will lead me to think brain tumour. I don't believe that constitutes hypochondria so much as it demonstrates my extremely pessimistic nature.

(As an aside, I had a room-mate in university who was a hypochondriac. She also couldn't leave the house without making sure the fringe on her bedroom rug was uniformly straight and not touching. Her food couldn't touch on the plate either, and if it did she threw it out and went hungry. That's actually an aside to the aside.)

(The point is, bitch was crazy. One afternoon she shared with me she was having a bad day because her birth control pills were causing her to go blind, she had some kind of thread stuck up her nose and hanging down the back of her throat that she'd been trying to reach for days, and she had a rare form of arthritis in one hip that was eventually going to cause her to be able to walk only in circles.

This was all hilarious until one day I mixed some cold medication with a pint of neocitran and a dash of anti-depressants in an attempt to plow through some final papers with the flu. I collapsed in the shower, lay there for two hours with the water running, got myself up and out, crawled into the hallway wrapped in the bath mat and told my crazy bitch room-mate with a car that I had to go to the hospital.

She sighed, and said she'd think about taking me after Matlock. Yes, Matlock. I could have died because the crazy bitch had a thing for reruns starring Andy Griffith. I lay there in the hallway, covered by a bathmat, until she was suddenly shaking me awake and panicking.

She would take me now, right now, let's go, come on sweetie, please get up... While I lay there, my lips had turned blue and my face so white all the veins were glowing. I looked clinically dead.

She did take me to the hospital, but didn't speak to me for several days afterward. She was angry because she was so sick, and I was the one who "got" to go and "spend time" in the emergency room. She said this like I had won a radio contest to fly to Cabo and didn't take her. We didn't last much longer after that.)

(Bitch really was crazy.)

(Sorry for the long aside. Obviously I'm still bitter.)

Having had that experience in university, I know myself to be downright reasonable in terms of my medical concerns. For so long now, most of the attention and concern has focused on my nether regions for reasons beyond my control. Therefore, it was actually kind of a relief when my face exploded.

A few weeks ago, I woke up with arms flailing, because I was sure I opened my eyes but I couldn't see anything. After careful scientific analysis (read: freaking out in front of bathroom mirror) I determined that both of my eyes had swollen shut. They went nicely with my lips, which had puffed up to inner-tube proportions. This all may have stood out quite a bit, had the skin on my face and neck not turned red like a nuclear holocaust sunset.

Overnight, I had turned into a muppet.

I couldn't drive anywhere, so I stayed home from work. I left the house only to run to the drugstore and invest in some Benadryl and a chat with the pharmacist, who's greeting was "Holy Dinah." Dinah didn't begin to cover it.

The next day my cheeks had swollen, creating several hard creases in my face that don't normally exist, and squinting my left eye up into my forehead by about two inches. Now I looked like a muppet version of that kid from the movie Mask. I could see out of one eye so I drove myself to work. It's not that I have any kind of work ethic, but I knew the office first aid kit had an epi-pen, and if my head kept on swelling, I was going to need it.

I suppose I should mention that I hadn't eaten anything new, used any new make-up, or new products. Apparently I had taken a sudden and severe allergic reaction to nothing at all. While it's not uncommon for me to overreact to nothing at all in my life, this was ridiculous.

Nothing would bring the swelling down. People stared at me every where I went, and one little kid in the grocery store asked me what was wrong with my face. On the best of days I have no patience for children, so when I told the kid there was nothing wrong with my face, what's wrong with yours?...I'm hoping he's still thinking on it.

I went on steroids for a week just to rearrange my features to a reasonable approximation of where they used to be. The steroids caused me to sleep walk and gain weight. I had hoped the sleep walking could burn some calories and even things out, but if I can't be bothered to work-out in my waking hours then it wasn't looking good for my nocturnal wanderings either.

Several weeks after the initial outbreak, I was learning to live with one very angry looking forehead, and diseased looking cheeks and neck. The hives on my face were resistant to everything I tried - Benadryl cream, Benadryl tablets, incessant scratching, Aloe Vera, funky hats, ice water presses, chocolate, Reactine, and more than one stern talking to.

Since my face wasn't really recovering, I began seeking a referral to an allergist. I actually looked forward to these doctor visits, given the only other times I absolutely have to see a doctor I end up with my legs in stirrups for my twice a year check up to make sure nothing has closed over. This was actually refreshing.

It was also wonderful to not have to attempt to explain what's wrong. What was wrong was plainly visible. I just had to point, and the doctor(s) would haul out a prescription pad and send me somewhere, mostly so they didn't have to look at me anymore. Just seeing my face caused people to claw their own in sympathy.

Even though I had requested to see an allergist, I was sent to a dermatologist. I didn't care if they sent me to a proctologist as long as my face recovered.

I've never been a raving beauty. On a good day I would classify myself as unconventionally pretty, and on an average day I would say that I'm aspiring to average. My face had become so bad that I couldn't go anywhere without people looking at me too long, or too quickly.

For well over a week I was actually deformed, and that deformity settled into the scientific term, godawful. I was really, truly ugly. I thought twice about where I needed to go and when. How many people would be there? Was it well-lit?

Finally, I was seated in front of a dermatologist who was looking at my forehead through a giant magnifying glass. He asked me what medication I was taking to deal with it, and I said I was taking Benadryl, as the pharmacist and more than one doctor suggested.

The dermatologist said, "Stop it." He was not a man of many words.

Apparently, it's quite common to have an explosive allergic reaction, and then build up an allergy to the Benadryl being used to treat it. He prescribed an ointment to put on at bedtime, and when I woke up, my face was back to normal. Completely normal. It was also stuck to the pillow in a pool of hardened ointment, but I did not care. I had eyelids again.

Now I'm loving my new face, which is the same as my old face, only better. It's smooth and soft, with my features shrunk back down to normal. Except for my nose. That's still large, but it was large before.

I'd try snorting that magic ointment, but even then I think I'm stuck with it.

Be it resolved...

I began 2010 with only two resolutions. I make resolutions every year, out of a deep-seated fear that not setting up impossible goals for myself to fail miserably at will leave me with nothing to mope about, and this lack of moping could cause an unnecessary build up of angst, from which I will explode, like a well-beaten pinata in really great boots.

To be fair, I also began 2010 with a fuzzy hangover and a sharp regret that I had told the guy who offered me $500 to see my tits to fuck off, shortly after the 10 second countdown on the dance floor the night before.

Five hundred would have covered strata fees and groceries, and there was no good reason for choosing that moment to gain a sense of propriety.

Groceries shouldn't matter however, because I have resolved not to eat in 2010. The fact that I'm typing this with shortbread cookie crumbs in my hair should surprise nobody. I'm pretty certain I may have eaten this resolution with a Toblerone chaser last night, and it's the reason I have heartburn.

It's very important that I find some sort of compromise with regards to not eating in 2010, because there's a good chance I'm going to Kelowna for business at the end of February, and there's an even better chance I've already made my guy Alex aware that I'm going to be in his neck of the woods and would like to see him. When I do, I had better be 20 pounds lighter.

I will neither confirm nor deny that in addition to telling him what dates and what hotel I'll be staying in, I also told him what I planned to be wearing to bed and what I want him to do to me when I get there.

If I had told him such things and if I had agreed that it would be a really great idea for him to stay with me...well...those would be interesting developments, given my second New Year's resolution was to stop doing stupid things.

I'm thinking of revising this resolution to read: I will not do anything stupid on a day not ending in Y, or on the eighth day of Ramadan, between 2:00 and 2:45 pm.

One would think I'd have had my fill of doing stupid things in 2009, but I have an incredibly high tolerance for ridiculousness, as evidenced by just about every blog post I've every written.

However, I do want 2010 to be a better year. I want it to be a more honest year. I want it to be a year that I can say I missed no opportunity to express what's important to me, and to have that happen less by accident and more by design.

Perhaps that can be my third resolution.

When I see Alex in Kelowna and I'm looking amazing and 20 pounds slimmer, I'm going to tell him good-bye for good. I'll tell him how I feel about him for the first time ever, and it will be my explanation for why continuing the rather intense friendship that we have is too painful.

Telling a man that you love him too much to continue staying close may seem counter-productive, but so is being the sounding board for his sexual exploits, and even worse, the occasional warm-up act via webcam as he prepares to go to bed with somebody else.

Expressing what's important may be painful in the short-term, but so much better in the long-term. Even though I fully expect one or both of us to be naked at the time when this very important conversation takes place and that will indeed be stupid -- I'm only trying to keep a resolution here.

Becoming a fully-evolved person will have to wait until after I get home, tested for STIs and have somewhat recovered from the cheesecake coma I expect to have to medicate myself with.

It's going to be a great year!

Dear Jesse...

***The following is not terribly funny, and I'm breaking a couple of rules. I've used my friend's real names in this posting, because I think they deserve to be known. I wrote about Jesse on this blog a long time ago, although I didn't use his real name. It's hard for me to write about events and people that are really close to me, or who have affected me deeply and personally.

I've wanted to write about Jesse for a long time - not necessarily on this blog but somewhere. I've perhaps needed to write about Jesse for a long time, and could never find the right words. I'm not sure I've managed to yet, but I've had something to tell him and the easiest way to start is by writing him a letter. You may not want to read it, or you may. At least it's written. We will return to regularly scheduled ridiculousness and postings shortly.***

Dear Jesse,

I told everybody about you at first. How could I not? My best Valentine's Day date ever. Granted, I've only ever had two dates on Valentine's Day before you, and one of those ended with me retching on his shoes so...there's that.

(To be fair, I hated his shoes anyway. They were green Doc Marten shoes and I had the flu. Who in the hell wears green Doc Martens? He was basically asking for it, and the bar was set low for V-Day going forward, is all I'm saying.)

Even if I were the type of girl guaranteed to boost retail sales around the second week of February every year through men trying to outdo themselves for my affections - you will always be my best Valentine's Date ever.

I didn't mean to meet you for the first time on Valentine's Day. We had been talking for weeks and since I never have anything going on that day my schedule was clear.

That's the only reason I picked it - I didn't even think of the significance. You remembered though, and we laughed when you told me how much it freaked you out.

You really rose to the occasion though. I still have the card you gave me, and I remember what you said when you did it. You waited until the end of our date. You gave me the chocolates first, which was a nice touch but the card you kept folded in your jacket.

You didn't have to do either - you didn't know me. But you did, and when you said the sweet romantic card that talked about falling for somebody so quickly had actually become true - it was one of the nicest gestures any guy as ever shown me.

It was a long time ago, but I still have the chocolates too. You can laugh at me for being such a sentimental loser, but I don't think you will. The only times you laughed at me was when you showed your prankster side, and that's when I was usually howling with you.

I wasn't the only one who fell for you that night I'm sure. It was your smile. My God Jesse when you smiled at somebody it was like a moment in the sunshine, the spotlight, a warm tropical breeze when the world seems perfect. You turned that smile on our waitress and we didn't wait a moment for our drinks from that crusty old girl all night.

You were so pretty to look at. Dark hair, dark eyes, impossibly long eye-lashes, chiseled features, chiseled muscles. Quite literally, you were the best looking guy I have ever been out with, and you had the charm to match.

You didn't fake it though. You didn't have to. From the moment I met you, you made me feel like I was the most beautiful, most intelligent, most interesting, most desirable, most downright fucking fascinating woman on the planet. I was high for three days afterward. You hung on my every word.

It actually made me nervous.

Everything about you made me nervous, actually. You were pretty downright fucking fascinating yourself. I didn't know what to think when you leaned in close, and asked me, "You know me don't you?"

It was my first time meeting you. How could I know you?

You explained that you knew we had a connection, and that we knew each other some place else, some where else, some how. You knew these things, and people made fun of you when you talked like that, but you wanted me to tell you - I knew you.

As it turned out, on some level I did.

I laughed when you warned me that no woman had kissed you without falling in love with you and I told you I was willing to risk it. It was a risk. I could barely steady my knees to walk to my car, and it took me several tries to get the key in the ignition.

I'm not sure I fell in love, but I'm pretty sure you blew my mind, just a little.

You kept blowing my mind. We'd talk every day for weeks and then I'd hear nothing from you except for the way you'd say goodnight to me every night, online without fail. I wouldn't have the chance to respond, but you made a point of letting me know you were still thinking of me. Then you'd drop by my office, or call me out of the blue like weeks hadn't passed

I loved talking with you. I loved everything you said. I loved hearing about your daughter, which was strange given my frozen womb. She was your entire world, and you were in awe of how much smarter she was than you. When she scored perfect marks in her grade two spelling test you reacted like the kid had just climbed Everest while simultaneously accepting her Nobel Prize. SO cute.

You were so generous. You offered me money for anything I wanted. Money came easily to you. You made money no matter what you did, but that's because you were so good at your job. A perfectionist. You built people beautiful homes, and you promised me my dream home too.

When you offered me whatever money I needed to put a down-payment on a condo I didn't question your sincerity. I knew you meant it. I knew I could ask for any amount of money from you, and you wouldn't hesitate. To you, it was just money. More was always coming.

If I didn't accept your money, I'd damn well better listen to you and let you help me fix up whatever home I buy. I made you promise you would help me, and you made me promise I'd be smart enough to flip it.

I was appalled. Why would I want to flip my dream home? You weren't attached to places like I am. Once I've put work into something I will not give it up. You said I'd only be giving it up to get something better, and that's what you wanted me to have.

You thought my stubborness was funny, but I still wouldn't take your money. Not for anything. I asked you once why you would not hesitate to spend thousands on me, and you said it was because I would never ask.

You were maddening like that.

You never wanted me mad at you. Remember when we had plans to go out for dinner and you didn't call me until 10:00 at night? I was mad, even though you kept telling me not to be. I was mad when I agreed to pick you up at your buddy's place, way out in the boonies. I was really mad when I overheard your buddy yelling through the door after I rang that "Jesse's whore is here," and then you insisted I come upstairs to meet the crew.

It was quite the crew. The guy who answered the door scared me. I mean, he really gave me the creeps and I actually began to feel mildly terrified but unsure why. There was nothing scary in that million-dollar house. There was literally nothing in that house but a really huge TV and the world's friendliest pit-bull - the pit-bull gave me something to be friendly toward, because I didn't even want to acknowledge any of those guys.

Once we were in the car I was especially mad at you when you informed me you had been afraid you were about to get the shit kicked out of you or worse. The guy who had called me a whore and given me the creeps was apparently one of the biggest and most violent drug-dealers on the west coast and wanted a piece of your construction business. You thought it was about to turn ugly, and suggested in a really casual tone that I might want to start driving.

Wow. Was I mad at you then. You found that amusing, and I found that...well...maddening. I forgave you over our late night dinner. It was so hard not to. The way you would look at me Jesse - nobody could stay mad at you.

I couldn't stay mad but I did start to see much more clearly. Everything you said you were was like a mirage. It looked so real, but blink your eyes or take a second look and the image shifted and shimmied.

You were a talented and sought after building contractor who could build gold out of straw, but you couldn't do it in your own truck. You had lost your license and I couldn't get a straight answer as to why. Your daughter was your world but you had lost her too, along with your wife. You said you had been an addict. Past tense. I wondered how far past.

None of this really swayed me. You were the ultimate bad boy with a sensitive soul. Abused in every way possible as a child, estranged from your family you were a tortured sensitive soul in an incredibly hot body.

You didn't play this angle with me though. You didn't look for sympathy, you were matter of fact. You always insisted that you didn't have to tell me much more, because I simply knew you.

You were never entirely wrong. I recognized something in you that lived inside of me too, and I only wished I saw it more clearly now.

Every moment with you was intense, which is why I never saw it coming that night when you tricked me into thinking you hadn't actually paid and we had just done a dine and dash at a restaurant I was scheduled to have a work meeting at the next day.

It was pouring rain and I first chased you around the car, soaking both of us. How could you do that? How could you?? Yes, yes I was mad at you. Of course I'm mad at you, stop telling me not to be!

Then you chased me nearly to the front door of the restaurant, now closed for the night, when I bolted there to pay our bill in order to prevent me from surely being arrested and my life spiralling into ruin over what was at best a mediocre steak sandwich.

All the time you were laughing your ass off, which should have provided a clue but you were just so convincing. The manager and our server calmly walking out of the building and wishing us good night was the only way I was convinced we were in the clear.

You had such a devious sense of humour, and I came down with a very nasty cold after that. But it was worth it for what happened next.

I was never sure what to do with you when we said good-bye. It never felt like we were truly dating, so every time you kissed me it was new and unexpected. That night, I didn't want to say good-bye just yet. I parked the car outside your place and we sat listening to the rain. You asked me the strangest question in the funniest way. "I bet you're really good in bed aren't you"

It didn't come across as flirtatious. You sounded wistful and sad. I answered honestly. Of course I am. I wanted to know why you would ask me that, and if you had blown my mind a little the first night we met, you blew my mind completely sitting there in the rain.

You said you wouldn't sleep with me. Not yet. Maybe not ever. You were a prude like that, and it wasn't important to you. Holding hands meant more to you because sex was so easy. It was so cheap. You didn't feel good about it anymore, and besides...I was too good.

I was too good to fuck. I was too important to you, I was too valuable and I was too special for you to rush into sex with. Jesse...I wasn't mad at you then when I covered my face for a moment with my hands. I wasn't mad at all.

Aside from my Dad, I've had one guy in my life tell me he loved me. The warm fuzzy impact of that statement was usually lessened by every other time that guy told me I was fat, ugly, stupid or destined to be alone and or homeless without his generosity. I have had three different men tell me that I'm the girl guys like to fuck though.

The first time it was in response to me asking my cheating boyfriend at the time why he and I had been dating for nearly a year and I hadn't met his mother, but the last girl he cheated on me with went home with him for the holidays.

He thought carefully about his answer, before telling me that there are two types of girls. The girls men fuck, and the girls who get to meet the parents. I'm the first kind.

After that, two more guys have said very similar in response to me asking why we don't hang out more, or why we were hanging out a lot, but now he's found somebody he wants to date and for some reason I had thought it should have been me. I'm not the girl guys date either.

No guy but you Jesse has ever told me otherwise. Not in actions, and not in words. When you did...it hit me hard. In a good way. You could have been lying but I don't care. I still don't care. You're the only man, apart from my father, who has ever treated me like I really do deserve better.

It made the next time I saw you not so strange. Pizza and a movie at your place. When I showed up I was really amused that there were four large pizzas. You really wanted to make sure you ordered something I wanted.

We ordered a movie on pay-per-view and you went right to sleep lying next to me on the couch. I teased you about if after the movie ended and you woke up by sneezing into my neck. There's being respectful and then there's ridiculous. How flattered was I supposed to feel that I bored a guy into unconsciousness? It's not how things usually go while cuddling on the couch.

You said I didn't get it. The only reason you could sleep was because I was there.

You looked different that night. Very young and vulnerable. Thinner somehow than the last time you had put your arms around me to prevent me from making an ass out of myself and barging into some restaurant to apologize for not paying.

You seemed smaller, much less sure of yourself. Again, I didn't want to say good-bye, but this time for different reasons. I wanted to take care of you, but I had no idea why you might need caring for.

You vanished again. Weeks went by and all I would get from you were messages wishing me a good night. I was getting a lot more attention from somewhere else though. My relationship with Alex had unexpectedly exploded.

It wasn't as though I stopped thinking of you, but he wasn't leaving me alone and I couldn't leave him alone either. It was true love it seemed - or at least the mutual stalking that passes for true love.

However, you always had a way of making my knees weak, and the next time you and I spoke was no exception.

I don't remember whether you had called or I had called you, but I remember exactly what you said. You said you were so scared. The voices had been telling you to keep checking the locks, and you listened but the doors didn't open and you were so scared because the voices wouldn't stop and you were so afraid you would get into trouble. The hitch in your voice that let me know you were stifling tears almost took my legs from under me.

What scared me most is that you were so afraid, but lucid. You made sense once I asked you questions, clarifying what was happening. You had been hearing voices for at least three days. The voices told you that if you found an unlocked door in any house in your neighborhood that would signify the house actually belonged to you.

You were wandering the streets, checking the front doors of all of your neighbors and you were terrified somebody would see you. You had the sense to know it would raise alarm. The voices wouldn't stop, wouldn't let you sleep and they were always wrong.

You seemed to know that the voices couldn't be real, but you weren't sold on that. For all the times you suggested I knew you on some deeper level, recognized you in a more spiritual way I didn't see that until hearing your voice that day.

I've known what it's like to be that afraid. I've known what it's like to cower within your own mind, with no chance of escape. I know what it's like to know I'm not making any rational sense and yet still be helpless to make sense out of anything.

I told you to stay inside. I was going to come for you. Don't do anything more until I call you back.

My next call was to a mental health hot line. Useless fuckers. I was going to go get you, but I didn't know where to take you. If I took you to emergency we could be sitting for hours and you may not stay. It was too late to take you to a clinic, and I didn't know what to do.

The guy on the other end of the phone sounded like I bored him, and had interrupted his coffee and donut break. He seemed to think the problem could wait, but if I was really concerned I could let days pass and submit what I thought to be the problem to a mental health team that would check in on you. It could take days to arrange. Or, I could just send the cops to your house.

The cops. That would be a great idea. I knew you'd lost your license and may be easily recognizable to local police because of the history I was pretty sure you had. I knew you were upset, and scared, and terrified you were going to be caught. A few police cruisers on your front lawn would surely ease your suffering.

The mental health guy suggested if I could calm you down a walk-in clinic would be fine for tomorrow. I knew I could calm you down, and I did.

We would go the next day. You had to work the next morning - another multi-million dollar home. One of your guys was picking you up but you would be done by 2:00. I would phone you at 2:00 and I would come get you, and we would go together. I wouldn't leave you, and we would sort this out. Be ready for 2:00.

I called at 2:02. You didn't pick up. I called several times more after, and you still didn't pick up.

Maybe you were embarrassed. Maybe you were back on drugs. Maybe you just had a bad trip and couldn't even remember why this crazy chick was calling you every 10 minutes. Maybe you were busy. Maybe you were better.

This was in July of last year, and I didn't call you again. Maybe I was mad at you this time. I'd lived with a guy who drank himself into a stupor every night for four years and he was a mean drunk. I bore the brunt of every shortcoming he tried to drown and I hated my life because of it. If you were that type I didn't want you either.

Besides, Alex was proving to be everything I had ever dreamt of. He was who I had waited my whole life for, I was sure of it. I was sickening in love with him. From that summer onward he was all I could talk about. Everybody knew about Alex, whether they wanted to or not, but there was something about you that I wanted to keep to myself.

Twice you sent me messages while I was either crazy in love on the phone with Alex or on MSN. The first message was in August of last year, telling me you had dreamt about me. The next message was early September, wishing me goodnight and telling me you had been thinking of me but hadn't been doing very well lately.

No shit. I knew what that was like, and I was so grateful to be feeling better. I was feeling so much better I started running again that winter. Alex and I were making plans as to how we were going to be together and I started a graduate program, wanting to take advantage of my newly rediscovered energy and zest for life. My Mom being diagnosed with cancer almost threw me into a tailspin but I pulled through because things just had to work out this time.

I was afraid for you and annoyed with you. I'll admit it. I didn't want drama for once. I wanted simplicity. I wanted happiness.

Several times I saw work trucks drive by me with a red and black logo, your company colours, just where you showed me yours would go once you got your truck back. I was so relieved. I wanted you to be well. Whatever shit you were going through I wanted you to be through it, and if it meant not talking to me anymore because I reminded you of a bad time in your life than so be it.

To a point though. Your silence was increasingly making me mad. I cared for you. I wanted to help you and I tried and you just toss me aside? No emails, no phone calls and not even another message wishing me goodnight? Surely things hadn't been so bad that you would even refuse to add me as a friend on Facebook when I sent you my request, wanting to be back in touch. But you did.

Alex broke my heart. My graduate program nearly broke my mind and my Mom's illness broke my spirit along with hers it seems. And I was so mad at you the whole time. I was glad you were better, and glad you were working but I was a friend that wasn't dangerous. Whatever scene you had fallen back into I could help keep you out of it. I deserved better than your silence.

I ran my first 10k in April, and crossing that finish line was one of my very best moments. The race and the excitement left me drained, and I went to sleep on the couch where I dreamt of you.

You were standing in a door way. I couldn't see you because there was a light coming through the door way and you were backlit in silhouette. I knew it was you though. I was mad at you and I told you so. Like always, you told me not to be.

When I woke up I was furious with you. I sat straight up, and leaned over my laptop which was open by my feet. I typed your name into Google, and up came your obituary.

You had died seven months earlier, suddenly and unexpectedly.

I got up and paced around every room in the house really fast. I tried to think of words that rhyme. I counted backwards from 100 but kept making mistakes. I flapped my hands in front of me and was surprised when I looked down to see them flapping. I kept forgetting to breathe.

You died September 10, 2008. Just before that you had told me you weren't doing well. I didn't call you. I didn' t send a message back.

I made myself click on your online registry. A place where people could leave comments, like a guest book. More than one person said they were glad you had finally found the peace you were looking for. I'm pretty sure I know how, because I really did know you, just like you said.

I think you killed yourself. One way or another. I think I saw in you a person that was just as damaged and as broken as I think I am and you were slipping. That's how I think of it as when I feel myself starting to slide. Slipping.

I think there's only so long a person can go on being as afraid as I heard you sounding. There's only so long you can need to escape your body and your mind - whatever has turned on you. I saw in you somebody who would understand what that feels like, and I think you saw it in me too.

It's more than a year later and I haven't signed your guestbook yet. I missed your funeral. Who would have thought to tell me? I was a name in your phone. A name on your MSN favourites, nothing more. How would I have known?

Plenty of other guys have vanished on me, too cowardly to tell me why or not thinking I'm even worth so much as a good-bye and I thought you had done the same and I was mad at you.

You were the one guy who thought I was worth more than that, and I then you were gone. And I never knew that whole time how much I was actually missing you.

Now I miss you in strange ways. I trip over you. You aren't the only friend I've lost this year. My friend Erika died after a long battle with cancer. She was 31, and one of the most truly remarkable people I have every had the great fortune of knowing. You would have liked her. You both had such huge laughs, I could imagine the two of you together and breaking the sound barrier that way.

I miss Erika being in the world and I hate the universe for taking her and leaving so many useless people behind instead. I don't trip over her loss though. I'm sad and I miss her and wish I had more time with her, and wish I had used the time I had better. I don't find myself painting my new condo with tears running down my face all of a sudden, thinking she should be there like I do with you, because you promised.

I've been singing along with the radio only to burst into tears driving by where we met on Valentine's Day. I'll be walking somewhere and just start to cry, thinking of you. If I'm mourning you, it's hitting me late and it's hitting me hard.

I don't cry as much for Erika now and how she went because I know she was surrounded by all of the love and warmth one person could have in this life. She brought joy to people, and if there's such thing as a good death when you're just 31 and have had more rounds of chemo than years on earth - she managed to have one. She packed so much living into every day that I'm ashamed of every moment I waste doing nothing. I cry for her, but I know she was OK...you know?

You were alone though. I'm afraid you could've been OK too if it wasn't for me. I knew you. I knew you were slipping and I did nothing. I had to remind myself to breathe when I found out you had gone and I still do. I haven't breathed right since.

I knew you were in trouble but I only wish I had bothered to find out how much. I heard that fear in your voice and I recognized it, just like I recognized you. I didn't know what you were going to do about it, but of all people I should have known that you knew it was an option, and I should have acted. Now, all I can hope for is that if I ever call somebody sounding as afraid as you did...I hope they're a better person for me than I was for you.

I'm not mad Jesse at you anymore Jesse. But I am so, so sorry.

The Shortest Date Ever - A Transcript

Bambi - Are you Greg?

Greg - Yep that's me - I recognized you as soon as you walked in.

Bambi - Really? Because...I didn't. You look different than your picture.

Greg- I might. It was taken last year.

Bambi - And then what happened?

Greg - What do you mean?

Bambi - Well it's just...you have a very different look now. It's...striking.

Greg - Well, I guess I started growing my hair out.

Bambi - Everywhere?

Greg - Oh, you mean the facial stuff?

Bambi - There's a lot of it.

Greg - Well I'm very attached to it.

Bambi - To your facial hair? Well yes...it is attached to you.

Greg - No, I mean sentimentally. It reminds me of a trip to Scotland with my family.

Bambi - You know...most people take a trip and buy a T-shirt or something.

Greg - I thought it would be freeing to just let some things go in another country. Not worry about little things like having to groom all the time.

Bambi - Maybe a key-chain? My grandmother always brought back tea-towels when she went to Scotland. They were nice.

Greg - So...me not looking like my picture...is that a good thing or a bad thing?

Bambi - It's not the best thing.

Greg - Are you going to leave now?

Bambi - I think I am. Yes. I should go. I'm sorry.

Greg - No problem at all, it's quite alright.

Total elapsed time: 12 minutes.

Miscellany

Moving...

It was bad enough when the movers were three hours late. It was worse when it started pouring rain just as all of my belongings were sitting outside of the moving truck, gathering puddles. It was really lousy when I sat on top of a large rubbermaid bin to contemplate having moved only to have my ass fall through the crack in the plastic top. None of these things inspired warm and fuzzy feelings.

However.

The very worst moment was picking up a box marked "BEDROOM" in order to move it to the actual bedroom and having said box start buzzing and...vibrating. Put the box down, box stops. Pick it up, box starts rocking. The movers transported that box several times before I picked it up. I expect they all made note of my phone number.

Strata Fees Include...

Before moving into my new condo I do a walk-through of the common areas with the Strata Council President to make sure any damage inflicted by me or my movers throwing my furniture into the walls would be paid for by me.

At least I think that was the point to the entire episode because I was too busy being overcome with lust. My Strata Council President (SCP) is disturbingly hot. And charming. And funny. And no wedding ring.

Naturally, this doesn't automatically make him single but it does mean I'm only slightly less likely to have to break a commandment to get into his pants and at the rate I'm going I'll consider this a moral victory. The man is fine. That's all I'm saying.

So fine in fact, that anytime I take out the garbage I brush my hair and put on lipgloss. If I check the mail I make sure I've shaved my armpits and if I so much as step outside my apartment I'll have checked for anything stuck in my teeth. Day to day living is exhausting, but naturally I don't run into the SCP at all.

Until last night, as I was coming home from a walk. Windblown, snotty from the cold, wearing really unlattering stretchy pants and trying to maneover an extra-large Tim Horton's steeped tea, my purse and a small paper bag containing a Tim Horton's white chocolate macademia nut cookie temporarily shoved into my mouth while fishing my keys out of my bag -- I manage to hit the button on the elevator when all hell breaks loose.

The lid comes off my tea nestled in the crook of my arm and splashes down my front, causing me to say jesusfuckingchrist with a cookie bag in my mouth causing me to drool and simultaniously realize I have snot running from my nose to the cookie bag.

So. Sexy.

Just then, I hear a door open around the corner and I KNEW. I'm not sure how, but I knew it would be him and sure enough, the SCP comes around the corner walking the cutest dog in the world. At first he looked at me like he didn't recognize me or was considering how the locks should probably be changed on the building to ensure no more homeless people sneak inside just to ride the elevator. Then he recognized me. Which was worse.

I managed to remove the cookie bag from my mouth and thought I was pretty smooth by crossing my arms and squelching most of the spilled tea into my armpit with the rest dripping down the bottom of my jacket onto the floor, which I'll probably be charged for by the Strata Council. We chatted for a moment or two, with my snotty nose still completely intact.

Stonehenge. Crop circles. Why I'm still single. Such mysteries.

I Need an App for That...

Saturday I'm shopping for home renovation stuff with two gay boys in Rona - a more unproductive combination does not exist. Suddenly, my phone makes a noise which is highly strange given nobody ever calls or texts me, I never turn it on, mostly because nobody ever calls or texts me. It's Alex, sending me a text message. I squee. I actually jumped up and down and clapped my hands in the lighting aisle. I shouldn't have squeed so hastily though. Exact text exchange and translation of text exchange as per below.

Alex: Just woke up. Was dreaming of you.

Bambi: Was it good?

Alex: (insert sound of crickets chirping here)

Translation by Bambi:

Alex: Just need an ego boost right now -- you're still in love with me right?

Bambi: Yes. Yes, I am.

Alex: Just checking.