Being Erika

I do not make New Year's resolutions. Period. Unless of course you count not making a New Year's resolution as a New Year's resolution itself. But you're not counting, right?

In the words of Undercover Mother, 2008 was a "banner year."

Example #1: I got engaged! Again. But this engagement was different. Is different. Paul's proposal was unexpected and romantic. Sure, he proposed on New Year's Eve (which was his plan for popping the question to another paramour before they derailed at Splitsville). But still, it was sweet when he said he wanted to start the New Year off right by making me his wife. As opposed to my now ex-husband, who popped the question (when we got back together after I left him to date his best friend) by saying, "If I take you back, it's not as my girlfriend. It's as my wife." Ah...isn't it romantic? And somewhere a banjo plays.

Example #2: I got a new job! Sure, it's completely sucking out my soul. But it's new! And it enabled me to set up shop in Paul's city. Which brings me to...

Example #3: Paul and I bought a house! After lots and lots of househunting we're finally livin' in sin. No thanks to my credit rating. If it were up to my bank we'd be in a cardboard box, or a slightly more upscale dumpster. But with Paul's financial finesse...the sky's* the limit.

Example #4: I no longer cook! No more apron-wearing for this chicka. Dreams really can come true. Which brings me to...

Example #5: I've gained 40 pounds! Yes folks, you read right. 4-0 as in forty. Apparently it's not entirely impossible to gain this much in a year (like, if you're pregnant and carrying around the weight of an extra human being growing inside you). And apparently, Paul is also a really really good cook.

So we decided to make a life-style change (which is soooo different than making a resolution *wink wink*) and drop some poundage. And by poundage, I mean I'm dropping all 40 pounds. We bought a fancy scale and everything. I've never even owned a scale in my life (In retrospect, this probably didn't do anything to help me know how much weight I was gaining).

The weird part is, when I look at myself, I still see me. Regular me. And not the 40-pound plus me. But the numbers don't lie. No matter how much I try to make myself lighter at weigh-in time.

Not surprisingly, Paul has also packed on the pounds. He's so supportive that way. So I'm making a point to be supportive back. When Paul weighed himself, he turned to me and said, "I don't understand, how could I have gained [censored] pounds. So I said, "Are you kidding me? You ate like 2 litres of ice cream this week alone." See? Supportive. That's me.

I was worried about falling off the eating/exercise band wagon within the first few days. Paul's parents were visiting on the weekend. They were checking out our new fancy scale (which we keep in our bedroom because nothing says sexy like a scale) and Paul sat down on our bed...then it broke. There's nothing like breaking a bed to motivate you. Trust me.

Paul's mom suggested we not do anything "too athletic" until we got a new bed. So I suggested we go bed shopping ASAP. And we did. We picked out something nice and sturdy. After all, we plan on putting it through it's paces. You know, in the name of weight-loss. *cough cough*

*Sky = 1/4 of a million dollars

Wedding Planning: The Sea Sick Edition

Ok, so...the wedding to Paul is off. Not off off. But delayed. Way delayed. As in 6 months kind of delayed.

It sucks being sick. On the plus side, it gives me time to lose the weight I've gained being sick. Which is ironic because when you think of someone being sick, you think of someone small and tiny and fragile, not the lime backer I've become.

Gone is the "elope and let someone in a foreign country plan the details of our day" line of thinking.

In is the "what the heck are we going to do now" line of thinking.

Paul and I are finding ourselves faced with questions about why we're not eloping anymore from people who don't know I'm sick. I didn't really want to tell many people. Only my closest family and friends knew the real story. So, we get to create all sorts of fun reasons why we're getting married in 8 months and 5 days, instead of in 3 months.

When it comes to all things-wedding, we're opting for anti-boring. Did you really expect anything less from moi? Since this is the second wedding for both Paul and I (first to one another though!), it's a lot easier to plan the wedding we want, and not give in to outside pressure.

We're going for an intimate and romantic feeling. At first I thought intimate meant cheaper. [Note: It does not].

Out: large guest list of people we hardly know
In: 100 of our closest friends and family
Out: church ceremony and tacky legion reception/dance
In: ceremony and reception on a tall ship
Out: cheesy wedding music
In: cellist playing on board
Out: wedding cake
In: cheesecake

We went and toured the wedding venue (aka the boat). And there's only one problem. We were on it for a total of 20 minutes and I was seasick. I can picture it now...Paul and I turn to face each other, to recite the vows we've written for one another, and instead I turn and vomit over the side of the boat.

Isn't it romantic?

Can You Keep A Secret?

Ahhhh…this is the life. Right now I’m in my bedroom sitting on the chaise typing. I’m half-cuddled half-lounging on said chaise with a black faux fur throw. My wine glass is on the window sill beside me. Did I mention I’m typing? On a laptop! I like the little clicky clicky noise the keys make when I type. It’s very Carrie a la Sex In The City.

Mary (aka Undercover Mother) had suggested, no, implored me to get a laptop because my posts were dwindling down to infrequent dribble. Coincidentally my bank just upped the credit limit on my visa, so I debated maxing it out again just so I could have the luxury of writing a post whenever (and more importantly wherever) I wanted. I could have a whole post category for “bathroom posts”. Or “posts written while eating mustard.” The possibilities are endless really.

But I couldn’t bring myself to do it, to max out my credit card. I KNOW.

So instead, Paul brought home his laptop from work. Now I can have the thrill of typing in odd mustard enabling locations without the credit crunch. There’s only one catch…

I had to promise not to open any documents because there’s secret government stuff on Paul’s laptop. I KNOW.

So the first thing I thought was…there’s got to be ex-girlfriend stuff on here. And probably porn. When Paul said, “You need to promise not to open any documents on there,” was that guyspeak for “You need to promise not to snoop on there”?

Resist. Resist. But then, I saw it. The Recycle Bin, out of the corner of my eye. All full of electronic papery goodness. Taunting me. Resist. Resist. Might. Be. Secret. Government. Documents.

I HAD to peak (like you wouldn’t). And technically I didn’t break my promise. Because not once did I look at any documents. I only checked out the pictures. And technically I didn’t look AT them. I just changed the view to “thumbnails” so I could see without getting all double clicky. [Besides, I tried double clicking on them and FYI you have to restore things from the Recycle Bin if you want to view them].

And sure enough…there were pictures of his ex-girlfriends. And me. All parts of Paul’s life mixed up together. What did he see in them? It’s beyond me. Not that I have the best ex-boyfriend hall of fame. One of the differences between us is I have deleted, burned, tossed, and pawned almost every ex-boyfriend related memento I had. All part of the getting-over-your-ass philosophy I practiced (except the jewelry - my momma didn’t raise no fool). Paul’s more of a ho-hoarder. Exhibit A: our second date. It started to rain. I was dressed in a mini and a tee. Paul gave me a sweater to borrow, to stay warm. It was three sizes too big for me. But it was his “cousin’s” so I didn’t say a word. I quickly learned that “cousin” was Paul’s early dating code word for ex-girlfriend. The sweater was donated to charity (but I kept a pair of “her” designer sunglasses – my momma didn’t raise no fool).

Is it weird that I know the names of Paul’s ex-girlfriends but he couldn’t name one of mine (my ex-husband excluded)? I know how many girls Paul has slept with but he has never asked me how many guys I’ve been with. Maybe girls are just born with the need-to-know gene while guys remain oblivious. I’m sure Darwinism isn’t putting it high on the list of must-haves.

And yes, there was porn.

Caveman Is As Caveman Does

Last night Paul and I went to a "Black Shirt Party" at his coworker's apartment.

When we arrived the ratio of women to men was 6 to 1, with Paul being the lone male. The lone wolf. The alpha male. We made ourselves at home on a nice large ottoman. We chatted, we laughed, we watched one of the party-goers demonstrate how she can put both her legs behind her head at the same time. I kid you not. And, it's not as impressive as it sounds. Ok, it actually doesn't even sound impressive, just a whole lotta hussy.

About a half hour later, the number of men climbed to 2 with the addition of another of Paul's [married] coworkers. I opted to move to a chair because my back was not digging ottoman style sitting. We chatted, we laughed, we watched the bendy party-goer almost fall out of her shirt every time she inhaled.

Twenty minutes later, the number of men was at an all-evening high of 4 when single guy #1 and #2 arrived. I was still in my chair and Paul was still on the ottoman nearby. Quicker than you can say "caveman" Paul put his hand on my leg. Ok, a not-so-subtle mark-your-girl move. The guys mixed their drinks in the kitchen and then joined the rest of the party goers in the livingroom. Paul leaned over, way over, so he was leaning into my lap. I was worried that at any moment he was going to start peeing around me.

I guess the ways of the caveman (or canine) are alive and leaning.

Bump Watch

Contrary to popular belief (and by belief I mean tons of emails and being approached by people on the street asking questions)...I am not pregnant. I've just gained 15 pounds.

This must be how Eva Longoria-Parker feels.


Did this post make your water break? Tell Humor-Blogs.Com

The Common-Law 15

Ahhhhh....unlawfully unwedded bliss.

If there's one thing that Paul knows, it's my faults. [Not that there's a lot of them or anything]. He accepts the fact that I. Don't. Cook. At least not well enough to be called food, or resemble anything edible, not to mention the probability of dysentery.

Needless to say Paul's been doing all the cooking since we moved in together. And I'm rather enjoying it. It's much like being waited on in a restaurant (without the pricey bill and I get to pinch the chef's butt without being thrown out). Pastas, curry dishes, stuffed chicken...yummy yum!

In fact, Paul's cooking is sooooo good, I've gained 15 pounds. Much like the freshman who goes off to college and is introduced to campus caf food. But without all the beer bonging.

Yes, part of me misses cooking my piece de la resistence...grilled cheese sandwiches. And yet another bigger part of me [literally] misses being able to fit into my clothes.

Ahhhhh...the price of love.

Moving On Up

Packing and purging. Purging and packing. Two of my favorite past times. While I consider myself a veteran packer (I've had lots of practice living in more than 13 different rentals). But this time it's different. I'm moving to something (and someone) and not away from something (or someone).

At the same time. I'm rusty as hell. I haven't lived with a man since my first husband. Ten years and a whole lot of personal development later (read: therapy) I feel ready to try this whole living with a man thingy. But not just any man. Paul.

My stuff is being sorted into "keep", "sell" and "throw" piles (the sell pile is very very large). Unlike when I left my husband, I opted to take it all and leave him with only a wok and a spice rack (which is unfortunate since the wok was a wedding present from my aunt and she's never let me forget that my ex was enjoying sweet and sour chicken balls because of her. And because I really liked that spice rack!). I was hoping my ex-husband would realize over thyme and basil what a cheating, money-wasting jerk he was while he slept on the floor.

This time I am opting to resurrect the local economy with a huge yard sale featuring most of my belongings. It's just stuff after all. Whoa. Who said that? Was that me? Interesting.

It's scary and fun. Scary fun. In a good way. Not like when you're watching a horror movie and the blonde chick decides to check out the noise downstairs [Why DO they do that?]. It's more like taking a chance on something that is so worth it.

I have no doubt there will be moving pains. I don't live in a fairy tale. Although I do have a fondness for glass slippers and frogs. But think of all the delicious stories I'll have for blog posts. Bruhahahaha.

Q and A with Paul, The Gettin' Hitched Edition

Via the phone...

Me: Let's get right to the juicy stuff. What do you think about your ex-wife offering to help plan our wedding?
Paul: [laughs] Typical. I have no interest in taking her up on that offer.
Me: Glad you cleared THAT up.

Me: How many hours do you estimate you spent looking for the perfect ring for me?
Paul: [adding out loud] 25 total.
Me: How does this compare to the number of hours you masturbate?
Paul: [laughs] That's less than 25 hours total a week.

Me: When did you know I was THE ONE?
Paul: Waking up with you and realizing I wanted to do that forever. And that purr that you do.

Me: Moving on. Describe in one word what marriage means to you.
Paul: A commitment.
Me: That's two words.
Paul: This is hard! I thought you loved me [pouts]. I would say commitment but that's not what marriage means to me.
Me: What the?
Paul: [continuing] A partnership with someone you want to share the rest of your life with. I guess I'd have to use "share" if I had to put it in one word. And I don't mean the singer [Cher].
Me: Where's a drum roll when you need one.

Me: Do you think I should change my name when we get married?
Paul: I'm of two opinions: I love the idea of you having my last name - it means you're mine.
Me: [Picturing Paul in a loin cloth carrying me over his shoulder back to the cave].
Paul: But your maiden name - it's who you are. If I was more nouveau, we'd make up our own last name.

Me: What's the first thing you want to do after we get hitched?
Paul: [laughs] Right after? Walk hand in hand [censored]. Kiss you senseless [censored] and hold on to you saying, "mine forever."

Me: What's the one tradition you want to include in our wedding?
Paul: Pardon?
Me: What's the one tradition you want to include in our wedding?
Paul: I thought you said "position". Tradition...I see it as more of a simple affair.
Me: [Picturing hot dogs and beer].

Me: Do you think I will turn into a Bridezilla?
Paul: A what?
Me: [Long explanation as to what this is]. I'm sure it's a non-issue. Now get back to making those guest favors!!!

Me: What's the one household chore you will least like to do when we're married?
Paul: Cleaning the showers and putting away the laundry.
Me: So, pretty much the same as now. How will we decide who does what around the house?
Paul: I think it'll be easy. I'll be doing more cooking than cleaning.
Me: I see you've already put some thought into this.

Me: What's your biggest fear about getting married?
Paul: Comfort. I'm afraid I'll become comfortable and won't be trying as hard. I fear taking you for granted and not showing you how special you are.
Me: Don't worry, I won't let you forget.

Me: What's the best part about getting married?
Paul: [long pause] Someone to share everything with.
Me: I thought you would say "more sex".
Paul: Honey, it's hard to get more sex than I do now.
Me: [Thinking to myself perhaps it's time to attend a support meeting].

Me: Did you purpose on New Year's Eve so that you will never forget our engagement anniversary?
Paul: No [laughs].

Me: Have you ever lied to me?
Paul: White lies...that's it.
Me: Ahem! Like sorry I didn't call hon, my cell phone battery died. Like that?

Me: How would you describe my decorating style?
Paul: Unfortunately you don't have a lot of money. But if you did, it would be light and colorful. I'm more "dark."
Me: Uh huh. What will happen to my "hand me down furniture" once we move in together?
Paul: It's going to look great in our rec room.
Me: Ouch.

Bringing Sexy Back

Tonight I was multitasking on my PC simultaneously writing a cover letter for a job opportunity closer to Paul and searching for a pair of sexy peep toes shoes.

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.

Q and A with Paul

I thought it would be fun to "interview" Paul with some Q and A about yours truly for a blog post (oh hindsight you are sooooo 20/20). Lines that appear within this [ and ] are my inner thoughts to Paul's answers and were in no way uttered aloud during this Q and A exercise.

Via phone...

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.
Me: Wa-wa-waaaaa
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.
Me: 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: Bright.
Me: What?
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.

G's Please

Today I was missing Paul like crazy. He was traveling from Norway to Italy and was incommunicado. When he did manage to email me, it was a one liner saying he missed me like crazy, he was going out to supper and would write later. I was [slightly] disappointed. I mean eating could wait, right?

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?

Today's Post Is Brought To You By the Letter F

If you're a divorced parent who's dating, there's very few moments that will make you hold your breath and pray like the introduction of your date to your child/ren (except perhaps for said child/ren waking up through the night, and quietly sneaking into your room at a therapy-causing moment).

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.

Meep Meep

Paul and I were chatting about a girl he used to date who was as vocal in the bedroom as Charlie Chaplin was on screen. Paul found it frustrating because he never knew whether he was doing something good, bad, or whether she was asleep.

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...

A Picture's Worth 3 Words

Paul and I braved the heat to tackle some wilderness hiking at a place called Devil's Bend [note: it's not just a name and in fact should be renamed "Feels Like The Devil's Bent You Over" by the time your done].

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.

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.

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.

BomChickaWahWah

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.

Running for Mr. Right

Today it was refreshing to find myself [wait...there's more]

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.

Karma's a Bitch

Dating is like a box of chocolates, you never know what kind of a guy you'll end up with, or what's in his juicy center unless you take a bite.* [See what happens when I drink more than two cups of coffee in the morning, I get all philosophical and shit].

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 could should have called him. But I didn't. And now, I've got some bad dating karma coming my way.

[* The Redhead-Next-Door does not recommend biting metaphorical chocolate].

Profile of the Damned, #2

Have you seen the new DQ commercial with the waffle bowl guy and the soft serve girl at the doctor's office? The doctor informs the guy that he isn't lactose-intolerant and they can have a baby. It kills me every time!

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.