Am I being punked?

A friend of my boss just dropped by our office. Yeah, she and my boss are going to look at engagement rings because this lady is dropping $20,000 on one. She met the guy a couple of months ago and they’re getting married. Seriously. Is someone paying people to tell me stories like this to watch the expression on my face?
You know what else bugs me? When people (to be read: my boss) rolls her chair over to show me something and touches my computer screen. Don’t touch my monitor. Seriously. Why would you do that? Why would you eat a piece of chicken, suck your fingers noisily and then roll your way over here and get all up on my machine? It’s like Jim Halpert from the Office. I need my own camera crew to follow me around and zoom in on my incredulous face when people pull stunts like that. I’ll have the “is anyone else seeing what is happening to me?” look on my face. Or a murderous glare. Yeah, the murderous glare comes up more often than not.
And one more thing. I went to get some water and I came back and the CFO was sitting in my chair. Why would he do that? It was 2pm: did he think I went home for the day? Is his job so exhausting that he can’t stand up for the three minute duration of my absence? And then he feigns being sorry for sitting in my chair upon my return. You should be sorry. Don’t sit in my chair. Like, ever. I think he might have lowered it as well. I should break into his BMW and sit in the driver’s seat for a few minutes and monkey with the position. Or at least until security comes. That would definitely solve all my problems. Seriously.

What’s crackalackin’?

I encourage everyone to use that word at least once today. So where did we leave off? Oh right, with me pining for my soul mate on POF, and me fielding calls from the engaged drummer’s band mate. Could I make this any more complicated? Actually yes, I could. There is currently something horribly awry with my laptop (though I have a sneaking suspicion that the problem can be alleviated by me dropping it onto the sidewalk outside my bedroom window) so I have been unable to check my email. It is with grim fascination that I have checked my inbox to see if either of my new found friends from the Head have decided to follow up (in whatever capacity), though there is no reason why they should. And also because I, being the lame wit I am, decided to email the POF guy that blew off our scheduled date on Sunday. Yeah. I dunno. If you want to stop being my friend now, I totally understand. It’s just that he’s really hot. And his vocabulary has both depth and breadth and size really does matter. At any rate, I was quite confident that I would’ve received an email from him Monday night, but because my laptop is impotent I could not check to verify this. So I made my mom do it. Yep, nothing creepier than getting your mom to check your online dating service for you. I asked her if it would make her uncomfortable and she said “I don’t know, will it make me uncomfortable?”. But no, all of our emails thus far have been very PG. If anything my mom would be made uncomfortable by the fact that I had admitted in an email to this guy that I had stayed in and watched a movie on Saturday night. He probably thinks I’m desperate and will sleep with him on the first date. I likely will. Anywho, she checks and no email! So not only a creepy experience to share with your mother, but also embarrassing in that my mom had to relay to me that no one is interested. Stellar! Do they have therapy for that?
Later in the evening (and positive now that he would’ve emailed) I ask JupiterGirl to check for me, hoping that she doesn’t take my password, log on as me and send a raunchy email to the guy whose profile indicates he was recently fired from Tim Hortons, prefers Lucky beer and advocates free liquor for pregnant single mothers in New West (as well as getting “narsty” on his bean bag chair). It would still be better than if she were to send an email (posing as me) to any of the shirtless wonders on this site. I mean give me a break. I haven’t seen so many hairless chests, six pack abs and nipples since the GAY PRIDE PARADE. Give it a rest, guys!
At this point I gave up. Obviously the size 2 supermodel had won him over. I contemplated going to buy some Lucky beer and asking the drummer if he was up for an extramarital fling. I instead had another illuminating hour long conversation with Michael. What the hell? Ex boyfriends are supposed to make you feel bad, and laugh at you when you fail at dating. But he did not. You’d think he was a nice guy or something.
And then this morning, and email from the POF guy wanting to meet for drinks tomorrow. I pondered it for a couple of hours and then said sure, let’s give ‘er. I don’t have any great expectations out of this I suppose. I’m looking forward to meeting him and I hope his vocabulary is as big as I think it is. He probably has a thesaurus beside him when he’s sending emails to potential dates in order to make himself look intelligent. I hope our conversation isn’t totally stilted. I hope that he doesn’t get the faux emergency phone call half way into our date enabling him to rush out and meet up with someone more supple and flexible than I. I hope he doesn’t drive a Hummer. I hope it’s not raining too hard, so my hair goes all curly. I hate that.
So we’ll see. That’s tomorrow. I will post again on Thursday to give you the blow by blow.

Let's get engaged

Yeah. There is a story I could tell you know about the guy that I met on Plenty of Fish that knew who Wes Anderson and Fred Herzog was and who greatly appreciated music by van Morrison. A guy who had perfect spelling and punctuation, enjoyed scrabble and used the word “eschew” in one of his emails to me. But, strangely, I am too saddened by the end result of that story to share it with you. Apparently I can only regale you with stories that end up with me having egg on my face, or (are the proverbial equivalent of) sitting ass down in a muddy puddle. The sad stories are just sad, and this is a humorous and sardonic blog where we all get to point and laugh at the relationship-challenged idiot.
I will continue with my story of the drummer, because it was definitely left unresolved, and gets significantly better. I checked my email periodically throughout the day, sure that my friend from the Head had received and eagerly responded to my email, but my inbox remained empty (on so many levels). After several failed attempts to become engrossed in my most recent Vanity Fair I decided that I deserved some kind of closure. Either he had received my email, looked the pic that I had attached and thought I looked like the cabbage-faced, dimpled moron that I am, or he hadn’t received my email at all. I decided to call the number that my cell phone had captured when he called me at 12:38am on that fateful Saturday morning. The phone rang and he said “Hi T-”. I thought it was a very warm greeting and was kind of surprised that he greeted me by name (I don’t know why, but it feels very strangely intimate when people call me by my first name – though what exactly do I think they are going to refer to me as?). He asked me how I was doing and I said fine and asked him what he was up to and then I heard a beep and the call dropped. I waited a few minutes and my cell didn’t ring, so I called the number again to hear that it was out of service. I contemplated that he had hung up on me. Given my tragic, earlier rejection from my kindred spirit on POF who is probably boffing a size 2 supermodel with 36D boobs right now, I was kind of wounded. It’s a lot of rejection for one girl in a day. Oh, did I mention I spent the afternoon with Michael too? Yeah, lot of strands in old Duder’s head. I decided that nothing makes it all better like leftover pizza, more wine and watching “Trust the Man”. About an hour later my phone rings again and it is my friend! He apologizes for the call dropping earlier and said that his battery had died so he had to wait to get home and plug it in. Okay, that’s fair. Then he says that it’s not the drummer, it’s the lead singer. I guess the drummer had borrowed the lead singer’s cell phone to call me (you’ll find out why in scant moments), so that was the number that I had called earlier. I was a little surprised obviously. He then told me that he had not yet forwarded my email to the drummer, but would definitely do it if I wanted him to. Uh yeah, that was what I had confirmed that I wanted him to do on SATURDAY MORNING. Thanks buddy! He then told me that he though I might like to know that the drummer was engaged. Wow. Awesome. I said that I didn’t know that. And the singer said how could I have known? Stellar. So this would be why the call was made from the singer’s phone. And the urgency for me to return to the bar at 12:30am. Surely the drummer wished to have an urgent conversation with me about the importance of the income tax credit available to people who buy monthly bus passes and the positive economic and environmental consequences therein. Naked.
So, thus concludes my weekend. The really great thing is that I spent more time talking to and emailing the singer than I did the drummer. Plus, the singer has my pic. JupiterGirl floated the idea that perhaps the singer said the drummer is engaged because “he wants me to himself”. You know what? After the fucking day I have had I am going to take that and run with it.
Not a groupie!

I'm not a groupie

I was looking forward to Friday (last night) for a while. I was meeting up with JupiterGirl, P and A at the Vancouver Art Gallery (would that be abbreviated as ‘VAG’?) for FUSE, a sort of singles mixer replete with art and yuppies. I caught the bus down there and was almost late because of a gaggle of cyclists taking back the streets which was awesome, except they were directly in front of my bus. I wish they had been faster cyclists. Kidding! I think they were the sanest thing that I experienced that evening.
P was waiting for me at the gallery and I was happy to be touring the exhibit with her, given that she is an artist as well. JupiterGirl and A arrived a little later, looking very stellar. I felt a strange sense of vindication when, gazing upon a piece of art comprised of what appeared to be ropes, hooks, Rubbermaid containers, a dilapidated couch and a ratty blanket dangling from the ceiling, I expressed consternation and a general lack of understanding what the hell I was looking at. P echoed my sentiment and we then had a conversation as to what the piece might be interpreted as. Okay, so art makes you think. I prefer not to do that on a Friday night.
At any rate I really enjoyed FUSE, but not for the reason I thought I would. It was a “stop and smell the roses” kind of moment. Here I was, planning on meeting my intellectual equal at an art gallery where we would express our mutual admiration of the BBC, talk about Obama’s chances at being the next president and pass around a petition to implement a Shit Head tax on Hummers and I ended up being mesmerized and entranced by the performance art there, and discovering some really fantastic photos by Fred Herzog and cool sketches by B.C. Binning.
After finding the painting in the medium of urine, being body checked by a woman trying to bring back ‘80s New York chic, and listening to a guy eke sounds from his saxophone that were akin to what one would think would be the result of an attempt to breed a goose and an elephant, we decided we were brimming with cultural goodness and needed to dumb it down a little with loud music and cheap beer. Off to the King’s Head we went. Yes, that is where it all went horribly, horribly awry. I think A had left by this point, so that’s one less person that woke up this morning and thought “what a frickin’ idiot that girl is”.
The four of us grabbed a table upstairs where I had a relatively unobstructed view of the band – namely the drummer. Now you may choose not to believe me when I say that I’m not a groupie, but the drummer of which I speak was NOT the drummer that I had met the last time I was at the Head. Nope, this was a different drummer. Not a groupie. So we order a pitcher of beer and we’re all kind of mellowing out after a hard week. Okay, maybe my week wasn’t as hard as everyone else’s (my contribution to the “I hate my boss” bitch fest was that my boss made me turn off my computer at 3:45 so we could go have a couple of glasses at wine at a nearby lounge – so rough). But back to my relatively unobstructed view of the drummer. Yeah, he was pretty hot and we were making eye contact. So I thought. The music was good, the beer was going down easy and I was pretty sure I had some visual flirtation going on with this guy. I passed him on my way to the terrifying washrooms and he smiled at me and I smiled back. I never do that! After my sixteenth beer I decide that I want to give him my phone number. Yep, I make the best decisions on my sixteenth beer. JupiterGirl says that I should totally do it and then I realize that she thinks that I am going to actually walk up to him and give him my number. Oh god no, that’s something that a confident 30 year old woman would do! Come on, I’ve got the self confidence level of an acne ridden fourteen year old. Yeah, so I made JupiterGirl do it. Yep. She went and told the cute boy that I had a crush on him and then we left. Big D almost fell out of his chair laughing when I divulged just how much of an idiotic asshole I am to him this afternoon. This is like my penance, to confess the level of my idiocy on my blog. People need to read about how much of a dummy I am and make their kids read it to scare them straight. Jesus. But it gets better.
JupiterGirl headed home and I walked up to P’s street with her. I then decided that nothing would clear the old noggin out like walking home to Kerrisdale. Awesome. At 12:38am my cell phone rang. Perplexed as to who it might be I answered and lo and behold it was my drummer from the King’s Head! We chatted amicably for a while, but that’s probably the revisionist history speaking. Long story short he wanted me to email him, but I didn’t have a pen or paper so he told me to go to the band’s website and send an email through the address there. He gave me the URL and, as I had clearly impressed him with my cognitive abilities, he said “are you going to be able to remember that?”. Hells yeah.
I arrive home at 1am and, because the drunken cell phone conversation wasn’t enough, I decide that there is no time like the present to compose a witty an email. Good god, I want to kick my own ass as I’m writing this. I did save a copy of the email and, re-reading it today, I actually fared pretty well. And I did receive a reply to my email, but the reply came from the guitarist, not the drummer. It was kind of odd, because the email address to which I composed my brilliant e-come on was the name of the band: not an individual’s name. And I also clearly addressed the email to the drummer having cleverly learned his name in our earlier conversation. So the reply from the guitarist was along the lines of “you’ve got the wrong guy, did you want the drummer” and ended with “thanks for your support tonight” which I interpreted as “you dumb groupie”. I guess I can’t fault him, as he sent the email at 3am – two hours later than mine – and he didn’t make any spelling mistakes. He asked if I wanted him to forward it to the drummer and I responded this morning that yes, it would be most appreciated if he could forward it drummer (to whom I had originally addressed it!).
Yeah. So now I’m just waiting. This has rapidly degenerated into a big bowl full of wrong. This is the wrong way to deal with other humans. I need to get a backbone. I need to take cabs home. I need everyone to understand that I’m not a groupie. Sweet.
Then I spoke to my dad for an hour who was really cool. He obviously gets concerned when I drop lines like “I gave the drummer at the King’s Head my number”. He said that you’ll find someone when you’re not looking for them. I believe that. I know I am trying to fit square pegs into round holes right now, but I also think that it’s a healthy learning exercise. It’s fun to get out and blow off a little steam from time to time. He said that if you just do the things that you love to do and you have fun doing them, that’s where you will meet other like minded individuals. Yes, that’s 100% correct. He also thinks that everyone online is some closeted pervert. That’s only 70% correct.
Then I watched “The Last Kiss” which was the perfect movie to watch today. It’s about four guys and the relationships that they have with the women in their life. Irony of ironies, the lead character’s name was Michael and he is an architect. He’s into a three year relationship with the perfect woman and she gets pregnant, but he won’t marry her because he doesn’t believe in marriage. He wigs out about the pregnancy, feeling backed into a corner and has an affair and almost loses everything. Their relationship is razed to its very foundation and only then does he realize how much he loves her and how good for him she really is. I really couldn’t identify with any of it.
I wonder if it’s too late to head down to the King’s Head. Like oh my god, I totally know two of the drummers there!

Murder, mayhem... and alternate bus routes

This morning started off rough. Yeah, last night I had to stay up until 11pm to watch Lost, which I thought was on at eight. It totally wasn’t. It was on at 7pm and then at 10pm. Is it me or are those really stupid times? 7pm is too early and 10pm is too late. Nevertheless, watching Jack with… mmmmmm…. What? I love Jack. So I woke up tired and sexually frustrated. Welcome to single life.
I turned on News 1130 to listen to the, well, the news I suppose (this is to be read: it is deathly quiet in my apartment and I need noise, any noise to distract and entertain me) and learned that there was a murder in Quilchena Park last night or early this morning. I was a little surprised because this was at 33rd and Arbutus, only a few blocks down the hill from me. Someone driving an Escalade was shot. Huh, I wonder what his profession was.
I get ready for work, stumble down to the bus stop and wearily wait for my ride. Success! It comes chugging up the boulevard and I jump on, transfer in hand and to my delight I see the cute guy that is always reading a book and listening to his MP3 player. He usually sits in one of the single seats, but because we didn’t have a trolley bus today he was sitting at the back of the bus with an empty seat next to him. I’m going to do this, I thought to myself, grimly determined. My hair looks nice and I smell pretty clean, so I am going to sit next to him. My eyes skittered left and right, viewing the other available seats on the bus as I walked up the aisle. Did he know that I was singling him out? Could he sense my apprehension? I sat down next to him and immediately whipped out my Economist. Evidently the most I could muster was the act of sitting beside the man, but talking to him or saying good morning was more than I could stomach. I flitted restlessly through the magazine telling myself it was, after all, a half hour bus ride so I still had some time. But then how weird would it be to strike up a conversation ten minutes after sitting down?
I had naught to worry about, because then the bus driver said he had an important announcement to make. Normally after they say this, they tell a corny joke, but this morning was an exception. Our bus was being re-routed along 41st avenue because a portion of Arbutus was closed as the police were investigating the dead guy in the Escalade. Furthermore, our driver was not going downtown so we could either get off at 41st and Granville or Granville and Broadway. The cute guy next to me took his buds out of his ears and cocked his head endearingly. I folded up my Economist and decided the best bet was 41st because at least I had a chance at getting a seat. That chance would be none other than a FAT chance.
I piled off at 41st, happy to see cute guy trailing after me. Well, not after me per se, but I was happy to think so. Then we saw the 99 B-Line pulling up and they were packed in there like sardines. There was no way that our bus was going to successfully merge and co-mingle with the riders of the 99, so I pulled back and watched in horror as another #16 simply drove past without stopping. I started to wonder how I was going to get downtown. Cute guy looked a little perplexed as well. Then a bus called the 496 Burrard Station pulled up. I decided it looked promising so I got on. So did cute guy. Who stood beside me. Sweet. I know (from my incessant studying of his transit habits) that he stays on past Harbour Centre on Hastings, so I inferred that he was probably somewhat familiar with the downtown core and it’s affiliated bus system. Mustering my prettiest smile and all but batting my eyelashes I took a deep breath, turned to him and said, “Do you know where this bus is going?”. Brilliant. I probably looked scared and bewildered, which I kind of was. The 496? What the hell kind of bus number is that? Concerned for my well being (obviously) he removed an ear bud and said, “I have no idea. I just hope it goes downtown” to which I said “Excellent”. And there it was: the wedding ring. For frick’s sake. I smiled to myself as I contemplated how much fun I would have with this blog. We stayed like that, side by side, staring out the window trying to gauge where the bus would ultimately end up until a seat became available and I took it. I sat next to another married man. A woman sat in front of me and her husband stood next to her. I was on the married bus. I was lost on the married bus. Oh my god, the irony is horrific. I’m happy though, because I did it: I made a stilted attempt at awkward conversation and I wasn’t shunned. I will see cute married guy again and maybe next time I will say hi and ask him how the rest of his adventure on the 496 went.
Ah well. I still have Jack. He just keeps me up later than I’d like. He’d know which bus to take.

I'm not making this up

Okay, I know I’m spending an inordinate amount of time blogging about my foray into online dating, but some of this stuff you can’t make up. After I logged on this morning (to a 27 year old ex-elite athlete who was chomping at the bit to engage in a bit of instant messaging with me: close window, close window!) there was another smile for me. From a guy in TEXAS. Why are you smiling at me? You don’t LIVE HERE. It gets better. Like my friend the 56 year old Leonard Cohen wannabe he wants to “rock my world”. Okay yeah, and he’s married. Am I missing something? I have a married Texan that wants to have sex with me. Oh my god, he’ll probably want to do it wearing a ten gallon hat and I have to talk dirty to him about light sweet crude or something. Jesus Christ.
The sad thing is (well, there are any number of sad things in my life, but this is the saddest), I found that hot drummer that I bumped into last month at the King’s Head. I saw his picture and thought: that’s the guy! Which I think is a pretty interesting story that we could tell to our friends when we get married. It’s also nice to know that the strange woman he was with didn’t take him home in his inebriated state and lock him up in her basement. At any rate, I shot him a friendly little note saying “I live in Texas, am married and I would like to rock your world”… no wait, that’s something that only someone from Texas could come up with… oh my god, what if it was George Bush!! His wife is pretty ugly. Wow. I should call Monica Lewinksy. Where was I going with all this? Oh right, I sent him a note saying that I thought I had run into him at the pub last month and was his name S, to which he replied that indeed it was and wasn’t it a fun pub. So I pondered. Did he understand that that was the best possible come on that I could come up with? Was he aware that the subtext of my message was more like “during the ten minutes I spent in your general vicinity I found you wildly desirable and would totally have sex with you on our third date”? I asked JupiterGirl who confirmed for me once again that boys are dumb and you have to spell it out for them. So I sent another, more strongly worded message and said that I would “definitely be interested” in getting together for drinks and coffee. Seriously, I said “definitely”. This means that if he were to say, “do you want to go for a beer” I would “definitely” say yes. The positive part of this story? He has not deleted that note from me yet. The negative? I sent it two days ago.
Again, my apologies for boring you with this online dating which is proving almost as addictive as blogging! It’s just fun. For now. And then after that cats will be fun. And cleaning kitty litter and dealing with hairballs. Fun. I think I’m going to look into the cost of flights to Houston…

Almost funny

I had a chat with a coworker the other day (the one that liberated the robot with articulated arms for me at the Christmas party) about dating. I explained to him my fear of rejection and my overall shyness. I think when I tell people that I am shy they are surprised given my opinionated and argumentative nature, but I really only share that happy side of myself with people I know well. Yeah yeah, I’m sure you’re all now thinking “She has a quiet, shy side? Why does she have to be so hard on me then?”. Shut up, you love it. Anyways, my coworker said that one morning he just woke up and didn’t care what anyone thought about him. He said it was very liberating. Rejection no longer fazes him. I think he is my hero. I also think that I am slowly achieving this Zen like state of stoic apathy, although I think there is a phase of humility and hilarity that one must pass through first. I am now going to share with you something that at one time I would have viewed with disdain, which now just makes me laugh and feel kind of tired.
I received another smile from a gentleman on Lavalife. He is 45 and is a pilot. He flies between here and Ottawa regularly. He tried to initiate an IM session with me on Lavalife once (and though I was thrilled to be finally eliciting attention from someone with an actual photography, I did shut ‘er down because he’s 45… and not a hot 45 either). So I guess this guy wants me to be his booty call in Vancouver. I’m sure he makes a lot of money and I bet he would take me nice places. He would perhaps require me to say things “permission for take off” when in bed. Maybe he has some stewardess fantasy he’d like me to participate. I think I would enjoy the one where I spill scalding pea soup on his exposed genitals.
So that is my newest story. I also received a smile from another sumo looking guy, which brings my totals to: the old man that looks like Leonard Cohen; 2 sumo guys; a swinger on a horse; the guy that looks like Jesus from the Big Lebowski; a sugar daddy pilot. Yeah. Slowly ceasing to care.

Kiss my digital ass

I bought a digital camera. Now I can take pictures of myself with no shirt on and post them on singles sites and hope for some hits. What? Loads of guys do it. Maybe then I can generate some interest in my fine self. Today I discovered a feature on the Plenty of Fish site that enables you to view the messages that you have sent to others. And if they have been read. And if they have been deleted. That was a fun thing to discover. The next fun thing I need to do is discern if I should stop at two cats or three? Frick. So now I'm unattractive and my messages are totally uninteresting. Deleted. Crushing. Why am I doing this?

Georgie Peorgie

It’s 9:12 on a Friday night and I am alone, in my bed, drinking red wine, working on my book and blogging while listening to the rain outside. I’m happy. I wasn’t happy earlier in the day when I got a phone call from my mom (who I have since made up with) letting me know that a family friend, George, had passed away at age 60. This got me thinking about all manner of things. 60 is young. I’m going to the funeral tomorrow and it will be the first one I have attended since my grandfather passed away. It will be the first funeral of one of my parents’ friends. My parents are 60. My dad and George weren’t getting along. I don’t know what the last conversation was between my dad and George. I wish I had known George better. When I was a little girl he gave me a stuffed Bambi, I think I still have it. I had a crush on him when I was six or seven. I would say “Georgie Peorgie, pudding and pie, kissed all the girls and made them cry” and then I would run and hide. It’s still a favourite pick up line of mine. I don’t know why I’m single. George wasn’t married and didn’t have any children. I don’t know if he wanted to be married, or if he regretted not having children. I hope that he didn’t die feeling lonely. I wish I had had more meaningful conversations with him. I remember one time when I was in high school I told him that I hated school and he asked me why. I don’t remember my answer, but I’m sure it was flippant and ignorant. He was a teacher. He was always nice to me even when I was an idiot adolescent. I wish I could’ve told him that I went back to college and got my diploma (with distinction). My diploma actually arrived in today’s mail.
Tomorrow I will go to the funeral with my mom and dad and I will cry because of what I missed. I missed getting to know him better. He was a person that was in my life since I was born and now he’s gone. I will cry because the relationship between George and my father was such that my dad didn’t get to see him before he died. I think that’s shit. But that’s my dad’s bag and all I can do is try and avoid that. I will try to take something positive away from this. I think I already have. I left work at noon today after staring for inordinate amounts of time at my monitor and trying to remember what it was that I was supposed to be doing that was so damned important. I came up empty handed and left. I took the bus home and found everyone intensely interesting. People are interesting. My friends and family are interesting. The whole argument I had with my mother about being asked to come solo to my cousin’s wedding was not interesting. It was stupid and didn’t warrant not talking to her for four days. I need to call my friend Tina that has had her second child: I haven’t seen her for over a year. I need to see my grandmother, I haven’t seen her since Christmas. She lives 15 minutes away from me.
Why am I happy, you ask? Because this wake up call, this reality check has helped me to discern that I’m doing okay. I’m on track as far as the big picture goes. I’ve got my four day work week. I am not on the outs with any of my friends. I like to believe that all my friends know that they can call me at 2am on a Tuesday and ask for: a ride; bail; or a conversation. I think all my friends know that I love them and that I show my love with wild arm gesticulations and punches to the arm. I’m good with my family, but I think I need to see my brother more often. He’s a busy guy. I’m not plotzing that it’s Friday night and I’m spending it with some lime/chili almonds, my Dell, some bitchin’ California Shiraz and Macy Gray.
The last time I saw George he was working on his house up at Lasqueti. I think he was chopping wood and my dad, Michael and I went up to visit him. He seemed content. I think he liked the manual labour aspect of building his cabin. I think he liked the solitude and the contemplation time. I think he was done with arguing with my dad about whatever it was that they would argue about; it wasn’t important to him and he didn’t want to spend any energy on it. I went to look at his cabin later after he had gone. It wasn’t finished but I liked it. It was small, but it was perfect: there was no unnecessary space. It was sheltered by the trees so it would be quiet and full of nature. If you stepped out the sliding glass door and took just a few steps you would be on the bluff. From that bluff you could overlook the entire bay, all the sailboats bobbing there, the gulls wheeling in the sky. You can see the ferry – the Centurion – come and go. You can see across the Straight of Georgia to Vancouver Island. You can hear the echoing hammering of people building, the distant sound of outboard motors as skiffs make their way to the pier, the odd, metallic tok tok sound the ravens make as they fly overhead, their feathers rustling like muslin. The salty smell of the sea and the parched, almost breadlike smell of the dry grass. The ancient creaking of the trees as the wind moves gently through them.
Bye George.

My friends are funny

This email exchange (betwixt myself and Big D) made me laugh. I thought it most blogworthy. Big D - this is the kind of stuff that you should posting! It's wasted on bitter old me!
My email to Big D:
Happy Valentine's Day everyone! I hate today with such a fervor it's quite ridiculous. I have fashioned a shiv out of old keepsakes from ex-boyfriends which I am going to use to mottle young lovebirds with stab marks if they display engrossing acts of public affection in my presence.
Hope you're all faring well! At least I have you guys. Right? RIGHT????
I actually wore a pink sweater today. I'm an idiot.

Big D's email in response:
I have detached myself from this 'holiday'. It was lame when I was/am single and it was lame when I had someone. Besides it is really nothing more than another tribute to consumerism sponsored by Hallmark and Purdy’s. At least my mom still wishes me a happy Valentines. Kinda sad when a 42 year old man has to get Valentines wishes from his mama.
I was thinking we could have one of those burning ceremonies where we burn all the keepsakes and artifacts from past relationships. Maybe an effigy or two...
Are you really wearing a pink sweater? Were you awake when you dressed? I am wearing a white dress shirt and have and have pinned a construction paper broken heart to it using a pushpin which is causing a delightful blood stain just below it.
I'm laughing on the inside... really.

Funny!

VD

It’s not even 9am and it has started already: I just walked past a coworker’s office and saw a single pink rose lain on his desk. And I have eight more hours of this? Of giggling colleagues receiving overpriced flowers and placing calls to their significant others to gush over the brilliant originality of it all. I may stab someone in the kidneys with a pen.
I hate this day over all the other days. It’s worse than New Years even, and I really despise New Years. But at least on December 31st no one is working and you don’t have to go out and do all the stupid cliché things, you can instead have a dinner party, or make your infinitely patient friends play cards with you in an attempt to make up for all the times your ex told you for the umpteenth time that no, he really didn’t want to play Rummy and no, asking repeatedly was not going to wear him down. See, with Valentine’s Day you don’t have a lot to work with. First of all, all of your non-single friends are busy, so you can’t see them (smug bastards). Secondly, it’s not a stat holiday so it could fall, say, on a Wednesday such as today; what are you going to do on a Wednesday night with the few single friends that you have that aren’t busy? You can’t go out because EVERYONE is going out. And fawning over each other. And touching each other. And looking longingly into each other’s eyes. I had that once. So what to do, what to do? I am having Big D over. We are going to eat sushi and watch Lost. I am going to fawn over Jack and look longingly into his eyes. I think I’m going to order tempura too, because I went to the gym last night.
I’m not bitter. I’ve always hated this day whether I was single or not. I think it rankles me for the same reason that it rankles a lot of people: it’s arbitrary. The only people that really get off on this day are the shareholders of Purdy’s and Hallmark. It’s a made up holiday and the onus is on you to perform. I feel bad for guys because they probably feel an obligation to at least attempt something romantic. And what? Chocolate? A card? Flowers? It’s all blasé and won’t be received well. Jewelry? Do guys secretly expect something from their partners (besides sex)? Are they hankering for a … a screwdriver or a new tie? I got a hairdryer one year. I think all my friends know this story. Michael asked me the other day “yeah I got you a hairdryer, but how often do you use it?”. I had to admit that I did use it every day. It was a useful gift. I needed it and it made more sense that overpriced blooms and carbohydrates. But I wanted more. I always want more. It didn’t even have to cost money. I wanted him to come home early from work or for him to cook me dinner. It could’ve been something simple like him saying “I know I don’t say it often (or ever) but I’m lucky to have you and I love you immeasurably. Let’s make love” versus “wanna have sex?”. Yes I know, one’s relationship shouldn’t be dependent on one shitty, contrived day and yes, it is the little things, the day to day things that make a relationship what it is. On the flip side: that doesn’t mean that you can’t put a little extra effort into it from time to time. Just a brief acknowledgement that it’s V Day. Just a heads up that hey, you’re my girl. Maybe a subway sandwich and some beers. Whatever.
Meh. That’s what chocolate and vibrators are for. Oh, did I just write that? The delete button seems so far away. So from the bottom of my blackened, shriveled heart to yours: Happy Valentine’s Day. I mean it. All you smitten kittens should call your partners at work just to say “I love you”. Wear something sexy to bed. This goes for the women too. Give a massage. Have a bath. Write a corny poem. Here is mine:
Roses are red, profits are down,
Buy some hedgehogs and pass them around,
Violets are blue, I can’t dance,
You’re kinda hot: take off your pants.

Why I am contemplating having a glass of wine at 2 in the afternoon

It is a blissful, glorious, sunny, happy day here in Kerrisdale. My day started off well: up at nine to make it to see Lisa my hairdresser, who makes me look and feel like a million dollars. If only I could re-create what the hell it is she does on my own; so really I only look and feel like a million bucks until the next time I wash my hair. After she removed all the papers from my hair (more highlights) she asked Peter to wash it and to give me a massage. Peter is… I’m not really sure what his job description is. He answers the phone, sweeps up, washes hair, is Greek, is ridiculously good looking and I saw him cut someone’s hair once. So I’m not really sure what job title is on his business card. At any rate, he shampoos my hair for what seems to be an extraordinarily long period of time. I was a little tense (as I tend to be whenever attractive men are holding and touching my head for prolonged periods of time while leaning dangerously close) and I actually had my hands clenched together underneath my pretty pink smock. After a few minutes I began to relax. Eeees nice. He rinsed the shampoo from my hair and applied conditioner and continued to massage my head. And then he asked me to sit up and proceeded to massage my neck, head, ears, temples and forehead. I ceased to care that I likely looked like a drowned rat, or that the occasional rivulet of water was streaking down my face. I was unconcerned that my eyes were closed and the expression on my face probably belied just how much I was enjoying myself. Thoughts such as “I don’t need a boyfriend, I just need Peter to come by and do this to me for an hour a couple of times a week” and “would it be inappropriate to lick his fingers?” and “I think I’m going to have a nap when I get home” flitted through my head.
At some point we made it back to the sink to wash the conditioner out of my hair and I was saddened to think that the touching was going to come to an end. Lisa stopped by to see how I was doing and seemed to want to take over and I said, “No” and Peter asked that she please not interrupt us so she said, “Okay, I’ll just leave you two alone then”. I’m actually not making that up: it happened. So I got to have more massaging. Then he rinsed the conditioner out of my hair and inadvertently allowed a couple of droplets of water to find their way onto my face. He gently dabbed them away with a towel. Yep. I was halfway between sleep and arousal and I really didn’t care. Apparently it doesn’t take much these days.
At any rate, it all came to an end and it cost me a day’s pay: but I look good. I hopped in my car to head home and decided to return yesterday’s phone call from my mother. We’re chatting amicably away and then she says “oh, now I remember what I wanted to ask you yesterday: Susan wanted to know if – now that you’re single – you would be offended if just you are invited to Spencer and Jill’s wedding”. Spencer is my cousin who, after close to a decade of dating Jill, is getting married. I love Jill; she’s going to be a phenomenal addition to our family. Susan is my aunt and Spencer’s mom. I’m driving down 41st, enjoying the sunny day, the feeling of relaxation I always get from a good massage and I start to think yeah, I’m pretty sure I am offended. The more I thought about it actually, the more offended I became. My mom mentioned that Spencer and Jill were trying to pare down their guest list, which is why Susan was asking.
Here are a few things that have happened to me in my life which I found less offensive than what my mother was asking of me: a friend of mine slept with a guy that I had a crush on when I was 19; my mom once asked me why I couldn’t be more like my friend Carrie because she had long blonde hair and coltish legs, and I guess I was more like a circus freak; a man approached me at the Funky Planet, said that I looked familiar and wanted to know if I was a stripper from the club next door; I once walked, naked, in front of the television while my then-boyfriend was watching it and he didn’t seem to notice; when I was hired to work as a cook at the Pantry the manager there said it was a good hire because they “needed more women in the kitchen”. Yes. All these fun things happened to me but I still found them less offensive than my mother’s proposition. Because, if you dissect it, the proposition really can be read as this: since your six year relationship has ended (because Michael did not want to marry you, ironically) would you mind attending this wedding alone since you’re single. Sure, Michael was a part of our family for the past six years, and yes you’re still friends and are entertaining the idea of dating, but he can’t come. Is it okay if you sit there by yourself and watch your cousin in a ceremony that you conceivably might never be able to experience in your life? Would that offend you? They’re trying to pare the list down.
The rest of the conversation went really well and resulted in my mother hanging up on me. After a while I called back and tried to explain just why I felt it was offensive and suggested that if they were trying to limit the list that perhaps I would just not attend so they could add a couple of friends in my place (I mean, who really cares if their cousins are at their weddings or not?). Apparently that was not the thing to say because my lack of attendance would offend my aunt Susan. The woman that wanted to know if I would be okay if I could come solo. I said, “my not showing up would offend Susan? It’s not her wedding”. And it would also be “a slap in the face” to my grandmother if I didn’t come. I said, “uh, do you think the people that are getting married would care?”. This is what is stupid about weddings: the formalities; what is appropriate; the proper protocol. All of a sudden I was being unreasonable for having the gall to be offended at being asked to attend the wedding alone; I had upset my mother; I had dismayed my aunt; and my grandmother was going to disown me. So then I hung up on my mother. Now we’re even.
I think I will invite Peter to the wedding. We can sit in the corner and he can furtively rub my temples…

8 mile (or kilometre)

I love public transit. Those that know me know this to be true. I love that everyone is equal on the bus. I love that my bus driver allows people that don’t have enough money to get on the bus. I love that he saw a girl running for the bus stop this morning (the same young girl that he picks up at that particular stop every morning) and pulled over – before the actual bus stop – and allowed her to jump on. That’s awesome. The thing that is not awesome however, is my most recent discovery. You see, the other love of my life (besides public transit and R.H. Phillips Shiraz) is running. A fellow co-worker of mine who lives at Granville and 5th shares my enthusiasm and recently introduced me to the concept of running home after work. I mulled this idea around in my pea head for a little while, trying to figure out the logistics of it (leaving clothes behind at work, making sure my keys are on me, the stigma of some of my colleagues seeing me in my running togs) and then decided sure, I will run home. I save on bus fare and I get my exercise in. It will be a well-lit, fairly populous route (maybe a little too populous in the downtown core, but I’ve resolved to view it more as an obstacle course, i.e. the obstacle is to not be aggressively panhandled or get hit by a car… or even more ironically: a bus) and I should get home at a decent time. I then decided to key the coordinates in to Google maps to get an idea of the distance; I mean it’s a thirty five minute bus ride to get home in the evening! It’s all the way downtown! It’s far! It’s 8.1 kilometers? Puzzled, I checked that I had correctly inputted the addresses. I traced the route to confirm that it was correct. Lo and behold I live 8.1 kilometers from my office. Why does it take me half an hour to get to work? I’m not an exceptionally fast runner (as I have been told repeatedly), but even running a six minute kilometer (I typically manage a five) it should feasibly take me 48 minute to get home. That means that if I leave here at 5:15 I should be home around 6pm. When I take the bus I get home at 5:45. So essentially I will be arriving home at the same time running, versus taking the bus. Yeah. On the one hand I’m excited that I can now get my exercise in while still getting home “on time” so that I can go out after and party (cause I am the original party animal). On the other hand, dude. We need faster buses or something.
My final odd transit story is this: some time ago Michael gave me a 3 zone bus ticket (an attempt to entice me to come and visit him in North Van, no doubt). I have now used this same ticket twice to get to North Van. I am an honest person and I don’t want to scam Tranlink (although typically I only buy a 2 zone ticket for the seabus even though the seabus is a 3 zone, because I don’t agree that it costs $3.25 for a quick jaunt across the water). I guess I should retract that statement: very rarely I will scam Translink. At any rate, I keep on ending up with this 3 zone ticket in my pocket because I don’t know where I’m supposed to get it stamped! I rush past all the little ticket dispensers and know I don’t need to go there because I already have a ticket. And then I get down to the waiting area and… and what? Where do I get my ticket punched (literally, not figuratively)? It’s a mystery to me, Charlie Brown. Maybe I’ll just bring my kayak downtown and kayak across. You know, run home on Tuesdays, kayak to North Van on Fridays…

Rich people and free booze

Last night I went to the annual address hosted by the company that “manages” my “portfolio”. Pause for laughter here. I was taken in under the “family umbrella” which means that, because certain relatives are wealthy, my advisor has to be pleasant to me and return my phone calls. I like watching them seethe as I take up their time with idiotic questions about RRSP repayments and the First Time Homeowner’s Plan. I like to wear my running shoes and jeans when I show up and sit across from my guy whose monogrammed shirt is probably worth more than my entire outfit. Good times.
At any rate, I go to this annual address because it actually is pretty informative, and one of the speakers knows what he is talking about. I take Michael because he seems to appreciate going and investing is a part time hobby with him. We grabbed sushi before heading over there and we were early. I’m always early. The address was held at the Fairmont Hotel, which was stellar. We both really enjoyed walking in with our backpacks and catching the attention of the security detail there. I didn’t have my glasses on so I kept asking Michael where we were supposed to go. He said, “Can’t you hear it?” and I was like “What, the sound of money rustling?” and he was like, “No, listen”. And then I heard the sound of a live orchestra emanating from the third floor (the notes gently wafting down the marble staircase). I’m like, right, a live orchestra. So we galumph up the stairs to see a bevy of children resplendent in their finery, artfully arranged at the final ascent, playing their instruments beautifically. They were really good, and they were there for our viewing pleasure. I threw peanuts at them. We waited for them to stop and then proceeded up to the area where they were serving free coffee and tea. I tried (and failed) to make myself look presentable and important while in the lavatory. The women were covered in Coach and Dooney and Burke. My handbag is from Danier Leather, and my earrings are real garnet I felt like saying. Do you like my boots? I just had them re-soled because I can’t bear the cost of another pair. Do you have a square to spare?
Michael was agitated and wanted to get into the conference room to get primo seating. There was like six hundred people there. We then went through an hour and a half of power point slides and my ass went numb. A life insurance guy was talking about the three life segments of investing (or some other equally banal cliché-speak) and one of them was the “under fifty” set. I elbowed Michael and held my fingers scant millimeters apart, indicating how close he was to facing fifty. The next segment was “fifty to early retirement/retirement” or something. Michael elbowed me back and said “like the age segment that is targeting you on Lavalife?” in reference to the 58 year old that wants to rock my world. So funny.
Then we were all invited for appies and wine in the ballroom, and you’ve never seen six hundred, rich, connected, well-heeled people make such a bee-line for free booze and finger food. I almost got trampled. I was like in a mosh pit of the august and moneyed. Don’t get between these folks and their Sauvignon Blanc.
Michael grabbed a brochure and we absconded to 900 West, the lounge at the Fairmont. I pretty much make him take me there as pay back for the loss of feeling in my buttocks which occurs once a year. Except a couple of years ago when I lost the feeling after that curious incident involving too much Percacet, the heated leather seat of an Audi and ass-less chaps. But that’s a story for another day. We each had a couple of drinks and the bill came to $38. Sweet. I checked out men. Halfway through his second beer Michael started singing a song about Wonderbread while the pianist played some jazz standard. It wasn’t the actual Wonderbread song, but one that he was just making up as he went along. Then he told me that the guy that I found attractive was reading a Star Trek book, and I was crushed until I realized that he was joking. Fun-ny.
Then we walked out to the valet and asked them to bring our car around, to which they asked us for the valet ticket and so I gave them my bus ticket. And then security came. I like cosmopolitans.

Rocking my world

This weekend started out very strangely. The hot water tap in my bathtub has been leaking for some time and I had asked Michael to help me fix it. By “help” I mean I asked Michael if he could fix it while I watched… or possibly napped. He agreed to come over after work on Friday. After I returned home from work on Friday there was a knock on my door. I open it and there is a rather attractive man standing there and he says “Hi. I’m the plumber,” to which I stare dumbly at him. How can he be the plumber? I didn’t call for a plumber. Why is he here? Can he fix my hot water tap? Is he really a stripper? Is this kismet’s way of saying I’m supposed to marry him? Is that an earring? It turns out that a pipe burst in my downstairs neighbors’ apartment so he was repairing it, and in the meantime I couldn’t use my washroom sink or tub. No problem. So he (Dan) is up and down the stairs testing the pipe, testing the overflow thing in my tub, yadda yadda. I ask him if, since he is here and has actually laid hands on it several times, he could fix my leaky hot water tap. He says no, he is already late for another appointment but gives me his card. Super. Finally he leaves and Michael shows up and I relay the whole unfortunate series of events to which Michael, tools in hand, keeps asking “There was a plumber. Here? Just now. There was a plumber?”. I guess the only kismet was that Michael was truly supposed to fix my hot water tap. Which he did, so all is now aligned within the universe. Not.
The next day I met JupiterGirl for another enjoyable evening of Jazz at the Cellar. We decided the Cellar is a really cool place to go on a date. We decided it would be really cool if we could find dates. JupiterGirl had a scotch which I thought was grown up and sophisticated. I felt that perhaps the Shirley Temples that I had been drinking were a bit frivolous. We then decided go for a drink so we took a meander down Broadway. Last time we had gone to the Copper Tank and as we walked past there again it reminded me of Darby’s on UFC night: full of attractive young men. I balked. I couldn’t do it. We went to Calhoun’s where JupiterGirl yawned a lot and there were a lot of lone men on laptops. So much for trying to put on a confident front…
Sunday was good. Big D came over and I lugged my laptop over to Esquire’s with him. I told him that I had sent a smile to a guy on Friday and was dying to know if he had smiled back (Lavalife is both addicting and revolting). Of course he had not. Why would he? What the frick? As I lamented about the lack of attention (from young, hot men) I’m getting on LL, I get a smile from a 58 year old who wants me to ask him how he is going to rock my world and says he can’t wait to see my backstage pass. Big D looked concerned “What is he talking about: a backstage pass?”. I explained that no, this did not mean that he wanted to see my derriere, rather a backstage pass is the additional photos of you on your profile that you can allow someone to view. Then we made jokes about how this 58 year old was going to rock my world. He was going to rock it with: Viagra; Geritol; false teeth; a bad hip. He was going to rock it slowly and carefully. He would rock it after Matlock. And so on and so forth. Big D then told me about some of the come ons that he gets on his online chat rooms. I can’t repeat them here and I was a little bit scared.
Later that day I went to visit P and we went to an Indian restaurant for dinner where they played the Salami song over and over. It goes like this: “Hey… salami. Hey… salami”. I think it did pretty good on Z95’s top seven at seven. I wonder what they are like in concert. P confessed that she is addicted to watching Smallville and I was like “loser, you need to get a life” and then I looked at my watch to see how much time I could spend on Lavalife when I got home and still get a good night’s sleep. I told her that Smallville is taped in BC (Chilliwack, I believe) and asked her if she was recognizing any of the Canadian landmarks, like fundamentalist Christians and neo-Nazis.
When I got home I smelled like curry. I played around on Lavalife while watching Old School and wondered if I would come across a Luke Wilson look alike. Sadly, no. I ate a KitKat bar and went to bed. He could rock my world. After soup and before my nap…

Nada

I got nothing. I really have nothing new and/or exciting to report. In the last few days I have done some pretty stellar things like: go to bed early; watch movies; do laundry and get my nose piercing caught on the towel yet again. A few minutes ago I googled the nutritional value of avocadoes and was a bit upset to find that I pretty much could have had a small chocolate bar for lunch, since it has roughly the same fat content. I know, I know, good fat and bad fat; the avocado kicks nutritional ass.
In my attempts to be a more friendly and well rounded human, I have made some progress in the bus driver department. I’m not sure why the fact that I never verbally acknowledge the beautific men and women that navigate me through Vancouver traffic on a near-daily basis wasn’t more of a concern to me until the last couple of months, but I have made a marked improvement. I now say hi and make direct eye contact. They always say hi back – sometimes even “good morning”. And it’s the same driver at 8am from Tuesday to Thursday; I wouldn’t have noticed that had I not made this radical attempt to come out of my shell just a little bit. Oh, and the driver of the 22 gave me a lift to Arbutus even though he wasn’t in service because he was taking the bus back to the service yard in Richmond. I had my own bus! How cool is that?
Which reminds me, a funny thing did happen to me today. Okay, maybe not funny. Let’s just say it occurred and leave it at that. As usual there was a mass exodus of transit riders on Robson and I had to get up to let the lady next to me out (no knee turn here, baby). Earlier I had noticed a rather attractive guy get on the bus so I thought hey, there’s a free seat next to me and I have to get out in another couple of stops so why not ask if he wants to sit. So I did. I said, “would you like a seat?”. As the words came out of my mouth I thought, huh, that as actually pretty easy. He smiled and declined so I sat down and someone else sat beside me. Later, he got off in front of me with a girl that seemed to have materialized out of nowhere. I trailed behind them as I trundled down to Hastings and watched as they exchanged a pleasant kiss before parting ways at Pender. Awesome. No wonder he didn’t take the seat. The moral of my otherwise boring story is: I am getting a little bit better. With this kind of progress I expect that, within a month, when a guy smiles at me I will stave off the red flush that creeps up my neck, face and ears and is complimented by my furious shoe check. Instead, I will gape open-mouthed at him and then point a finger at myself to confirm that indeed he is smiling at me. And this will confirm for him that he clearly made a grievous error, and that the little blonde one is slightly demented. We’ll see where I end up a month or two after that…