Tuesday, August 28, 2007

Blog This

So far, so good with Paul. Like realllllllllly goooooood.

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.

Naughty Girl

This morning while getting ready for work, I heard my son (age 10) singing from the comforts of his bedroom across the hall.

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

Murphy's Law, #1

Today was one of THOSE days. And I know people say that all the time, but seriously. It was.

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

BomChickaWahWah - Part 2

My Friday night date with Paul went so well our date plans extended to Saturday evening through to Sunday since we were both "child free" this weekend.

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


Over the past two weeks, I've been getting to know Paul (aka the Runner) via three hour laugh-infused phone calls, lots of flirty emails, and reviewing [reading many many times] his profile on Facebook.

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

Detox: Day 4

Escaped from prison tonight.

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

Detox: Day 3

Tonight, I cheated.

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

Detox: Day 1 and 2

I am coming to the end of day 2 (out of 7) on my detox plan.

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

Answering Your Burning Questions, #5

Today's question comes from Anonymous, whom I've affectionately dubbed Phil.

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

Answering Your Burning Questions, #4

Today's question comes from Sara.

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?"

My answer:

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

Today's Post Is Brought To You By the Letter D (as in Detox)

Today is my last vacation day before I head back to work. A real enjoy-your-last-day-of-freedom kind of day. This must be how one feels before being carted off to the clink or forced to watch a Surreal Life marathon.

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

Today's Post Is Brought To You By the Letter R (as in Recouperation)

Who knew that all this relaxation would leave one feeling so...tired.

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.