Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Thankfully this only happens to me about once a year [Usually in winter when I haven't been getting enough of my vitamin sun, have been gaining my share of the freshman 15 without the tuition bills and am stressed out with holiday "cheer" about all the Christmas/birthday/ thank-you/bar mitzvah presents I have to buy that I don't have the money for].
Undercover Mother even gave me her reserve-for-dire-striates "Mary Tyler Moore chat" to snap me out of it. Somehow I'm feeling more Murphy Brown-in-the-dumps than Mary Tyler Moore-enthusiasm.
To top it off, I was suffering from a bad case of "cartoon hair" - hair so out of control that it could only be seen on a cartoon like Yugioh. I tried to tame my mane with a headband and bobby pins and hair spray with the remaining bit tucked back into a mini pony tail and more hair spray. Alas it was in vain. Or wait, is that me?
My coworkers actually asked my boss if I could go home "hair sick" it was THAT bad. So, I took my last $50 until pay day and got my hair cut. There's nothing like getting your hair cut to cheer you up. All it took was one Charlie's Angels hair flip and I'm back in action.
It didn't completely cure my funk. I promptly called a bottle of wine "fucker" tonight when half the cork broke off inside the bottle. And I'm currently devouring my second piece of cheesecake in 12 hours. But somehow, I think I'll make it after all.
Friday, December 07, 2007
I know Uggs are so two years ago but trends take a while to work their way up North and to the East and then a bit more North.
It doesn't matter how many times I see them. I still laugh and think they're ugly ugly ugly. But I absolutely want a pair! Oooo - you marketing execs are good [narrows eyes].
Last year I bought a pair of non-Ugg boots because I refused to give in to the I-Love-Ugg-ness sweeping the nation.
So in protest, I bought a pair that looks like this...
I thought I was being all cute. Did you see the cute as a button (but more 3-D-ish) pom poms? Ugg's don't have pom poms. And the cute wedge heel? Ugg's don't have that either. Ugg's are flat like Keira Knightly. And plain like vanilla ice cream, or even Vanilla Ice.
And you know what? People laughed at me when I wore them. They gave me the "who-the-hell-do-you-think-you" look? Which I followed up with the "a-girl-who-likes-her feet-to-stay-warm-at-minus-10" look. People can be so cruel when it comes to winter fashion. So cruel [shudders].
Perhaps it's boot-karma coming back to kick me in the butt after all the laughing I did at Ugg wearers. As if!*
* Much like the delay for fashion trends to work their way up North and to the East and a bit more North, it also takes phrases like "as if", "schwing" and "who's your daddy" a while to catch on.
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Me: "My boobs feel like bricks."
Paul: "Your poop feels like bricks!?!?"
"Wow! You are due for a sizzling couple of days, thanks to the smoldering Venus/Pluto, aspect today. Make sure that you’re looking your best, and if you can, indulge in a scented bath, or treat yourself to some sensuous scent to bring out your passionate and vibrant nature!"
What it should have said:
"Wow! You are in for a shitty day. Your alarm will not go off this morning making you cut out a few steps like shaving arms/legs while rushing to get ready for work. When you get to work, you'll eat a whole bag of Christmas jelly beans because you're PMS'ing and need to indulge in some emotional eating. You'll jump every time the phone rings, thinking it's the bank calling to say there isn't enough money in your account to cover both of the cheques you wrote. And your skin is "adjusting" to the cold weather so you'll unknowingly walk around half the day looking like you have a boogie hanging from your nose when really it's just a piece of skin. You're hairdresser is booked well into next week so don't even think about doing something about THAT [points to hair]. Treat yourself to some serious alcohol!"
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
Today is going to be a good day.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Visiting Lady #2: [No doubt almost stunned into silence] "Um, maybe you should see a doctor."
Visiting Lady #1: "Yeah. Sometimes I feel like I have a prostrate."
And she really emphasized the "r" too. Even though, well, there's no "r" in prostate. And, well, women don't have a prostate. They don't have a prostrate either.
And these ladies are supposed to be professionals. It's like when people say they're going down to "The Wal-Mart." Sometimes I swear it's like I live in a trailer park.
- the toilets in the office ladies room are not equiped with a lid
- trying to balance upright on one leg while trying to corral the other leg into constrictive pantyhose within a 2x2" space with an open toilet taunting you to fall into it, is not easy and will most likely lead to fits of uncontrolable laughter making toe-into-pantyhose entry an olympic sized challenge
- the color "nude" is misleading and can come off looking whiter than a cadaver, thereby making even a redhead's so-white-it's-transparent-skin appear even paler than usual
- wearing a beige skirt with chocolate brown boots on white legs looks colorful, which is not the same as professional
I have no idea how it happened. I remember when my pantyhose used to rip for a reason [like when carrying a bushel of apples in a wooden basket, during an energetic make-out session, or trying to grab the last Donna Karen sweater at a Black Friday sale].
But for no reason...my life is becoming too ordinary.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
One particular pair of shoes was being worn by a particularly leggy model. Which got me thinking about exotic dancers and how I really need to get practicing my Carmen Electra lap dance video for my romantic three-month-aversary weekend away with Paul. Which got me thinking I'm working out less since Paul and I started dating. Which got me thinking, I'm not feeling as sexy as I used to. And also that I need to pick up maple syrup at the grocery store because I'm down to the last drop. Yes, the inner-workings into the mind of a woman is both a weird and wonderful thing.
There's no question Paul thinks I'm sexy. All it takes is that "look" and his clothes seem to instantaneously drop to the floor. I'm sure it's all in my head. But I haven't felt this sexy-challenged since my pre-hair-gel days in junior high.
This calls for drastic action.
It's time to dust off my Billy Blanks Tae Bo [VHS] tapes. We're talking Billy Blanks in spandex. And leg warmers. Now that's hard core. If anyone can bring sexy back, it's Billy.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Sometimes things just seem to be going way too good. So good in fact you're wondering what could go wrong because things just seem a little too perfect.
Ok, so there's a few things I'd like to "fix". Things that aren't a big deal in the grand scheme of things. And by "grand scheme of things" I mean my life. Because after all, that's what I'm here to write about. And just as importantly that's what you're here to read about.
Top 10 Things To Fix This Week (in order from most "critical" to "meh")
1. Correct newly dyed hair color from don't-you-could-work-for-the-circus red to something less...freakish. Poopy brown perhaps.
2. New car smell of new car. I've tried a strawberry air fresher which somehow has made it worse because now my new car smells like a new car with a half-strawberry half-nail polish remover sort-of smell.
3. My resume. Trans-provincial love is proving most challenging and I've agreed to begin job searching in Paul's metropolitan sphere.
4. My bank account. I haven't seen that many negative signs since grade one math class.
5. My front step. It's off balance and sinking like the Titanic. Except my step is made of wood. And come to think of it, my step is sinking into the muddy ground in front of my house and not the freezing Atlantic ocean. And no one will die. Although I could lose my balance and tear another perfectly good pair of panty hose. How many innocent pairs of panty hose have to be sacrificed?
Ok, I know that's only 5. But what can I say, if it ain't broke, don't fix it.
Friday, November 09, 2007
Me: What shoes was I wearing on our first date?
Paul: The black high heeled ones. I had to carry you up the hill pretending I wasn’t out of breath. It gave me a chance to check out your butt!
Me: [gives a "look" and then remembers we're chatting over the phone and "looks" don't work over the phone].
Me: What surprised you the most about me?
Paul: Your dirty mind.
Me: What’s your favorite Erika-undies?
Paul: The ones on the side of the bed.
Paul: The purple with black flowers or leaves or something that you bought at LaSenza.
Me: [Hmmm...quite the "safe answer" because he's just described about 5 pairs I have].
Me: Most awkward date moment?
Paul: Meeting your parents while sick.
Me: What Erika-ism-esque phrase do I say the most?
Paul: [laughs] [whistles] [laughs more] [coughs] I plead the 5th.
Me: When I say I'm doing "self-maintenance" what do you think that means?
Paul: [laughs] Plucking your eyebrow.
Paul: Eyebrows. Eyebrows! Except you don't have any. Probably your nails. And probably some things I shouldn't know about because you're always so mysterious about self-maintenance.
Me: How many times have I beaten your ass at Scrabble?
Paul: Crap. I don’t know...25-30% of the time.
Me: [Thinking....it's way higher but I'll stay quiet to preserve your manhood/ego].
Me: What do you really think about my blog?
Paul: I’ve never really read it.
Me: [This is actually untrue. I have "allowed" Paul to read a few select posts. Very select as you can imagine].
Me: Name a crazy thing you’ve done for my love?
Paul: Called you from Europe on a cell phone. Spent 7 hours looking for the perfect present for you in Italy. Drove an hour and a half home in the pouring rain after our first date and called you at 3:30 in the morning to say I arrived home ok and had an amazing time.
Me: [Good answer].
Me: Name 3 things you wish I had in my kitchen?
Paul: A good set of knives, a good sized cutting board.
Me [Interrupting]: I just got a new cutting board.
Paul: Yes, you got a bit bigger cutting board. I mean an even bigger cutting board. And a good set of pots.
Me: I have a set of pots.
Paul: Yes, but I mean a good set. Yours are thin and things are always burning to the bottom.
Me: Moving on. Describe my decorating style?
Paul: [mumbles and stammers and tries to explain what he meant]
Me: Do I make a good cup of coffee?
Paul: It's a little weak. But it's ok.
Me: I thought that's how you liked it?
Paul: No. I like strong coffee.
Me: We haven't had our first fight yet. What do you think it will be about?
Paul: Your jealousy.
Me: What? [Just because I'm annoyed that Paul's still friends with a crazy ex-girlfriend who calls him all hours with her drama is not the same thing as being jealous].
And then we preceded to get in our first fight. Irony, how you bitch-slap thee.
We went out to eat at my favorite Chinese restaurant. I ordered my usual Combo A - chicken fried rice, egg roll and the piece de la resistance...sweet n' sour chicken balls (I also take pride that I've converted Paul into a Combo A devotee).
For the second time in two months my chicken balls were not smothered in sweet n' sour sauce. I like 'em saucy...like if the balls were the Titanic and the sauce was the ocean....you get where I'm going with this bad parallel? Good.
I looked at Paul and said in my best deadpan, "Honey, my balls are dry. I can't have dry balls. I like saucy balls."
After he finished laughing, Paul motioned for the waiter to come over. I was quickly trying to decide how to careful word my request. But perhaps I didn't have enough time.
Me: "Can I have some more sauce please, my balls are dry."
Our waiter got a nice tip.
Thursday, November 08, 2007
Afternoon staff meeting. Setting, interior office. Coffee and birthday cake have just been served.
While staffers are enjoying said cake, Boss (with a capital B) begins telling employees about month long bout with illness, including such side effects as month long vomitting and month long diarrhea. Wait a minute...this isn't on the agenda. It turns out Boss has been infected with Giardia (aka water born parasite) and is currently taking antibiotics.
Innocent Staffer: "Oooo - You got the Beaver Fever?"
30+ people all picturing the same thing followed by much much laughter.
Same Innocent Staffer: "My sister had that."
Again, 30+ people picturing the same thing followed by much much laughter.
Weird but True: Giardia is known as the "Beaver Fever" but not for the naughty reasons you or I think (ok, mostly me). Somehow I was picturing a sex-hungry animal.
Weird but True: It is recommended that when camping do not relieve yourself within 100 feet of a water source, wash your hands after touching animals, and avoid contact with feces during sexual activity.
Weird but True: I managed to eat my entire piece of cake despite obvious TMI.
Friday, October 26, 2007
I was on the hunt for a pink t-shirt to wear for the office "Get in the Pink" fund raiser in support of the Canadian Breast Cancer Society.
Aidan was "helping" me look by picking out other t-shirts he thought were cool/funny/interesting that I should get. None of which were pink.
Aidan: "Hey mum, you should get this one!"
I turned around, and do you know what I saw? This...
Me [in a pretending to be shocked voice and trying not to laugh]: "What?!?"
Aidan [laughing]: "Or this one."
Me: "Ha. Ha." Ok this isn't funny anymore.
Aidan: "Maybe they have a "Little Miss Beautiful" t-shirt you could get."
Awwww. Now that's more like it.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Both of us were feeling a bit under the weather, and neither of us were in the mood for coffee (I know, weird eh?), so we opted for tea.
"Sounds like Jim Nortons" Drive-Thru Girl: Welcome to "sounds like Jim Nortons", can I take your order?
Paul: I'll have a large tea with milk. What kind of specialty teas do you have?
Drive-Thru Girl: A large coffee with milk?
Paul: No, a large tea with milk. What kind of specialty teas do you have?
Drive-Thru Girl: Aaaaaaaa...we have English Breakfast, Earl Grey, Green Tea, (pause) Honey Lemon, Apple Cinnamon...
Paul (interrupting): I'll take Apple Cinnamon.
Drive-Thru Girl: Chamomile, Orange Pekoe, Peppermint (pause)
Paul (getting impatient): I'll take Apple Cinnamon.
Drive-Thru Girl: And we also have Chai Tea.
At this point, I'm laughing my ass off in the passenger seat. Paul repeats the Apple Cinnamon again, and we drive up to the window to pay.
After the regulatory 15 minutes cool down period (for the tea, not Paul) we open our respective cups, ready for the warming tea-ness to slowly invade our bodies.
Paul: Ew...that Apple Cinnamon is not as sweet as I thought it was going to be.
Me: WTF! This is coffee!
* Coming soon to a blog near you!
Monday, October 22, 2007
[audience] How busy was it?
Well, let's see...
I asked my doctor to burn off an unsightly wart off my left hand which then grew into this huge red and purple boil-esque thingy that hurt like...that throbbed like...it was bad and probably deserves it's own postal code (or zip code for you Americans). And has since been covered up by many many band aids.
I hit my ass on the shower facet leaving a bruise the size of a grapefruit and making it difficult to sit at the best of times. And forget about wearing a thong - it makes me look like a crack-whore whose been booty shooting heroin.
I wiped out on my kitchen floor on a slippery unknown liquid-y substance, bruising both of my knees while racing to answer the door. Was horrified that the sound of my body crashing could make such a loud sound. Am starting diet this week.
I contracted the flu and just like Vegas, it ain't pretty.
And then I forgot to wash the conditioner out of my hair while debating whether or not to call in sick to work. Realized why my hair was flat, and my scalp was itching and casting off flakes into the stratosphere.
Yes, it's going to be another one of "those" weeks.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Oddly enough, rhymes with Calvin was only approaching the has a penis and balls variety of staffers to see if they were interested. Hmmm...smells like sexism.
But what really got me was when a coworker of the penis and balls variety told rhymes with Calvin that he doesn't actually follow football (as in AT ALL). And rhymes with Calvin said, "That's ok. It's just for fun."
Oh r-r-r-r-r-r-really? Tomorrow, I'm gonna get me some of that kind of action. After all, if it's just for fun then they won't mind if a girl plays and then kicks their asses. Then I'll humiliate them by making them eat dirt and pee in their pants and say "Erika, you are the ever powerful ruler of fantasy sport games". Or something. That was just off the top of my head. It's not like I put much thought into that part or anything.
Failing that, I'll just start my own fantasy league. Just for girls. But without the sports part because let's face it, unless you're playing them, sports are so b-o-r-i-n-g.
Friday, October 05, 2007
Yesterday I was filling out my passport application, and the answers to their very rude questions. I mean come on - asking a girl about her age AND weight...it’s dangerous territory. Not to mention the whole "what’s your hair color" question. What if you’re a color chameleon like me? Red usually but with occasional stints as a brunette.
I was literally sweating. One wrong answer and my passport could be denied. I decided I’d better double check on my eye color, so I asked my coworker Camey. She answered with a confident "Gray." Ok, good. That’s what I thought. Better double check on the height. Again, I asked Camey. She stood up, saying "You’re about the same height as me [with a hand measuring motion], so about 5"4."
Horrified, I forced my coworker Evan to measure me. The proof was in the measuring tape. I am 5"4 and 1/2! I’ve been lying to myself for 10 years. All those times I told dates I was 5"6 and 3/4 - wrong! How is this possible? I mean, I was off by 2 and 1/4 inches. That’s more than a little bit. That’s quite a bit. My whole "kinda tall for a girl" identity is shattered. I’m a short little thing. Vertically challenged. Petite.
Today I couldn’t even bring myself to wear heels to work. I felt like an impostor. I decided to wear flats and embrace my shortness.
Perhaps I should weigh myself while I’m at it. Maybe I only weigh 115, and all these years I’ve been thinking I weighed 135.
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
So I went for a consultation/reality check with my coworker Mary (aka Undercover Mother). I asked if I was expecting too much from Paul (to delay eating etc). Mary responded with a resounding "Yes! You're being a Greedy Greedy Gobble Guts." And then she bitch-air-slapped me back to reality.
We now refer to this term as the "G Quad". It's our code signal that someone (ok, ok, me) is out of control with her expectations. As Mary put it, "If I was away in Italy, you wouldn't hear from me at all." My argument, "But you're not my girlfriend." And then our took-a-turn-for-the-weird convo ended.
But really, is it my fault that Paul has created such high expectations in me by being the best boyfriend ever? Hmmm...are you sure? Right then.
I excitedly checked my email when I got home, only to find my inbox was empty. With "Greedy Greedy Gobble Guts" echoing in my head, I tried to be an understanding girlfriend. I was about to log off my computer when Paul signed in to MSN. He had stayed up to 1am (there's a 5 hour time difference) hoping I would be online and we could chat in real time instead of via email.
Where's Mary when you need another bitch-air-slap?
Monday, October 01, 2007
The "host" as their male employees are called (which reminds me more of a parasite that's sucking its victim dry, much like Jim Nortons is sucking my wallet dry because I'm addicted to their coffee) repeated my order twice (large 3 cream, 2 sugar) in his best monotone voice before proceeding to mix up my caffine fix.
Host: [goraning] "Is that everything?"
Host: "Would you like to try our muffin of the month with that."
Me: "Uhhhhh...what's the muffin this month?"
Host: [Looks around for visual reminders because he's not sure what kind of muffin it is and groans] "It's a pumpkin seed and cinnamon spice sorta muffin thingy I guess."
Me: [Keeping a straight face] "Wow. It's tempting since you made it sounds so appealing. But no."
It amazes me the volume of people who are able to hold down jobs in the customer service industry.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
On the down side, I'm missing him. So I decided what better way to make time fly than do a Top 10 [warning: this top 10 is chalked full of lovey-dovey goodness].
10 Things I'm Missing This Week:
- A passport (if I had one, I could travel, on a plane, like to Norway)
- Money (if I had some, I could travel, on a plane, like to Norway)
- A fear of flying (no wait, that's still there)
- Cheering while holding signs that say "Get 'Er Done" and "Looking good babe" during Paul's run
- Seeing Paul cross the finish line
- Talking to Paul every night before I go to sleep
- Falling asleep in Paul's strong arms
- Playing with Paul's chest hair
- Sweet and passionate kisses
On the plus side, I am keeping busy so the time flies until I pick up Paul at the airport (wearing only a trench coat and heels).
10 Things I'm Doing To Stay Busy This Week:
- Enjoying some/ a lot of emotional eating
- Getting a passport
- Hair cut, brow/lash tint
- Dyed hair
- Purged various household items collected over the years via yard sale
- Bought various new household items during "nesting" frenzy
- Went to doctor for annual exam
- Cleaning, cleaning, cleaning (ok, I'm not really doing a whole lot of that despite the fact there is an inch of dust on everything)
- Blogging (ok, I'm not really doing a whole lot of that either - with all this non-Paul free time I thought I'd be cranking out the posts but...nope)
- Spending quality time with Billy Blanks (ok, I'm not really doing a whole lot of that either but I really need to be so I'm in tip top R-N-D condition when picking Paul up at the airport)
Will this week/next week ever end?
Monday, September 24, 2007
Paul came over last Friday evening for some pizza and Game Cube to meet my 10-year-old son Aidan. Paul brought some books he thought Aidan would like (in Paul's words, he's not above bribing).
They bonded. Talked about Gladius. I pretended to know what they were talking about. Aidan explained game rules and strategy. I said, "Hey, how come you never told me any of that!" Aidan just laughed. This is going really good I thought. And then...
It's hard to put into vowels and consonants the sound of a "boy fart." Naturally, that is the only kind of farting sound because as we've already discussed, girls do not fart.
Ofcourse I shot Aidan "the mommy look" as in "Oh my god I can't believe you just did that" look. To his credit, he did say excuse me. So I figured, ok...that's that. Moving on. Back to the game. And then...
He did it again! Only this time he laughed after saying "excuse me." Time to take action.
Me: "Aidan, if you're going to do that, please leave the room and then come back."
Aidan: "You don't make me do that any other time."
At this point I'm trying to see if I'm small enough to roll under his twin sized bed and hide.
Each time, Aidan thought it was funnier than the last. I think I stopped counting at this point. It was almost as if Aidan was trying to impress Paul in some only-boys-understand way.
Paul, to his credit, was very understanding. And said, "Wait until you meet [name of his daughter]. " Eep.
After our game we drove Aidan to meet my ex-husband in a near-by "drop off point" city. I made it a point to talk to Aidan when I picked him up on Sunday. We discussed the importance of manners. And we discussed the possibility of sending him to military school if he doesn't learn some.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Mary confessed that for this week's appointment, she's opted to go with Dr. Evan's daughter who is a newly minted eye doctor. "Instead of going to see the nut rubber."
"The who what now?" I asked.
She said it again, without trying to laugh. "The nut rubber."
Picture it: You're sitting in the eye examination chair thingy. Dr. Evans is seated (legs open) in his wheely chair, and comes toward you to begin the exam. Granted, we're dealing with eyes here so a doctor does need to get close. And before you know it, his nuts rub against your knee. And I don't mean bag of peanuts...
At first, you think, did that JUST happen? A drive-by scrotum sack swish? You try to put it out of your mind. Clearly you imagined it. But then you come to the realization that you've had less bodily contact with lap dancers.
Mary has even attempted to out smart the good doctor. She's tried to cross her legs (he asked her to uncross them), and tried to use her purse as a knee/nut guard (he put her purse on the floor). And per usual, she was groin grazed.
And here I thought it was just me. Turns out Dr. Evans doesn't discriminate between the sexes, he's an equal opportunity nut nuzzler. He's given Mary's son, Brad, the ball brush, in addition to her daughter Bridget. The more Mary and I talked (and laughed because the whole sorted scrotum scenario is as funny as it is bizarre) we discovered it's also happened to our coworker Aaron (who was oblivious to Dr. Evans' beat with his south of the border bongos).
And here's the quandary. My next eye appointment is in January. Should I go to Dr. Evans and blow the whistle on his testicle two-step? Or should I let sleeping dogs lie, and just switch to his lack-of-sack daughter?
**Definitely not his real name, what am I crazy?
Monday, September 17, 2007
I offered, "Wouldn't it have been funny if you could have made little signs with phrases stuck to popsicle sticks like Wile E. Coyote does when he's chasing the Road Runner. Except the signs would say things like "Oooo baby" or "A bit to the left" and "Bob's Your Uncle".
Perhaps this could become a full scale marketing thingamajig. The signs could come in packs of 5. Keep 'em or trade 'em with your friends - collect all 20! Hmmm, no?
Perhaps this is why I don't work in marketing...
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Score! I was unpacking my winter clothes [it's getting a bit frosty north of the border] and found my light brown cords. I thought I'd given them away last winter because they are a bit big. And by a bit big I mean I could pull them down over my hips when zippered and buttoned at the waist.
But that doesn't matter because I was back to being the proud owner of one pair of pants. One pair of pants that must be worn with a belt.
Wore them to take my son to school for his first day of grade 5. Ran into former hunky high school classmate. Was told I looked amazing.
Wore them to work. Was told pants really highlight best asset (the super booty).
Washed them. Ironed them. Put them on for another redhead-next-door adventure. And that's when I saw it...a hole in the ass of my pants. To be more specific, another frey in the ass of my pants. I mean, how is this possible? Am I THAT hard on the ass of my pants that I'm wearing out the material?
So I was late for work because I had to concock a new outfit dejours.
Consulted with coworker Mary (aka Undercover Mother) about said ass-hole. As weird as it sounds, I quizzed her whether she has noticed me wiggling about in my chair during meetings which could account for freying. Mary advised that was probably something she would notice. Considering the frey location (about half-way up the butt cheek along the crack) I would have to slouch down before commencing any chair wiggling which I'm guessing would be quite noticeable.
She did suggest that maybe shirt-less lawn mowing neighbour Chip was breaking into my house and rubbing the bum of my pants [the rest of this sentence is censored] and did elicit a response of "Ew" from yours truly. In unrelated news, Mary is missing her pork chop broiler pan. We suspect it's the undetectable work of Chip.
Perhaps instead of throwing out pants, I should invest in some sturdy yet fashionable pant patches for the cords and the countless ass-worn pants that will undoubtedly follow.
[Post Post Update: I bought 3 brand spanking new pairs of pants. And I'll be keeping my eye(s) on them].
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
The hike took us hundreds of feet/meters/felt like miles...up. And then down. And back up. Etc etc etc. 6 whole kilometers worth.
We did pack: 2 liters of water (which had to be rationed) because the hike was actually 6km to the waterfall and 6km back, and 12 condoms.
We didn't pack: batteries (keep reading), bug spray (probably have west nile now), sun screen, a change of clothes (sweated our own body weight worth), and food (save for one banana and strawberry runner's gel pack which had similar consistency to ejaculation with the same salty after taste).
As all newly minted couples do, we took many photos during our trek (see above, which we will refer to as, exhibit A). The scenery was breathtaking [and I mean more than just my décolletage].
Unfortunately the camera batteries died as we reached the waterfall. So now we have vowed to one day go back just to get pictures of us by the cascading water. Or perhaps a cardboard cut out will do.
Paul downloaded the pics today and sent them to me. And that's when I discovered a picture can be worth three words...I look pregnant.
Ugh. (See exhibit B, above)
Nothing like seeing yourself looking as though your 3-4 months pregnant to spurn you into a major workout fest.
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
2. Officially got a boyfriend (aka Paul)
3. Renewed membership at LaSenza
4. Spent half of funds in bank account at LaSenza using renewed membership on purple/lilac/fuchsia items which will yield a higher return than interest bearing savings account
5. Sorted through knicker drawer, and tossed out unsightly unmentionables to make room for new purple-y purchases
6. Helped sister ring in her 29th birthday
7. Attempted to take trunk load of bottles (1 and a half years worth) to bottle exchange in another province to avoid looking like alcoholic only to discover said bottle exchange was closed. Left bottles for brother-in-law to take to said bottle exchange possibly looking like an alcoholic.
8. Enjoyed black-tie pizza date with said official boyfriend which lead to...
9. Enjoyed bottle of white wine with said official boyfriend which lead to...
10. Enjoyed modeling LaSenza purchases which lead to...
11. Enjoyed "return on investment" (multiple times)
12. Came up with brilliant and plausible excuses as to why I'm walking funny like "pulled a hamstring playing ball" which is...true. Sheesh! What were you thinking?
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
He even knows about this blog and is not going to read it. FYI: Paul would have chosen the name "Nick" if he had the choice. This is funny because I did consider the name Nick but opted not to because I also have a friend named Nick.
I definitely come up with post ideas when we're on the phone or out together. He's very familiar with the phrase "I need to write THAT down, it is SO a blog post."
Not that I would mind if he read 95% of the posts, after all, they're quite funny albeit quirky and some slightly neurotic. But I certainly don't want him reading what I've written about previous exploits, like here and here, and who could forget this humdinger. And I certainly don't want to start censoring what I write or removing anything I have written. Heck, even my mum reads my blog and I don't censor for her [Hi mum!].
I'm not sure if I could be so respectful if the roles were reversed. My curiosity might/could/most definitely get the better of me. I blame this partially on my journalism background, partially on my being nosy.
So I get to keep this guilty little pleasure all to myself. But I think I will share this post with Paul, after all, it was written for him.
It wasn't so much the singing that bothered me. It was what he was singing. Beyonce. "I'll be your naughty girl..." in a voice two octaves above his normal 10-year-old-boy range.
Never one to panic (or over react)...for the duration of our morning commute I blasted ACDC's "TNT" which he also sang along to. I encouraged some slight head banging and a rock-on hand gesture. I did stop short of pulling over the car for him to beat up a neighborhood kid jumping rope.
I'll make a man out of him yet.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
I was ironing my favorite pair of pants this morning for work. They are also my only pair of pants. I'm not really a "pants" kind of girl, so I have about 12 skirts and 1 pair of pants. Ok, ok and 3 pairs of jeans [although 1 of those pairs of jeans is too big so I can't wear them, 1 pair is too high waisted so I can't wear them, and 1 pair would make the Pope's jaw drop - I wear them]. So technically I only have 1 pair of jeans, and 1 pair of pants. The pants I was ironing.
I get the front of said pants all pressed. Actually, I was in a rush so "pressed" was putting it nicely but I wouldn't exactly look like I rolled out of bed in them and came to work either. So I flipped said pants over to press the back side and that's when I saw it. The frey. The frey that was actually a big freaking hole in my 1 pair of pants. The 1 pair of pants I was going to wear today. The 1 pair of pants that goes with the pink lace blouse I also picked out to wear.
I briefly debated wearing the pants anyway with a pair of non-attention-getting panties underneath. After all, would anyone really even notice? Ofcourse they would. And besides, I don't own any non-attention-getting panties.
So I had to wear...what else, a skirt. I picked a subtle light citrus yellow cotton shirt and a black skirt with my red flats and headed out to work where I was joined by 3 other coworkers, all dressed in light citrus yellow shirts and black skirts. As if we were part of some secret "bee-fabulous" society [though naturally, if such a secret society existed, I would be President].
I ended up working an hour late to bank some time so I can leave early on Friday to get ready for my date with Paul.
By the time I left, I was famished, but had to make a stop at the grocery store to pick up a few necessities [i.e. tampons and salad dressing - both of which I was completely out of and in desperate need of. Like ASAP because in 2 minutes the crimson hoover dam is going to break].
I get to the checkout. There's only one customer in front of me. And the cashier is ringing through his last item. I put my items up on the checkout. The middle aged guy is paying for his groceries with his debit card. The middle aged guy starts asking questions about how much the noddles, bananas and eggs were. He's sure the eggs weren't $4.54. He wants her to check the price. He knows the price he paid was wrong. The cashier is trying to explain that she's already processed his order, so if he goes to the customer service desk, they can check the price and refund his money if there's been an error.
But the middle aged keeps standing there. Talking about the price. I turn to him and say, "Excuse me sir, but unless you want to be standing in a puddle of blood in 0.2...take your ****ing sales receipt to the customer service desk and they'll do your price check there." In retrospect, he probably thought I meant I was going to beat him up. Either way, that's how you get a line moving.
Ok, ok. Technically I didn't say that to the middle aged guy. But I tried really hard to concentrate and use my mind to telepathically say it to him.
I hoped in my car. The sun was shining, the sun roof was open. When I started the car, I inadvertently startled some seagulls. It scared the shit right out of one of them. Right into my open sunroof.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Date #2 was equally as perfect. Chinese food (had Combo A - the sweet n' sour chicken balls, chicken fried rice and egg roll). Arcade car races (I kicked ass) and air hockey (he kicked ass) as we waited for our turn at glow-in-the-dark mini golf (I lost by 1 point). Followed by a movie rental (Chris Rock's "I Really Love My Wife") and white wine (Yellow Tail).
I had the opportunity to tour [aka sleep over at] his condo in the city instead of driving an hour and a half back to my place in the wee hours of the morning. I told Paul I'm now completely spoiled because he made me coffee and cooked a delicious bacon and scrambled egg breakfast for me to enjoy in bed. Although I felt guilty I was lazying around in bed while he braved the bacon grease shirtless so I hauled my cute ass out to the kitchen.
Next on the dating agenda: the Drive-In.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Last night we had our first date.
Pre-date getting ready: Consumed a half a glass of wine to calm flip flopping stomach. It was humid out so my hair was doing this Sideshow Bob impersonation. Had to flatten my curls and opt for straight hair. Changed mind over flirty date outfit. Paul's a "legs and back" guy but my best assets are the T&A. Decided to go for a strapless/sleeveless/ shows off neck, shoulders and part of back top with my new Esprit jeans that look so good I never want to take them off unless... The outfit was complete with the addition of 3+ inch black suede stiletto heels.
Paul picked me up at my house with flowers in hand (daisies - my favorite). Bonus points earned = 20. Plus he smelled so good. Bonus points earned = 20.
We headed to the local Irish Pub for some eats. The food was good (a munchie platter and BBQ chicken pizza). I found the chicken wings to be unusually spicy (a probable side effect from my detox earlier in the week) so I tore through my glass of water and glass of wine pretty quickly while trying to appear lady-like. Paul smiled and asked if I wanted some more water (all I could do was nod) and he went to find our waitress. Bonus points earned (for taking charge) = 15.
I took him for a walking "tour of the town". As we were popping in and out of shops, we heard the sound of live music coming from the waterfront. We followed, and took our seats (front row, center). It was one girl on the stage with her red guitar - Jenn Grant. Live music can be hit or miss but Jenn = amazing. We hooted after every song. Pulled the "I'm cold" move (though I was cold) and was rewarded with a nice strong arm around me. Bonus points earned (for picking up on verbal clues) = 30.
After her set was over, I had to get her CD and got her to sign it. Jenn asked who she should make it our to, I didn't want to impose, so I said, "Oh just write that you are fabulous because you are." In retrospect, I guess I should have been clearer that Jenn Grant should write that Jenn Grant is fabulous because she is. So now the insert on my CD says "You guys are fabulous, xo Jenn" and I feel like a big asshole.
Back on our walking tour, we decided to stop at a little cafe where they make the best cheesecake (we opted for a piece of "Hugs and Kisses"). I had a coffee (almond amaretto) and Paul had a latte. We talked and laughed some more over the CD misunderstanding. I suggested "To the two hooters in the front" would have been a funnier request and then realized the double meaning. I had to write that down (in case I forgot) but didn't have a pen. So Paul tracked down one from our waitress. Bonus points earned (for taking charge of a girl's needs even if that need is only a pen) = 1,000,000.
On our way back to the car I took my heels off and walked back to the barefoot. The sidewalk became really rocky so Paul gave me a piggy back ride. We were almost there and I asked, "Am I getting to heavy?" He answered, "What are you...only 110 pounds. No, you're not getting heavy." Bonus points earned (because I am not 110 pounds) = 50.
We went back to my place to listen to the CD and play Scrabble (times two, FYI I won both games). Bonus points earned (for possibly throwing the game because he knows I'm competitive) = 10.
I ended up breaking my first date rule. Paul was aware of my rule before our date, and for the record did vocalize he wanted to remain a gentleman and respect my boundaries. Bonus points earned (for at least pretending to respect my boundaries, although he was quite genuine about it so I think he was actually trying to) = 30.
But he caved pretty quickly after I gave him the green light.
After he left, I was thinking about our evening. There was not one time I was let down or disappointed. There was no thinking "If only he had of," or "I wish he had of thought to". He did it all. It was a perfect date. And I can't remember the last time that happened.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
But earlier today, 1200: Went to lunch with 3 of the girls from work. My sentence: to eat a salad (only) in the local pub amongst all that yummylicious greasylicious food.
Since I had already cheated this morning with a Kit Kat (it was a singles - that's practically the size of a peppermint!), I knew I had to stick to my detox regimen at lunch. Besides, there were witnesses. Must. Keep. Up. Appearances.
There were three equally-as-bland salad choices on the menu: Caesar, garden, and spinach. Whopdeedo. I opted for the ever-colorful spinach salad. A pained look came over my face when I told the waitress to hold the bacon bits, and I'd take the dressing on the side. [Ironically the last time I asked for something on the side, it involved the opposite of dressing].
The waitress asked if I wanted to add chicken for $2.50. I answered "I wish". She probably thought I was broke and couldn't afford the chicken. Ok, I'm broke too. But not THAT broke.
While my lunch mates consumed Greek pizza and the special-of-the-day mussels, I picked and chewed and swallowed my wilted tasteless mushrooms-were-decomposing mushy-eggs no-red-onions spinach salad. Even the dressing was bland. Like mayo but with even less taste. With tasteless green herbs in it. At least I hope they were herbs. Willpower = 1, Brain = 0
1300: Back at work, I was so disgusted I couldn't even face my herbal tea. Why was I doing this? Oh yeah, because for countless weeks I was shoving everything in my piehole. You won the argument this time brain. Willpower = 1, Brain = 1
1700: Back at home, I begrudgingly ate my steamed veggies and brown rice. Why was I continuing to do this? Sure, I wanted to cleanse my system from the weeks of abuse. Sure, I wanted to get rid of that sluggish feeling I just couldn't shake. Sure, I wanted to lose a few pounds before my next date. But I'd accomplished all of that (except maybe the weightloss, though I'm not entirely sure because I don't own a scale). Why keep torturing myself? Willpower = 2, Brain = 1
So I made the decision to ease my way back into eating real food. To celebrate, I made a cup of tea (hello caffeine!) after I eased my way back into more ice cream. Tonight I plan on enjoying a half glass of wine and cheese/crackers combo while watching Big Brother.
I really have no willpower when it comes to food.
It's a good thing I have willpower when it comes to other things. Like booze, shopping and men. Well, three out of four ain't bad.
Monday, August 13, 2007
But only a little teeny tiny bit. So, it probably doesn't even technically count. Right?
I couldn't resist. It was calling to me, "Erika, lick me. My creamy goodness will melt in your mouth. Devour every sinful inch of me. Mmmm...that's it. Just like that."
Stupid talking ice cream.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
To accurately describe my experience with detox (for readers who have not had this unique experience), I decided to write a little poem. It's called "What the F*** Was I Thinking".
[Clears throat] *Ahem*
What the F*** Was I Thinking
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh ug. Huhhhhhhh.
My head's going to f***ing explode.
I threw up and it came out my nose.
A week without coffee, what was I thinking?
Detox really blows [literally].
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
He writes: "How do you recommend approaching women like you who run or go to the gym? (By the way, I am a charter pilot, we pilots have a hard time meeting women)."
My answer: With caution.
It's hard to approach a woman at the gym. We're usually focused on the task at hand and in quite precarious poses (on the pilates ball, doing a dead lift, etc). And we naturally assume that guys are ogling our tits and asses. Therefore, guys who do approach us at the gym seem kind of creepy (though I'm sure you are the exception to the rule Phil ;) Besides, we want to get in and out without guys noticing that we're not wearing makeup, have a wedgie (or worse...camel toe) and a bad case of boob sweat.
It's much easier to approach a woman runner (from behind) and say something complimentary like "You've got a great pace". But only if she doesn't have an MP3 player or else she might mistakenly assume you're a mugger and go Taebo on your ass. And naturally, we'll still assume that you were ogling our asses.
It's a dating jungle gym out there. There's no "right way" anymore when it comes to dating and mating. There is however the "gentlemanly way", the "jerkoff way" and the "have been in prison too long" way. I find being irresistibly charming and direct always works.
Hope this helps Phil!
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
She writes: "Dear R-N-D, How do I approach a guy at the coffee shop, "Batman and Throbbin'" feature at the movieplex, or pirate convention and let him know that I'm interested?"
At the coffee shop: walk up to the guy, smile and say "Hi."
At Batman and Throbbin': "All this could be yours for one low, low price."
At the pirate convention: "Is there an 'X' on the seat of your pants? Because it appears that there's wond'rous booty buried underneath!"
Of course it goes without saying which one is my personal favorite and works best. Men (while trying to appear complex) are actually simple savages. And they like wenches who dig for buried treasure (even while the parrot's watching). If you know what I mean. Oh, you don't. Ah, me either.
[Click here for more pirate pick up lines].
Monday, August 06, 2007
Unfortunately I've spent almost half of it asleep. My sleeping beauty tribute was [partly] due to watching a scary movie before bed and then needing to have all of the lights on in the house. "Bob, we can't hack her up into bits, look, she's got all the lights on."
I was half tempted to sneak into the office and sort through the piles of stuff on my desk so I could arrive tomorrow morning feeling...not so overwhelmed. Fortunately the non-tempted half of me won out.
Instead, I'm going to go jogging in the dead heat. I've been eating quite a few bagels over the holidays. Bagels are my weakness (second only to cheesecake and men in uniform). And I've got the carbo-loading ass to prove it.
Normally I wouldn't bat a tinted eyelash but I have a potential date on the horizon. Perhaps I'll need more than a jog. Something more "full-scale".
Like detox (it's not just for celebrities anymore)! I knew I bought "The Detox Book" for a reason [other than to look cool on my bookshelf]. I was so excited that I began preparing at once: downing coffee, noshing on sour cream and onion chips, and salivating at the thought of the Hoof Prints ice cream in my freezer.
Leafing through the book, I decided what's more "full scale" than the ominous sounding "Seven-Day Detox". But wait a minute...there's a section on "how to prepare" two days before. Oops. So stockpiling all your naughty food indiscretions is not how you prepare for a detox. No coffee or alcohol? Shit arse.
Looks like I'll need to make a trip to the grocery store if I'm to cook up a delicious pot of "Seaweed Broth with Lemon and Walnut Noodles".
Saturday, August 04, 2007
My get-a-way was uneventful [with the exception of mounting the bike rack on the car upside down and then managing to drive the whole way home with the bikes that way]. That, and we were almost asked to leave because of the sheer volume [in number AND audibility] of flatulence/ other sounds emitting from the orifices of my son and nephew.* Something must be in that mountain air.
The interior of my house now looks like it was ransacked. Our suitcases are strewn on the floor with bits and pieces unpacked and more bits and pieces flung on top of the suitcases in a sort of art nouveau clothing statue.
Tonight I'm playing host to three tween-aged boys. Scratch that. I'm playing host to two tweens and one official teen boy. I'm supposed to be cooking them supper right now but had to steal away a few moments to myself. Which I've chosen to down a Vex and type out this ill-conceived post. They seem to have this radar and know when I'm trying to get away. Oh ****. Here they come!
Vacation is so overrated.
* Girls do not suffer from flatulence afterall. Except maybe when we're sleeping and much like night-time erections, we are not responsible for what happens in our sleep.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Today it was refreshing to find myself chatting to a single guy [wait...there's more]
Today it was refreshing to find myself chatting to a single guy who, like me, is an avid runner. It doesn't happen very often (unless you count the guys who "run" to the liquor store).
And he was witty to boot. Teasing me about my "batman belt" aka my fuel belt. Alas, the only crime I'm fighting right now is that I'm single.
It reminded me how much I'm attracted to guys who are physical (and not in the way that you're thinking about. Ok...maybe a bit of that too ;) I like guys who are rugged and like camping. Can handle a canoe. Build a fire. Carries me over his shoulder to the bedroom while calling to his jungle friends (loincloth optional).
Runners. Surfers. Skiers. It doesn't matter as long as it's physical. And he's got skills (or at least pretends to). Confidence is another thing I'm attracted to.
You would think in this day and age, finding a physical guy would be easy. It's about as easy as doing what's on page 20 of the Kama Sutra. Case in point: I run on the same trail every night and I come across lots of other runners. And you know what, they're all women. We knowingly nod in passing, as if we're all members of the same club.
Perhaps I need to start running somewhere new if I expect to run into Mr. Right.
My prize has been sitting, tucked away in the top drawer of my dresser since then. Gathering dust.
I planned on taking Liam. We planned to do a lot of things. None of which will come to fruition.
I rationalized that some other guy would come along who I would want to take. Not necessarily someone serious, but someone I would look forward to hot tubbing, cuddling by the fire, and making out on the bear skin rug with.
So I decided to book the chalet anyway. And go there. Alone. Well, not exactly alone. But with my son and my nephew.
I was so embarrassed when I called...
Me: "Um, I have this gift certificate for a romantic two night stay. But um, er, instead of two adults, it'll be one adult and two children. Is that ok?"
Resort Lady: (sounding incredibly sorry for me) "Oh yes dear, ofcourse."
Me: "Um, as part of the package, I have a gift certificate for a romantic candle light dinner for two. I'm not going to be using that, can I transfer it to someone else?"
Resort Lady: (sounding even more sorry for me) "Oh yes, ofcourse dear. Ofcourse. It's no problem."
Sure, it won't be the get-a-way I originally pictured. But living in my bikini for two days, biking up (and down) the mountain, swimming in the heated outdoor pool and bbq'ing at my deluxe chalet sounds pretty damn good to me right about now.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
I have never seen an episode of "Sex In The City." Yes, that's what happens when you don't have cable folks. You miss out.
I told several people this little tidbit over the last week and was met with several astonished looks generally followed by "What?" or "You haven't?" and even one "Oh my god you could BE on that show!"
Undercover Mother's daughter Bridget owns Season 6 (Part 1) and offered it to me to check out.
I watched all 12 episodes in one sitting. It was like spending a year in therapy without it costing me thousands of dollars or without me sleeping with my therapist. I learned so much. And not just about teabagging. Although that was an ear-opener. I was definintely deficient on my sexlinguistics. Well not any more!
I feel like a new woman. Completely re-energized my dating mojo. Seriously. It feels like I've had a semi-religious experience. Minus the virginity and cruxifiction.
Now I'm addicted. I must have more Sex In The City. More more more!
Whether you enjoy every second devouring that piece of er...chocolate, or spit it out because it's not caramel (your favorite) affects the next bite of the next piece of chocolate.
Before you toss it in the trash you owe the truth to that little (or big) piece of not-the-flavour-you-had-in-mind chocolate. Afterall, chocolate have feelings too. [Just go with it ok].
I do try to tell the truth (in a not-so-harsh way) really I do. I have hurt many a man's feeling over my dating career. And they mine. But sometimes, occasionally, I chicken out. And you know what, it gives me the worst feeling. I like to call that feeling dating karma.
I know that my actions or in-actions/non-truths/non-talking will come back to bite me in the ass. And unfortunately, not in the literal sense. But sometimes I can't help myself.
My latest victim was Ben. He emailed me late Monday afternoon following his 5 days away sans-communicado. His email was light and airy, asked about my weekend and whether I was playing softball that night. Ben made no mention of why he didn't call. And no apology for not calling. He was testing the waters.
I didn't even bother to reply, I just let the email sit in my inbox. Not because I was mad. But because I felt that we both wasting each other's time. He had the looks, the witty, but had zero passion for life. I like someone who can think outside of the box. Clearly all Ben had on his mind was the *ahem* box.
What could I say without sounding like an asshole? "Dear Ben, I'm just not that into you. PS: I took the liberty of signing you up for a "how to please a woman in 3 easy steps" class."
I was hoping Ben would call me that night when I didn't reply and I could at least tell him over the phone. But he didn't. He willingly accepted my silence. True, I
[* The Redhead-Next-Door does not recommend biting metaphorical chocolate].
Friday, July 27, 2007
It is sooooo hot right now. I'm sweating just blogging about how hot it is.
But despite the heat, I love summer (the season, not the OC character). Why do you ask? I feel a list coming on...
Top 10 Reasons Why I Love Summer (the season and not the OC character):
- wearing minimal clothing
- getting sweaty (which reminds me of something else...running! What did you think I was going to say?)
- the smell of Tropicana suntan lotion (mmmmm coconut)
- coconut rum and raspberry cranberry juice
- Vex coolers (Mike's Hard Lemonade will do in a pinch)
- strawberry daiquiris
- pina coladas
- sleeping on top the covers with the windows wide open
- nooshing on tons of "goodies" like fresh fruit and veggies, and barely craving "baddies" like chips
Sure, summer can also be fun if you have some dishy guy to fan you by the pool and rub lotion on your back. But whatever. I guess my single ass can fan myself with all the books I'm reading. [Total books completed: two, books in progress: two]
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Then I got to thinking. Was inspired even.
Perhaps if I venture back to online dating, my opening line could be "Soft Serve Looking For Her Waffle Bowl." After all, guys might find it cute.
Somehow I don't think that the alternative, "Waffle Bowl Looking For Her Soft Serve" would elicit the same volume of responses.
[interior office, cubicle farm]
Lady Supervisor: "Your hair looks amazing today!"
Me: [trying to act all surprised] "Thanks! Can you tell I haven't washed my hair in 3 days?"
Lady Supervisor: "Wow. Dirty looks good on you."
Me: "Hahahaha." [Thinks to myself, I need to get that on a t-shirt]
It was what we were doing in the shower. No, wait. Not that.
It was what I was doing in the shower...I was shaving his legs. But the shower curtain kept getting stuck to my head so I couldn't see. The more I tried to fight the curtain [in a lady-matador-esque manner], the more tangled I became.
Liam kept saying, "I don't understand why you are doing this. Why are you doing this?"
Weird huh? I wonder what it means. Maybe it has to do with a sub-conscious desire I had to change him into the man I wanted him to be. Which apparently was a less hairy man, with silky smooth "I'm your venus" legs. Maybe.
[And yes, I actually drew that fancy little pic myself].
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
I believe [and by "believe" I mean, to directly quote] he also used the catch phrase "sizzlin" at least twice and did the lick-his-finger and touch-me-like-I'm-hot-stuff motion. Which is sweet because I felt like I was retaining 10 pounds of water weight.
And to think...last night I was throwing myself a huge pity party because of what's-his-name (seriously, what IS his name) and his non-phoning-non-formal-dating-lacklust-lovemaking ways. Oh right, Ben (*gag*).
In unrelated news, my coworker Steve is assisting with a hook up between moi and an industrial arts teacher friend of his named Darren (who also happens to be a black belt). Mmmm...a guy who knows how to handle his wood and defend my honour. Love. It.
Monday, July 23, 2007
I've got the ACDC cranked in my car, and at home. There's just something about "Thunderstruck". It makes me want to drink whiskey, smoke a cigarette and give a really great lap dance.
If I was a stripper it would totally be "my song." And, if I was a WWF wrestler. Or, a race car driver.
It's "the shit." Not to be confused with having "the shits."
And don't even get me started on what "Gimme Gimme Gimme" does.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Sometimes I wonder if I'm being too quick to cut men off at the knees. But really, how hard is it to make a quick phone call? Exactly. Talk about not making a girl feel special.
Plus, I didn't miss him one bit (except last night when I got a wee bit tipsy, and even then, it had less to do with him and more to do with the fact that he has a penis). I may as well be dating an anatomically correct mannequin [note to self: check out Ebay for anatomically correct mannequin].
When he emails me tomorrow, I'll semi-politely tell him I'm not seeing him again.
I'd rather read a book.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
So I'm not surprised this coffee could also inspire multiple "ah-ha" moments on the inner workings (or un-workings) of one's self. That self being me. Since this is my blog.
One of my many obsessions has centered around getting a new car. If you recall, I have been obsessing about cars since April. I am no closer to making a decision now than I was four months ago. And it's not because I lack decisiveness. I already have the make/model/color/options picked out, and a price quoted for my trade-in. It's about commitment. Or in my case, lack thereof.
I will have this car for 5 years. It's a big step for me. One that increases my rate of breathing and heart rate. With the exception of my son, I have not had anything for 5 years. Not a job, not an apartment, not a relationship, not a marriage. In fact, I have not had anything longer than 3 years. Except a few choice pieces of furniture. I like furniture. It is very stable.
I joke that it's because I get bored easily. Which I do. But I suspect it has more to do with the fact that I am a raging commitment-phob! And like the Littlest Hobo, [singing] maybe tomorrow I'll want to settle down, until tomorrow I'll just keep moving on.
It's all starting to fit together. This is why I don't own my home. Stick with one hair color. Or have a gym membership. Ok, maybe not so much why I don't have a gym membership.
Last night I signed up for the Blockbuster Reward's program - it was a big step for me! You never know when you might want to move to another continent...
Whether it was the coffee or all these dating books I'm reading, I'm beginning to see things in a different way. And, the best place to start is admitting you have a problem. "My name is Autumn and I'm a committment-phob." Oops. I mean, "My name is Erika yadda yadda yadda."
Friday, July 20, 2007
So, I decided to color my hair. Good-bye redhair tendrils and hello brunette locks! I feel more exotic already - like an Irish Cleopatra. Plus, the brown really showcases my cute little freckles.
I'm looking forward to see what [if any] affect this has on the kind of guys I attract. After all, men seem to take brunettes more seriously. Brunettes are smart and savvy. Ok, so they're also kind of bland (compared to a sassy redhead anyway) but maybe I can help improve their image.
Eventually I will have to confess to a man that I'm a natural redhead (*ahem* there are ways to tell). But until then - brunettes a-way!
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Yesterday I picked up "How To Set His Thighs On Fire: 86 red-hot lessons on love, life and men (especially sex)" and "DSI: Date Scene Investigation - the diagnostic manual of dating disorders".
When I stepped up to the counter, I was somewhat embarrassed about my book choices. It didn't help that there was a cute guy standing within ear shot. I loudly stated the books were "research" for an article I'm working on. The librarian gave me the "Sure dear, poor thing" look.
My quest for dating enlightenment, was not helped by this article published (on the front page no less) of today's newspaper.
So far here's the breakdown on our dates:
Date #1 (on a Thursday): went to the movies, watched Evan Almightly. No kissing as per first date rule. Ben asked what a guy has to do let me know they're interested (apparently I'm not the best at picking up on clues). I mutter that writing a message in the sky via air plane always has a nice touch. No contact made until Monday [he travels to the city every weekend to visit his son].
Date #2 (the following Tuesday): watched Big Brother at my house. This was a last minute, unplanned date because he couldn't wait until our next official date. And I didn't have a babysitter. Lots of kissing as I don't have any other dating rules.
Date #3 (Thursday): Enjoyed drinks at my house and played Scrabble. Lots of ...ah, um - look is that a UFO?!? No contact made until Monday.
Date #4 (yesterday): went for coffee at 10 pm (he worked late at the bank), drove to a local look-off but quickly left because it was after dusk and the park closes at dusk [i.e. park warden shuts a rather large looking metal gate, complete with heavy chain and padlock]. So we went back to my house.
At this point I am completely confused. Ben is obviously used to women not having any requirements for actual dating rituals and letting him get away with such lackluster dating behaviour. Well, not this chicka.
I had planned to tell him I couldn't see him again, after all, what girl wants to feel like an after-thought? Certainly not me. And after 3 dates, I did not feel like I knew anything sub-surface about him at all. So last night I made it a point to ask Ben some thought-provoking questions. He couldn't answer many of them. It's sad, but he seems used to women just taking him for his [extremely] good looks, [hot] body and [thick] wallet without really getting to know him.
I did find out: he was once a boy scout and alter boy, is technically catholic [but definitely not a practising catholic], think's he's going to hell, his idea of hiking is paying someone to hike the trail and send him the pictures (I love hiking!), doesn't drink "hot" beverages (I'd opt to be hooked up to a coffee IV) and thinks camping is cruel and unusual punishment unless equiped with camper and all modern conveniences known to man (I'm more of a "roughing it" minimalist camper).
I did not find out: if he had one week to live (and money was no object) what is the one thing he would want to do before he died, the biggest sin he's ever committed (in his defense, we could only remember 2 of the 7 deadly sins and then made a pack to rent Seven), his biggest passion right now and why he's never been engaged.
When we kissed goodnite I asked Ben if he was going to call me this weekend (he headed out of town this morning) - he said yes. This will be the test. If he does not call, there's no way I'm going out with him again. Oddly enough, it wouldn't bother me to end it.
We agreed we wouldn't be dating anyone else. Although to be accurate, he said it and I agreed so I didn't look like an asshole. Then, I deleted my profile.
I realize men are as different as snowflakes, but by date #3 I thought Liam was my soul mate. Sure, I was completely and utterly wrong. But this relationship (or whatever it is) is so different than what I'm used to. Ben has built a wall around him. Usually, I'm the one with the wall that someone needs to crawl over. So I find myself needing to climb over my wall to get over his wall. Not a position I'm used to.
It's a good thing I'm in fabulous shape.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Funny Male Blogger Friend: "We are all different. Like snowflakes. Or nipples."
Me: "Ah huh. That's very deep [his name]. I hope one day I will be able to catch a snowflake on my tongue."
Funny Male Blogger Friend: "I feel the same way about nipples."
Friday, July 13, 2007
Perhaps it's because I've been on more first dates in the last year than my entire dating life combined, but I've begun to look forward to first dates much like how I look forward to an annual trip to the OB-GYN [Note: or a prostate exam if you're a guy]. This has no baring on how much I like a guy, I find first dates slightly unnerving and occasionally, horrific.
I prefer to have the guy pick me up at my house for two reasons: #1. I find this less awkward than wondering...is that him? Or wait, is that him, at the [insert location of first date here]. And #2. It gives me the opportunity to enjoy a glass (ok, ok, a glass and a half!) of white wine while getting ready, and thus steadies the nerves. Unless ofcourse our first date is something sporty where I'll need my wits and balance about me (think tennis, rock climbing, Scrabble or boche ball), then I down grade to half a glass. After all, I want to win.
On my first date with Ben* (* not his real name) he commented on how relaxed I was. I joked that "It must have been that wine I had" and then laughed. Ofcourse, he thought I was teasing.
Before picking me up, Ben confessed he was looking forward to our date. After all, he has never dated a redhead, never kissed a girl with braces and has never been to the drive-in. I playfully explained up front that I don't kiss on the first date. This is my one and only dating rule. He joked back, that he didn't either.
I'll admit, he smelled so mmmm mmmm good that I was extremely tempted to break my rule. But didn't.
Fast forward to date #3. Ben told me that I was the only girl he ever wanted to kiss on a first date and couldn't. There were lots of girls he didn't want to kiss and didn't, and probably even more girls he did want to and was able to, but I was the lone girl who held out until the next date.
Ben said it intrigued him. Persumable so, because he spent the next two dates trying to make up for lost time.
I guess my first date rule is my attempt to keep all guys on an even playing field to decide whether or not I want to see them again. Some guys have mistaken my lack of tonsil hockey for a lack of interest in them. Which is not always true. But I don't always tell them up front about my rule either, so I can see how this gets misinterpreted. After all, this is why the pilot did not ask me out on date #2.
Perhaps it is my way of testing a guy to see if he can respect my wishes. Perhaps I'm just full of shit. But I do know that it does not take a kiss for me to figure out whether I like a guy or not. If anything, a kiss may influence me to see a guy again that I have no real interest in.
This week I have just learned of the third date rule. I'm not sure how many guys are operating under this rule. I think I've only followed the rule once, and certainly not because I knew about it. I guess I'm a slow mover. Plus, if I slept with every guy I went on a third date...yowza! The grand total on my lover-ometer would be triple what it is.
I'm not sure I'll ever figure out this whole dating thing.
Friday, July 06, 2007
What the fuck? My blog is rated PG - parental guidance suggested.
Are you as fucking surprised as I am? And it's only PG because I've used the words "dead" and "dick". I know! I've also used crap and shit as least once. Not to mention fucko, bastard and ball licker. Ok, I didn't use ball licker. But maybe I fucking should. What's it take to get an R rating around here? Damn it all to H-E-double toothpicks. Er...hell. I mean hell.
And while I'm at it...how about tits. And arse. Tits and arse. There, I wrote it out. Instead of typing my usual "T & A" bullshit.
Oooo - and sex, sex, sex!
There PG rating! How do you like me now?
Oh. Now I'm rated R. And only because I used the word "sex".
Maybe I should have stuck with my PG rating and left out "sex". Then my blog could really imitate my life.
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
"Date" noun. A particular point or period of time at which something happened or existed, or is expected to happen.
I've decided to get more "in touch" with [i.e. develop] my "spiritual side" [i.e. besides the occasional glass of rum. Oh who am I kidding?! The multiple glasses of rum. There!].
By reconnecting with the earth (or some kind of nonsense hippie crap like that) I will draw a more spiritually centered man into my life. I've become quite good at attracting wankers (ok, and the occasional good guy with the worst possible timing). I now feel ready to open my [well defined] arms to a man who has obtained a higher state of enlightenment.
After all, like attracts like. Except when opposites attract.
So, I made a list of things to incorporate into my daily life that will attract every priest within a 50 km radius (and hopefully a few non-denominational men who are not bound by a life of celibacy):
- increase yoga/ meditation practice
- buy new yoga outfit
- read back issues of Oprah magazine
- cry (probably while reading back issues of Oprah magazine)
- lay in a field of grass
- pray...when on the way to hospital after laying in field of grass without remembering to take allergy medication
- up consumption of green tea from zero to 1
- week-long detox program
According to my calculations, in no time, me and my spiritually inclined manswich will be doing partner yoga like nobody's business. Just like this...