My first date in four + years will take place in a matter of hours. I've been consulting with several trust-worthy women who agree that for my wardrobe selection I should choose something low-cut, but not too low-cut. Show some leg, but not too much leg. Wear perfume, but not too much perfume. Apply make-up carefully, but not too much and wear practical yet sexy shoes. Although neither too practical nor too sexy. Essentially if only half of me were visible I would think I've nailed the outfit.
My behaviour is also a matter for discussion, especially amongst my office colleagues who are all married and excited at the possibility of living vicariously through me. Exactly how sad this makes the state of their marriages is not something I want to comment on.
I am to kiss him seductively or turn my cheek. Laugh and smile a lot or act shy and mysterious. Pay my way or let him pay. Or pay for both of us. Find excuses to touch him or not touch him at all. Be myself, or play the part of some sexy ingenue. It's all so simple, I don't know why I'm nervous.
Every day I chat with Tyler for at least a couple of hours, which has made me a terrible employee but at the same time, a woman who is suddenly smiling all day for no reason.
I hate the idea of losing that, so I really have no choice. I'm going to show up naked, address him only in sign language and take him to bed. That ought to do it.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Game on.
The time has come. Lock your doors and windows. Run up your credit cards. Eat dessert and if you've ever thought of having a threesome now would be the time, because the end of the world is upon us. I have a date on Friday, which is why I'm sure the remaining horsemen of the apocalypse will be along shortly.
This date with Tyler almost didn't happen, mostly because of my incredible ability to read between the lines. Incredible in this case meaning, "not at all, or even a little bit." For example, our first attempt to set up a meeting went south because Tyler is moving apartments. This is what was said:
Bambi: What's your week looking like?
Tyler: Oh man, I've got three days to pack all my stuff so this week isn't looking good. Next week would probably be better.
This is what I actually read:
Bambi: What's your week looking like?
Tyler: Please go away. I am officially blowing you off, and I would like nothing more to do with you. In fact, thanks to you, I am now gay -- not that there's anything wrong with that. I am a proud gay man, and you made me that way. I don't want to meet you. I don't want to talk to you and if you'll excuse me, I'll be dancing to the Scissor Sisters. Now fark off.
What can I say? I can't be right all of the time. His moving date got changed, and now we're on for Friday. I have no idea what to wear, what to do or how much self-tanner it's going to take for my legs to not be blue.
This will be our first time laying eyes on each other, so surely...what could possibly go wrong?
This date with Tyler almost didn't happen, mostly because of my incredible ability to read between the lines. Incredible in this case meaning, "not at all, or even a little bit." For example, our first attempt to set up a meeting went south because Tyler is moving apartments. This is what was said:
Bambi: What's your week looking like?
Tyler: Oh man, I've got three days to pack all my stuff so this week isn't looking good. Next week would probably be better.
This is what I actually read:
Bambi: What's your week looking like?
Tyler: Please go away. I am officially blowing you off, and I would like nothing more to do with you. In fact, thanks to you, I am now gay -- not that there's anything wrong with that. I am a proud gay man, and you made me that way. I don't want to meet you. I don't want to talk to you and if you'll excuse me, I'll be dancing to the Scissor Sisters. Now fark off.
What can I say? I can't be right all of the time. His moving date got changed, and now we're on for Friday. I have no idea what to wear, what to do or how much self-tanner it's going to take for my legs to not be blue.
This will be our first time laying eyes on each other, so surely...what could possibly go wrong?
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Testimony
Friday we ended up at a JazzFest venue purely by accident, attempting to escape the hordes of tourists wearing matching nylon tracksuits and carrying digital cameras larger than my head.
No matter where we went for a drink there would be crowds of water-proofed people, speaking in southern drawls and asking how much the beer cost "in American." We had to find refuge.
Annoyed half to death, we paid five bucks each to get into a bar and listen to the Elmer Ferrer Band just because there wasn't a tourist in site. What happened next is the closest thing I've had to a religious experience.
We were just in time for the band's second set. Surrounded by people ranging in age from 19 to 79 (with walker) I took my place on the outside of the dance floor -- skeptical.
The band looked too young to be playing jazz, and the lead singer appeared to be a 15 year old skateboarder. My girlfriend took her place directly in front of the band, and I had a moment's panic the band would be delayed so that she and the drummer, bass player, guitarist or lead skateboarder could run away together to the supply closet.
My friend likes her musicians, but I've never been into the whole groupie scene. If I wanted to pay for somebody to spend all day sleeping and using me for food and one-sided affection, I would get a cat. Despite my friend being hotter than the sun, the band just started to play.
And oh my dear God.
When that band broke out the Miles Davis funk the speakers blew every woman's clothes off in the bar. The dude with the walker was doing the electric slide and a woman wearing an outfit straight out of the Mom Section in Sears was dropping her ass so low to the ground she's probably still down there.
When the band struck up a slowed down weeper about a lost dog the entire place swayed in unison. When they picked it up again we were stomping and clapping to the same rhythm until our hands and feet were aching, but we called them back for three encores anyway.
And then it was over. When the lead singer stepped off the stage the crowd parted like he was a tattooed Moses, most of us suddenly too shy to do anything but smile and duck our heads in awe.
I'm still not into musicians, but if any member of that band ever needs a space on my couch or food from my fridge I would give it, because for at least an hour, they made the lame walk, the blind see and the white people dance. Amen.
No matter where we went for a drink there would be crowds of water-proofed people, speaking in southern drawls and asking how much the beer cost "in American." We had to find refuge.
Annoyed half to death, we paid five bucks each to get into a bar and listen to the Elmer Ferrer Band just because there wasn't a tourist in site. What happened next is the closest thing I've had to a religious experience.
We were just in time for the band's second set. Surrounded by people ranging in age from 19 to 79 (with walker) I took my place on the outside of the dance floor -- skeptical.
The band looked too young to be playing jazz, and the lead singer appeared to be a 15 year old skateboarder. My girlfriend took her place directly in front of the band, and I had a moment's panic the band would be delayed so that she and the drummer, bass player, guitarist or lead skateboarder could run away together to the supply closet.
My friend likes her musicians, but I've never been into the whole groupie scene. If I wanted to pay for somebody to spend all day sleeping and using me for food and one-sided affection, I would get a cat. Despite my friend being hotter than the sun, the band just started to play.
And oh my dear God.
When that band broke out the Miles Davis funk the speakers blew every woman's clothes off in the bar. The dude with the walker was doing the electric slide and a woman wearing an outfit straight out of the Mom Section in Sears was dropping her ass so low to the ground she's probably still down there.
When the band struck up a slowed down weeper about a lost dog the entire place swayed in unison. When they picked it up again we were stomping and clapping to the same rhythm until our hands and feet were aching, but we called them back for three encores anyway.
And then it was over. When the lead singer stepped off the stage the crowd parted like he was a tattooed Moses, most of us suddenly too shy to do anything but smile and duck our heads in awe.
I'm still not into musicians, but if any member of that band ever needs a space on my couch or food from my fridge I would give it, because for at least an hour, they made the lame walk, the blind see and the white people dance. Amen.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Exhibit: Cat.
My hatred for cats is well-documented. I've written about it on this site, and ask anybody who knows me. They will likely say that while chances are good I'll never marry (or even see another man naked ever again), they are fully confident I will not become crazy cat-lady. Gerbil-lady -- perhaps. Crazy purse-lady who throws rocks at small children from her window -- most likely.
Cats are on my mind again because we have an infestation at my place of employment. I'm fortunate to work in an absolutely beautiful, pastoral setting complete with deer, swans, ducks, bunnies and...cats.
Nobody knows where these cats came from, but if I had to guess I would say they wondered away from their previous homes having neither the brains nor loyalty to stay put. I'm certain that for several weeks their former keepers focused their misplaced grief toward posting signs on telephone poles stating: "Help! Lost cat! Muffin is a 25-pound tabby and we miss her! Please call...etc. etc."
Notice that no Missing Cat poster ever suggests Muffin might be homesick? It's because cats actually hate you. Notice as well, that no poster ever claims that Muffin answers to her name when called? What a lousy pet.
Even if a Good Samaritan were to notice the 25 pound Muffin prowling the 'hood, how would he begin to make a positive ID, apart from the fact that a 25 pound cat would make a pretty good dent in one's car. In a perfect world, the loser of the cat could confirm that the dent matches the exact shape the cat left in its favourite sofa cushion, right next to the hair and claw marks.
So now there are approximately five cats who have become our problem. To me they are a problem, to others they are an excuse to go feed something. Today an email went out suggesting if we see one particular cat in our area, we are to shoo it away because it is attacking and killing the baby bunnies.
Personally, I would rather live in a world with baby bunnies. I freaking love those baby bunnies. The bunnies outside our building are so tame they'll jump up and rest their little feet on your legs as you feed them carrots. And the babies...the babies are so cute even my ovaries unfreeze just a little. And they're getting slaughtered. By cats.
If I see this cat, I'm not going to want to "shoo" it. I'm going to want to chase it with a sledge-hammer. I'm going to want to drive over it with my car while cranking Billie Idol's, "Rebel Yell." I'm going to want to hang it from a pole so that it can serve as a warning to every other cat trespassing on this property.
Don't mess with the bunnies. I'm on to you Muffin.
Cats are on my mind again because we have an infestation at my place of employment. I'm fortunate to work in an absolutely beautiful, pastoral setting complete with deer, swans, ducks, bunnies and...cats.
Nobody knows where these cats came from, but if I had to guess I would say they wondered away from their previous homes having neither the brains nor loyalty to stay put. I'm certain that for several weeks their former keepers focused their misplaced grief toward posting signs on telephone poles stating: "Help! Lost cat! Muffin is a 25-pound tabby and we miss her! Please call...etc. etc."
Notice that no Missing Cat poster ever suggests Muffin might be homesick? It's because cats actually hate you. Notice as well, that no poster ever claims that Muffin answers to her name when called? What a lousy pet.
Even if a Good Samaritan were to notice the 25 pound Muffin prowling the 'hood, how would he begin to make a positive ID, apart from the fact that a 25 pound cat would make a pretty good dent in one's car. In a perfect world, the loser of the cat could confirm that the dent matches the exact shape the cat left in its favourite sofa cushion, right next to the hair and claw marks.
So now there are approximately five cats who have become our problem. To me they are a problem, to others they are an excuse to go feed something. Today an email went out suggesting if we see one particular cat in our area, we are to shoo it away because it is attacking and killing the baby bunnies.
Personally, I would rather live in a world with baby bunnies. I freaking love those baby bunnies. The bunnies outside our building are so tame they'll jump up and rest their little feet on your legs as you feed them carrots. And the babies...the babies are so cute even my ovaries unfreeze just a little. And they're getting slaughtered. By cats.
If I see this cat, I'm not going to want to "shoo" it. I'm going to want to chase it with a sledge-hammer. I'm going to want to drive over it with my car while cranking Billie Idol's, "Rebel Yell." I'm going to want to hang it from a pole so that it can serve as a warning to every other cat trespassing on this property.
Don't mess with the bunnies. I'm on to you Muffin.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Some assembly required.
This post will have no structure and no focus, because I spent five hours shopping in IKEA today and I've subsequently lost the ability to speak in sentences along with my will to live.
So much can be done with just 377 square ft. of space, and I'm not doing it. My walls are not realizing their full potential, because I'm overwhelmed by the options available in cupboards and home organization. My apartment is inadequate, and I'm a failure. The meatballs were good though.
I spent six hours of my work day on Monday chatting with Tyler over MSN. Six. Hours. That counts as the second-longest relationship I've ever had in my life. I think we've now cleared the way for marriage as we've established that ABBA is righteous and we would probably both do Annette Benning. What we did not do over the course of six hours is arrange to meet.
It is now Wednesday and I'm back to staring at my computer, chin in hand, wondering why he's not getting in touch and just who in the hell is he talking to besides me. Probably somebody who knows how to maximize her storage options. She probably owns a magnetic spice rack whereas I just shove my dollar-store spices in my cupboard like a heathen. That bitch.
Not meeting in person is probably a good thing at this point though, because the giant zit on my forehead appears to be staying indefinitely. A friend who is down with chicken pox, if you can believe it (Hi Chicklet!) had the nerve to suggest her current facial disfigurement is worse than my own.
Well.
Let me tell you something. At least the chicken pox can garner you some sympathy. Nobody feels sorry or sends me soup because my zit is so large it's started talking on it's own and has been asking to borrow my car.
Nobody expects you to look good with the chicken pox, but I have no excuse for having something so horrendous on my forehead it can not be covered with make-up, powder or bandana. I mean...crikey.
On a more positive note, I did buy a lovely CD storage rack today that I could probably hang off of my zit, and it may provide some coverage as well as a viable storage solution for the CDs I have just lying around, taking up valuable space.
I told you there would be no structure, or focus and I'm sorry for all this. I did warn you though, and now me, my zit and my battery-powered drill have some furniture to put together.
So much can be done with just 377 square ft. of space, and I'm not doing it. My walls are not realizing their full potential, because I'm overwhelmed by the options available in cupboards and home organization. My apartment is inadequate, and I'm a failure. The meatballs were good though.
I spent six hours of my work day on Monday chatting with Tyler over MSN. Six. Hours. That counts as the second-longest relationship I've ever had in my life. I think we've now cleared the way for marriage as we've established that ABBA is righteous and we would probably both do Annette Benning. What we did not do over the course of six hours is arrange to meet.
It is now Wednesday and I'm back to staring at my computer, chin in hand, wondering why he's not getting in touch and just who in the hell is he talking to besides me. Probably somebody who knows how to maximize her storage options. She probably owns a magnetic spice rack whereas I just shove my dollar-store spices in my cupboard like a heathen. That bitch.
Not meeting in person is probably a good thing at this point though, because the giant zit on my forehead appears to be staying indefinitely. A friend who is down with chicken pox, if you can believe it (Hi Chicklet!) had the nerve to suggest her current facial disfigurement is worse than my own.
Well.
Let me tell you something. At least the chicken pox can garner you some sympathy. Nobody feels sorry or sends me soup because my zit is so large it's started talking on it's own and has been asking to borrow my car.
Nobody expects you to look good with the chicken pox, but I have no excuse for having something so horrendous on my forehead it can not be covered with make-up, powder or bandana. I mean...crikey.
On a more positive note, I did buy a lovely CD storage rack today that I could probably hang off of my zit, and it may provide some coverage as well as a viable storage solution for the CDs I have just lying around, taking up valuable space.
I told you there would be no structure, or focus and I'm sorry for all this. I did warn you though, and now me, my zit and my battery-powered drill have some furniture to put together.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Truly, madly, deeply...ridiculous.
There are only three things I worry about in life:
- Everything that has ever happened.
- Everything that is currently happening.
- Everything that might ever happen.
I've narrowed my concerns to just these three things because I became stressed about not having my priorities in order and losing track of what was important. I made several lists but then I lost the lists somewhere between moving, storage and my frantic search for my Bikini Ready Fast DVD.
Luckily I had taken the time to identify the three things I worry about most and commit them to memory, because I would hate to have the fact that my anxieties have their own disorders just sneak up on me in the middle of the night.
And it is for these reasons that I'm really not cut out for Internet dating. I don't think I'm cut out for dating period, but I would like somebody else to buy me a meal or two eventually so I have no choice but to move forward.
So far, the online dating experience has sucked. About the only thing I can say for myself is that I am in fact, online. The dating part still eludes me. I've sent emails, I've sent smiles, I've replied to smiles, I've instant messaged and waited and...nothing. Well, almost nothing.
There is Tyler*. Funny, good looking and tall. The first guy to send me a smile and the only guy to reply to my follow-up email. We've sent funny emails back and forth. We've had an hour long IM session about midgets, Gandhi, and what to do if cursed by gypsies.
He asked for my real email so we could MSN and we haven't chatted since. He's sent me a note or two in the mean time, but he remains as elusive as the Loch Ness Monster, who I'm probably much more likely to actually have a drink with in the near future.
Because I tend to worry a little bit, I've managed to drive myself half-crazy (read: completely batshit) in a very short span of time. When I see him online (at the dating website) I wonder if I should send him an IM or would I be bothering him and or appearing desperate.
If I don't send him a message and I'm online and so is he, then why isn't he sending me a message? He obviously has no interest because otherwise he would be trying to connect with me, but then I'm not sending him a message and I'm interested so I think this means I'm the one with a the problem.
If he's online at the dating site then who is he talking to? How many other women are interested in him? What do they look like? He must be more interested in them because otherwise he'd be talking to me.
He must get so many messages and emails because he's online quite often and so what else could he be doing? I'm online quite often too and nobody but him sends me messages, but I keep checking due to OCD and not because I'm actually conversing with anybody.
To make matters worse, his email has both his first and last name. With this information, I was able to peruse his Friends list on Facebook. Out of 200 people, only ten were men. The remainder were women hotter than the sun, therefore confirming my suspicion that he must be talking to all kinds of women whose thighs don't touch and who don't have a zit on their foreheads so large that an IMAX film crew is currently shooting a movie all about it, just above their right eyebrows.
I'll also bet those girls don't need to worry about whether their pictures will show their nose or their chins in the most unflattering light possible. It has to be both, or one or the other but it can't ever be neither.
So, Tyler -- I'm surprisingly free this weekend if you'd like to meet, and I think we should just so we can both move on and find closure. One of us really needs it. Just like I really need other hobbies. Or to lie down.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Why I do it.
i'm really too tired for this my stomach is growling i can't even smile at people when i'm this hungry never mind go for a run my shirt smells i need to be doing laundry right now dinner and laundry what an exciting friday night and now this too and my legs are killing me...
(Keep Going.)
i can't catch my breath that old lady with the walker is moving faster than me my legs are so heavy but of course they're heavy that's why i'm doing this right? haha i feel like an injured hippo and what's this...? great now my nose is actually running down my face i'll just wipe it with my hand oh and very nice get it on my sunglasses so sexy no wonder i'm single...
(Keep Going.)
god the ocean smells good i do love it out here salt air deep in my lungs and look at that my shadow looks good all bouncing and strong and how does that song go? the one about a long cool woman in a black dress oh yeah gimme a drum beat...
(Keep Going.)
oh the cruise ship tourists my god i live in a place so beautiful cruise ships dock here i am so lucky and oops i think i ran through that guy's picture sorry buddy but i couldn't stop because i am fast and i am strong and i am almost finished i am a nike commercial i am a goddess and my stopwatch says i'm done and i can barely hear my feet on the pavement...
(Keep Going.)
(Keep Going.)
i can't catch my breath that old lady with the walker is moving faster than me my legs are so heavy but of course they're heavy that's why i'm doing this right? haha i feel like an injured hippo and what's this...? great now my nose is actually running down my face i'll just wipe it with my hand oh and very nice get it on my sunglasses so sexy no wonder i'm single...
(Keep Going.)
god the ocean smells good i do love it out here salt air deep in my lungs and look at that my shadow looks good all bouncing and strong and how does that song go? the one about a long cool woman in a black dress oh yeah gimme a drum beat...
(Keep Going.)
oh the cruise ship tourists my god i live in a place so beautiful cruise ships dock here i am so lucky and oops i think i ran through that guy's picture sorry buddy but i couldn't stop because i am fast and i am strong and i am almost finished i am a nike commercial i am a goddess and my stopwatch says i'm done and i can barely hear my feet on the pavement...
(Keep Going.)
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